'Impossible,' I murmured hoarsely. 'Impossiblel'
Lemesurier was unconscious. Poirot nd I between us carried hi to his room and laid him on the Ied. Poirot bent and gentl extricated something from his right Band. He showed it to me. was a hypodermic syringe. I shuddefed.
'What is in it? Poison?' 'Formic acid, I fancy.' 'Formic acid?' 'Yes. Probably obtained by distilling ants. He was a chemis you remember. Death would have been attributed to the bee sting 'My God,' I muttered. 'His own soul And you expected thisi Poirot nodded gravely.
'Yes. He is insane, of course. I iraagine that the family histor has become a mania with him. His itatense longing to succeed the estate led him to commit the loOg series of crimes. Possibl the idea occurred to him first wheo travelling north that nlgl with Vincent. He couldn't bear the prediction to be falsifie Ronald's son was already dead, and Ronald himself was a dyin man - they are a weakly lot. He arrataged the accident to the gut and - which I did not suspect until fow - contrived the death? his brother John by this same meod of injecting formic aci. into the jugular vein. His ambitiota was realized then, and h became the master of the family acreS. But his triumph was short lived - he found that he was sufferifg from an incurable diseas And he had the madman's fixed idea -' the eldest son of a Lemesur ier could not inherit. I suspect that the bathing accident was du to him - he encouraged the child to go out too far. That failing he sawed through the ivy, and afterwards poisoned the child' food.' 'Diabolical!' I murmured with shiver. 'And so cleverl planned!' 'Yes, raon ami, there is nothing m°re amazing than the extrg ordinary sanity of the insane! UnleSS it is the extraordinar eccentricity of the sanel I imagine that it is only lately daat he ha completely gone over the borderline, there was method in hi madness to begin with.'
'And to think that I suspected Roger - that splendid fellow.' 'It was the natural assumption, mon ami. We knew that he also travelled north with Vincent that night. We knew, too, that he was the next heir after Hugo and Hugo's children. But our assumption was not borne out by the facts. The ivy was sawn through when only little Ronald was at home - but it would be to Roger's interest that both children should perish. In the same way, it was only Ronald's food that was poisoned. And today when they came home and I found that there was only his father's word for it that Ronald had been stung, I remembered the other death from a wasp sting - and I knewl'
Hugo Lemesurier died a few months later in the private asylum to which he was removed. His widow was remarried a year later to Mr John Gardiner, the auburn-haired secretary. Ronald inherited the broad acres' of his father, and continues to flourish.
'Well, well,' I remarked to Poirot. 'Another illusion gone. You have disposed very successfully of the curse of the Lemesuriers.' 'I wonder,' said Poirot very thoughtfully. 'I wonder very much indeed.' 'What do you mean?' 'Mon am/, I will answer you with one significant word - redl' 'Blood?' I queried, dropping my voice to an awestricken whisper.
'Always you have the imagination melodramatic, Hastingsl I refer to something much more prosaic - the colour of little Ronald Lemesurier's hair.'
Chapter VIII. The Lost Mine
I laid down my bank book with a sigh.
'It is a curious thing,' I observed, 'but my overdraft never seems to grow any less.'
'And it perturbs you not? Me, if I had an overdraft, never should I close my eyes all night,' declared Poirot.
'You deal in comfortable balances, I suppose!' I retorted.
'Four hundred and forty-four pounds, four and fourpence,' said Poirot with some complacency. 'A neat figure, is it not?'
'It must be tact on the part of your bank manager. He is evidently acquainted with your passion for symmetrical details. What about investing, say three hundred of it, in the Porcupine oil-fields?
Their prospectus, which is advertised in the papers today, saya that they will pay one hundred per cent in dividends next year.'
'Not for me,' said Poirot, shaking his head. 'I like not the sensational. For me the safe, the prudent investment - les rentes, the consols, the - how do you call it? - the conversion.'
'Have you never made a speculative investment?'
'No, mon ami,' replied Poirot severely. 'I have not. And the only' shares I own which have not what you call the gilded edge are fourteen thousand shares in the Burma Mines Ltd.'
Poirot paused with an air of waiting to be encouraged to go on.
'Yes?' I prompted.
'And for them I paid no cash - no, they were the reward of the exercise of my little grey cells. You would like to hear the story?
Yes?'
'Of course I would.'
'These mines are situated in the interior, of Burma about two hundred miles inland from Rangoon. They were discovered by the Chinese in the fifteenth century and worked down to the time of the Mohammedan Rebellion, being finally abandoned i the
year x868. The Chinese extracted the rich lead-silver ore from the upper part of the ore body, smelting it for the silver alone, and leaving large quantities of rich lead-bearing slag. This, of course, was soon discovered whdn prospecting work was carried out in Burma, but owing to the fact that the old workings had become full of loose filling and water, all attempts to find the source of the ore proved fruitless. Many parties were sent out by syndicates, and they dug over a large area, but this rich prize still eluded them. But a representative of one of the syndicates got on the track of a Chinese family who were supposed to have still kept a record of the situation of the mine. The present head of the family was one Wu Ling.'
'What a fascinating page of commercial romance? I exclaimed.
'Is it not? Ah, mon ami, one can have romance without golden-haired girls of matchless beauty - no, I am wrong; it is auburn hair that so excites you always. You remember - '
'Go on with the story,' I said hastily.
'Eh bien, my friend, this Wu Ling was approached. He was an estimable merchant, much respected in the province where he lived. He admitted at once that he owned the documents in question, and was perfectly prepared to negotiate for this sale, but he objected to dealing with anyone other than principals.
Finally it was arranged that he should journey to England and meet the directors of an important company.
'Wu Ling made the journey to England in the S.S. Issunta, and the tssunta docked at Southampton on a cold, foggy morning in November. One of the directors, Mr Pearson, went down to Southampton to meet the boat, but owing to the fog, the train down was very much delayed, and by the time he arrived, Wu Ling had disembarked and left by special train for London.
Mr Pearson returned to town somewhat annoyed, as he had no idea where the Chinaman proposed to stay. Later in the day, however, the offices of the company were rung up on the telephone.
Wu Ling was staying at the Russell Square Hotel. He was feeling somewhat unwell after the voyage, but declared himself perfectly able to attend the board meeting on the following day.
'The meeting of the board took place at eleven o'clock. When half past eleven came, and Wu Ling had not put in an appearance, the secretary rang up the Russell Hotel. In answer to his inquiries, he was told that the Chinaman had gone out with a friend about half past ten. It seemed clear that he had started out with the intention of coming to the meeting, but the morning wore away, and he did not appear. It was, of course, possible that he had lost his way, being unacquainted with London, but at a late hour that night he had not returned to the hotel. Thoroughly alarmed now, Mr Pearson put matters in the hands of the police. On the following day, there was still no trace of the missing man, but towards evening of the day after that again, a body was found in the Thames which proved to be that of the ill-fated Chinaman.