“But why should Carlotta Adams wish to kill Lord Edgware? She did not even know him.”
“How do you know she did not know him? Do not assume things, Hastings. There may have been some link between them of which we know nothing. Not that that is precisely my theory.”
“Then you have a theory?”
“Yes. The possibility of Carlotta Adams being involved struck me from the beginning.”
“But, Poirot—”
“Wait, Hastings. Let me put together a few facts for you. Lady Edgware, with a complete lack of reticence, discusses the relations between her and her husband, and even goes so far as to talk of killing him. Not only you and I hear this. A waiter hears it, her maid probably has heard it many times, Bryan Martin hears it, and I imagine Carlotta Adams herself hears it. And there are the people to whom these people repeat it. Then, in that same evening, the excellence of Carlotta Adams’ imitation of Jane is commented upon. Who had a motive for killing Lord Edgware? His wife.
“Now supposing that someone else wishes to do away with Lord Edgware. Here is a scapegoat ready to his hand. On the day when Jane Wilkinson announced that she had a headache and is going to have a quiet evening—the plan is put into operation.
“Lady Edgware must be seen to enter the house in Regent Gate. Well, she is seen. She even goes so far as to announce her identity. Ah! c’est peu trop, ça! It would awaken suspicion in an oyster.
“And another point—a small point, I admit. The woman who came to the house last night wore black. Jane Wilkinson never wears black. We heard her say so. Let us assume, then, that the woman who came to the house last night was not Jane Wilkinson—that it was a woman impersonating Jane Wilkinson. Did that woman kill Lord Edgware?
“Did a third person enter that house and kill Lord Edgware? If so, did the person enter before or after the supposed visit of Lady Edgware? If after, what did the woman say to Lord Edgware? How did she explain her presence? She might deceive the butler who did not know her, and the secretary who did not see her at close quarters. But she could not hope to deceive her husband. Or was there only a dead body in the room? Was Lord Edgware killed before she entered the house—sometime between nine and ten?”
“Stop, Poirot!” I cried. “You are making my head spin.”
“No, no, my friend. We are only considering possibilities. It is like trying on the clothes. Does this fit! No, it wrinkles on the shoulder? This one? Yes, that is better—but not quite large enough. This other one is too small. So on and so on—until we reach the perfect fit—the truth.”
“Who do you suspect of such a fiendish plot?” I asked.
“Ah! that is too early to say. One must go into the question of who has a motive for wishing Lord Edgware dead. There is, of course, the nephew who inherits. A little obvious that, perhaps. And then in spite of Miss Carroll’s dogmatic pronouncement, there is the question of enemies. Lord Edgware struck me as a man who very easily might make enemies.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “That is so.”
“Whoever it was must have fancied himself pretty safe. Remember, Hastings, but for her change of mind at the last minute, Jane Wilkinson would have had no alibi. She might have been in her room at the Savoy, and it would have been difficult to prove it. She would have been arrested, tried—probably hanged.”
I shivered.
“But there is one thing that puzzles me,” went on Poirot. “The desire to incriminate her is clear—but what then of the telephone call? Why did someone ring her up at Chiswick and, once satisfied of her presence there, immediately ring off. It looks, does it not, as if someone wanted to be sure of her presence there before proceeding to—what? That was at nine thirty, almost certainly before the murder. The intention then seems—there is no other word for it—beneficent. It cannot be the murderer who rings up—the murderer has laid all his plans to incriminate Jane. Who, then, was it? It looks as though we have here two entirely different sets of circumstances.”
I shook my head, utterly fogged.
“It might be just a coincidence,” I suggested.
“No, no, everything cannot be a coincidence. Six months ago, a letter was suppressed. Why? There are too many things here unexplained. There must be some reason linking them together.”
He sighed. Presently he went on:
“That story that Bryan Martin came to tell us—”
“Surely, Poirot, that has got no connection with this business.”
“You are blind, Hastings, blind and wilfully obtuse. Do you not see that the whole thing makes a pattern? A pattern confused at present but which will gradually become clear….”
I felt Poirot was being overoptimistic. I did not feel that anything would ever become clear. My brain was frankly reeling.
“It’s no good,” I said suddenly. “I can’t believe it of Carlotta Adams. She seemed such a—well, such a thoroughly nice girl.”
Yet, even as I spoke, I remembered Poirot’s words about love of money. Love of money—was that at the root of the seemingly incomprehensible? I felt that Poirot had been inspired that night. He had seen Jane in danger—the result of the strange egotistical temperament. He had seen Carlotta led astray by avarice.
“I do not think she committed the murder, Hastings. She is too cool and levelheaded for that. Possibly she was not even told that murder would be done. She may have been used innocently. But then—”
He broke off, frowning.
“Even so, she’s an accessory after the fact now. I mean, she will see the news today. She will realize—”
A hoarse sound broke from Poirot.
“Quick, Hastings. Quick! I have been blind—imbecile. A taxi. At once.”
I stared at him.
He waved his arms.
“A taxi—at once.”
One was passing. He hailed it and we jumped in.
“Do you know her address?”
“Carlotta Adams, do you mean?”
“Mais oui, mais oui. Quickly, Hastings, quickly. Every minute is of value. Do you not see?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
Poirot swore under his breath.
“The telephone book? No, she would not be in it. The theatre.”
At the theatre they were not disposed to give Carlotta’s address, but Poirot managed it. It was a flat in a block of mansions near Sloane Square. We drove there, Poirot in a fever of impatience.
“If I am not too late, Hastings. If I am not too late.”
“What is all this haste? I don’t understand. What does it mean?”
“It means that I have been slow. Terribly slow to realize the obvious. Ah! mon Dieu, if only we may be in time.”
Nine
THE SECOND DEATH
Though I did not understand the reason for Poirot’s agitation, I knew him well enough to be sure that he had a reason for it.
We arrived at Rosedew Mansions, Poirot sprang out, paid the driver and hurried into the building. Miss Adams’ flat was on the first floor, as a visiting card stuck on a board informed us.
Poirot hurried up the stairs, not waiting to summon the lift which was at one of the upper floors.
He knocked and rang. There was a short delay, then the door was opened by a neat middle-aged woman with hair drawn tightly back from her face. Her eyelids were reddened as though with weeping.
“Miss Adams?” demanded Poirot eagerly.
The woman looked at him.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard? Heard what?”
His face had gone deadly pale, and I realized that this, whatever it was, was what he had feared.
The woman continued slowly to shake her head.
“She’s dead. Passed away in her sleep. It’s terrible.”
Poirot leaned against the doorpost.
“Too late,” he murmured.
His agitation was so apparent that the woman looked at him with more attention.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you a friend of hers? I do not remembe
r seeing you come here before?”
Poirot did not reply to this directly. Instead he said:
“You have had a doctor? What did he say?”
“Took an overdose of a sleeping draught. Oh! the pity of it! Such a nice young lady. Nasty dangerous things—these drugs. Veronal he said it was.”
Poirot suddenly stood upright. His manner took on a new authority.
“I must come in,” he said.
The woman was clearly doubtful and suspicious.
“I don’t think—” she began.
But Poirot meant to have his way. He took probably the only course that would have obtained the desired result.
“You must let me in,” he said. “I am a detective and I have got to inquire into the circumstances of your mistress’s death.”
The woman gasped. She stood aside and we passed into the flat.
From there on Poirot took command of the situation.
“What I have told you,” he said authoritatively, “is strictly confidential. It must not be repeated. Everyone must continue to think that Miss Adams’ death was accidental. Please give me the name and address of the doctor you summoned.”
“Dr. Heath, 17 Carlisle Street.”
“And your own name?”
“Bennett—Alice Bennett.”
“You were attached to Miss Adams, I can see, Miss Bennett.”
“Oh! yes, sir. She were a nice young lady. I worked for her last year when she were over here. It wasn’t as though she were one of those actresses. She were a real young lady. Dainty ways she had and liked everything just so.”
Poirot listened with attention and sympathy. He had now no signs of impatience. I realized that to proceed gently was the best way of extracting the information he wanted.
“It must have been a great shock to you,” he observed gently.
“Oh! it was, sir. I took her in her tea—at half past nine as usual and there she was lying—asleep I thought. And I put the tray down. And I pulled the curtains—one of the rings caught, sir, and I had to jerk it hard. Such a noise it made. I was surprised when I looked round to see she hadn’t woken. And then all of a sudden something seemed to take hold of me. Something not quite natural about the way she lay. And I went to the side of the bed, and I touched her hand. Icy cold it was, sir, and I cried out.”
She stopped, tears coming into her eyes.
“Yes, yes,” said Poirot sympathetically. “It must have been terrible for you. Did Miss Adams often take stuff to make her sleep?”
“She’d take something for a headache now and again, sir. Some little tablets in a bottle, but it was some other stuff she took last night, or so the doctor said.”
“Did anyone come to see her last night? A visitor?”
“No, sir. She was out yesterday evening, sir.”
“Did she tell you where she was going?”
“No, sir. She went out about seven o’clock.”
“Ah! How was she dressed?”
“She had on a black dress, sir. A black dress and a black hat.”
Poirot looked at me.
“Did she wear any jewellery?”
“Just the string of pearls she always wore, sir.”
“And gloves—grey gloves?”
“Yes, sir. Her gloves were grey.”
“Ah! Now describe to me, if you will, what her manner was. Was she gay? Excited? Sad? Nervous?”
“It seemed to me she was pleased about something, sir. She kept smiling to herself, as though there were some kind of joke on.”
“What time did she return?”
“A little after twelve o’clock, sir.”
“And what was her manner then? The same?”
“She was terribly tired, sir.”
“But not upset? Or distressed?”
“Oh! no, sir. I think she was pleased about something, but just done up, if you know what I mean. She started to ring someone up on the telephone, and then she said she couldn’t bother. She’d do it tomorrow morning.”
“Ah!” Poirot’s eyes gleamed with excitement. He leaned forward and spoke in a would-be indifferent voice.
“Did you hear the name of the person she rang up?”
“No, sir. She just asked for the number and waited and then the exchange must have said: ‘I’m trying to get them’ as they do, sir, and she said: ‘All right,’ and then suddenly she yawned and said: ‘Oh! I can’t bother. I’m too tired,’ and she put the receiver back and started undressing.”
“And the number she called? Do you recollect that? Think. It may be important.”
“I’m sorry I can’t say, sir. It was a Victoria number and that’s all I can remember. I wasn’t paying special heed, you see.”
“Did she have anything to eat or drink before she went to bed?”
“A glass of hot milk, sir, like she always did.”
“Who prepared it?”
“I did, sir.”
“And nobody came to the flat that evening?”
“Nobody, sir.”
“And earlier in the day?”
“Nobody came that I can remember, sir. Miss Adams was out to lunch and tea. She came in at six o’clock.”
“When did the milk come? The milk she drank last night?”
“It was the new milk she had, sir. The afternoon delivery. The boy leaves it outside the door at four o’clock. But, oh! sir, I’m sure there wasn’t nothing wrong with the milk. I had it myself for tea this morning. And the doctor he said positive as she’d taken the nasty stuff herself.”
“It is possible that I am wrong,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is possible that I am entirely wrong. I will see the doctor. But you see, Miss Adams had enemies. Things are very different in America—”
He hesitated, but the good Alice leapt at the bait.
“Oh! I know, sir. I’ve read about Chicago and them gunmen and all that. It must be a wicked country and what the police can be about, I can’t think. Not like our policemen.”
Poirot left it thankfully at that, realizing that Alice Bennett’s insular proclivities would save him the trouble of explanations.
His eye fell on a small suitcase—more of an attaché case, that was lying on a chair.
“Did Miss Adams take that with her when she went out last night?”
“In the morning she took it, sir. She didn’t have it when she came back at teatime, but she brought it back last thing.”
“Ah! You permit that I open it?”
Alice Bennett would have permitted anything. Like most canny and suspicious women, once she had overcome her distrust she was child’s play to manipulate. She would have assented to anything Poirot suggested.
The case was not locked, Poirot opened it. I came forward and looked over his shoulder.
“You see, Hastings, you see?” he murmured excitedly.
The contents were certainly suggestive.
There was a box of makeup materials, two objects which I recognized as elevators to place in shoes and raise the height an inch or so, there was a pair of grey gloves and, folded in tissue paper, an exquisitely made wig of golden hair, the exact shade of gold of Jane Wilkinson’s and dressed like hers with a centre parting and curls in the back of the neck.
“Do you doubt now, Hastings?” asked Poirot.
I believe I had up to that moment. But now I doubted no longer.
Poirot closed the case again and turned to the maid.
“You do not know with whom Miss Adams dined yesterday evening?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know with whom she had lunch or tea?”
“I know nothing about tea, sir. I believe she lunched with Miss Driver.”
“Miss Driver?”
“Yes, her great friend. She has a hat shop in Moffat Street, just off Bond Street. Genevieve it’s called.”
Poirot noted the address in his notebook just below that of the doctor.
“One thing more, Madame. Can you remember anything—anything at all—that Mademoiselle Adams
said or did after she came in at six o’clock that strikes you as at all unusual or significant?”
The maid thought for a moment or two.
“I really can’t say that I do, sir,” she said at last. “I asked her if she would have tea and she said she’d had some.”
“Oh! she said she had had it,” interrupted Poirot. “Pardon. Continue.”
“And after that she was writing letters till just on the time she went out.”
“Letters, eh? You do not know to whom?”
“Yes, sir. It was just one letter—to her sister in Washington. She wrote to her sister twice a week regular. She took the letter out with her to post because of catching the mail. But she forgot it.”
“Then it is here still?”
“No, sir. I posted it. She remembered last night just as she was getting into bed. And I said I’d run out with it. By putting an extra stamp on it and putting it in the late fee box it would be all right.”
“Ah!—and is that far?”
“No, sir, the post office is just around the corner.”
“Did you shut the door of the flat behind you?”
Bennett stared.
“No, sir. I just left it to—as I always do when I go out to post.”
Poirot seemed about to speak—then checked himself.
“Would you like to look at her, sir?” asked the maid tearfully. “Looks beautiful she does.”
We followed her into the bedroom.
Carlotta Adams looked strangely peaceful and much younger than she had appeared that night at the Savoy. She looked like a tired child asleep.
There was a strange expression on Poirot’s face as he stood looking down on her. I saw him make the sign of the Cross.
“J’ai fait un serment, Hastings,” he said as we went down the stairs.
I did not ask him what his vow was. I could guess.
A minute or two later he said:
“There is one thing off my mind at least. I could not have saved her. By the time I heard of Lord Edgware’s death she was already dead. That comforts me. Yes, that comforts me very much.”
Ten
JENNY DRIVER
Our next proceeding was to call upon the doctor whose address the maid had given us.
Lord Edgware Dies Page 7