The Plymouth Express Affair

[Illustration]

                     THE PLYMOUTH EXPRESS AFFAIR

    “The little gray cells,” so often referred to by the great
    detective Hercule Poirot, certainly get in their fine-work
    in this intriguing mystery story by an exceptionally
    talented writer.

                          By Agatha Christie


Alec Simpson, R. N., stepped from the platform at Newton Abbot into a
first-class compartment of the Plymouth Express. A porter followed him
with a heavy suitcase. He was about to swing it up to the rack, but
the young sailor stopped him.

“No—leave it on the seat. I’ll put it up later. Here you are.”

“Thank you, sir.” The porter, generously tipped, withdrew.

Doors banged; a stentorian voice shouted: “Plymouth only. Change for
Torquay. Plymouth next stop.” Then a whistle blew, and the train drew
slowly out of the station.

Lieutenant Simpson had the carriage to himself. The December air was
chilly, and he pulled up the window. Then he sniffed vaguely, and
frowned. What a smell there was! Reminded him of that time in
hospital, and the operation on his leg. Yes, chloroform; that was it!

He let the window down again, changing his seat to one with its back
to the engine. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket and lit it. For a
little time he sat inactive, looking out into the night and smoking.

At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some
papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavored to
shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some hidden obstacle
resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still
stuck out halfway into the carriage.

“Why the devil wont it go in?” he muttered, and hauling it out
completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat....

A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came
to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the
communication-cord.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You have, I know, been deeply interested in
this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.”

I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief
and to the point.

    Dear Sir:

    I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your
    earliest convenience.

                                Yours faithfully,
                                      Ebenezer Halliday.

The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at
Poirot. For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud:

“‘A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer
returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment, the
body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled
the communication-cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. The
woman who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not
yet been identified.’

“And later we have this: ‘The woman found dead in the Plymouth Express
has been identified as the Honorable Mrs. Rupert Carrington.’ You see
now, my friend? Or if you do not, I will add this. Mrs. Rupert
Carrington was, before her marriage, Flossie Halliday, daughter of old
man Halliday, the steel king of America.”

“And he has sent for you? Splendid!”

“I did him a little service in the past—an affair of bearer bonds. And
once, when I was in Paris for a royal visit, I had Mademoiselle
Flossie pointed out to me. _La jolie petite pensionnaire!_ She had the
_jolie dot_ too! It caused trouble. She nearly made a bad affair.”

“How was that?”

“A certain Count de la Rochefour. _Un bien mauvais sujet!_ A bad hat,
as you would say. An adventurer pure and simple, who knew how to
appeal to a romantic young girl. Luckily her father got wind of it in
time. He took her back to America in haste. I heard of her marriage
some years later, but I know nothing of her husband.”

“H’m,” I said. “The Honorable Rupert Carrington is no beauty, by all
accounts. He’d pretty well run through his own money on the turf, and
I should imagine old man Halliday’s dollars came along in the nick of
time. I should say that for a good-looking, well-mannered, utterly
unscrupulous young scoundrel, it would be hard to find his match!”

“Ah, the poor little lady! _Elle n’est pas bien tombée!_”

“I fancy he made it pretty obvious at once that it was her money, and
not she, that had attracted him. I believe they drifted apart almost
at once. I have heard rumors lately that there was to be a definite
legal separation.”

“Old man Halliday is no fool. He would tie up her money pretty tight.”

“I dare say. Anyway, I know as a fact that the Honorable Rupert is
said to be extremely hard up.”

“Ah-ha! I wonder—”

“You wonder what?”

“My good friend, do not jump down my throat like that. You are
interested, I see. Supposing you accompany me to see Mr. Halliday.
There is a taxi stand at the corner.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

A very few minutes sufficed to whirl us to the superb house in Park
Lane rented by the American magnate.