“In reply to my question as to Lord Edgware’s marrying again she ridicules the idea—simply because it has never occurred to her. She will not take the trouble to remember whether any infinitesimal signs may have pointed that way. Therefore we are exactly where we were before.”
“She certainly did not seem at all taken aback when you pointed out she could not have seen Jane Wilkinson’s face,” I remarked thoughtfully.
“No. That is why I decided that she was one of those honestly inaccurate persons, rather than a deliberate liar. I can see no motive for deliberate lying unless—true, that is an idea!”
“What is?” I asked eagerly.
But Poirot shook his head.
“An idea suggested itself to me. But it is too impossible—yes, much too impossible.”
And he refused to say more.
“She seems very fond of the girl,” I said.
“Yes. She certainly was determined to assist at our interview. What was your impression of the Honourable Geraldine Marsh, Hastings?”
“I was sorry for her—deeply sorry for her.”
“You have always the tender heart, Hastings. Beauty in distress upsets you every time.”
“Didn’t you feel the same?”
He nodded gravely.
“Yes—she has not had a happy life. That is written very clearly on her face.”
“At any rate,” I said warmly, “you realize how preposterous Jane Wilkinson’s suggestion was—that she should have had anything to do with the crime, I mean.”
“Doubtless her alibi is satisfactory, but Japp has not communicated it to me as yet.”
“My dear Poirot—do you mean to say that even after seeing her and talking to her, you are still not satisfied and want an alibi?”
“Eh bien, my friend, what is the result of seeing and talking to her? We perceive that she has passed through great unhappiness, she admits that she hated her father and is glad that he is dead, and she is deeply uneasy about what he may have said to us yesterday morning. And after that you say—no alibi is necessary!”
“Her mere frankness proves her innocence,” I said warmly.
“Frankness is a characteristic of the family. The new Lord Edgware—with what a gesture he laid his cards on the table.”
“He did indeed,” I said, smiling at the remembrance. “Rather an original method.”
Poirot nodded.
“He—what do you say?—cut the ground before our feet.”
“From under,” I corrected. “Yes—it made us look rather foolish.”
“What a curious idea. You may have looked foolish. I didn’t feel foolish in the least and I do not think I looked it. On the contrary, my friend, I put him out of countenance.”
“Did you?” I said doubtfully, not remembering having seen signs of anything of the kind.
“Si, si. I listen—and listen. And at last I ask a question about something quite different, and that, you may have noticed, disconcerts our brave Monsieur very much. You do not observe, Hastings.”
“I thought his horror and astonishment at hearing of Carlotta Adams’ death was genuine,” I said. “I suppose you will say it was a piece of clever acting.”
“Impossible to tell. I agree it seemed genuine.”
“Why do you think he flung all those facts at our head in that cynical way? Just for amusement?”
“That is always possible. You English, you have the most extraordinary notions of humour. But it may have been policy. Facts that are concealed acquire a suspicious importance. Facts that are frankly revealed tend to be regarded as less important than they really are.”
“The quarrel with his uncle that morning, for instance?”
“Exactly. He knows that the fact is bound to leak out. Eh bien, he will parade it.”
“He is not so foolish as he looks.”
“Oh! he is not foolish at all. He has plenty of brains when he cares to use them. He sees exactly where he stands and, as I said, he lays his cards on the table. You play the bridge, Hastings. Tell me, when does one do that?”
“You play bridge yourself,” I said, laughing. “You know well enough—when all the rest of the tricks are yours and you want to save time and get on to a new hand.”
“Yes, mon ami, that is all very true. But occasionally there is another reason. I have remarked it once or twice when playing with les dames. There is perhaps a little doubt. Eh bien, la dame, she throws down the cards, says ‘and all the rest are mine,’ and gathers up the cards and cuts the new pack. And possibly the other players agree—especially if they are a little inexperienced. The thing is not obvious, mark you. It requires to be followed out. Halfway through dealing the next hand, one of the players thinks: ‘Yes, but she would have to have taken over that fourth diamond in dummy whether she wanted it or not, and then she would have had to lead a little club and my nine would have made.’”
“So you think?”
“I think, Hastings, that too much bravado is a very interesting thing. And I also think that it is time we dined. Une petite omelette, n’est ce pas? And after that, about nine o’clock, I have one more visit I wish to make.”
“Where is that?”
“We will dine first, Hastings. And until we drink our coffee, we will not discuss the case further. When engaged in eating, the brain should be the servant of the stomach.”
Poirot was as good as his word. We went to a little restaurant in Soho where he was well-known, and there we had a delicious omelette, a sole, a chicken and a Baba au Rhum of which Poirot was inordinately fond.
Then, as we sipped our coffee, Poirot smiled affectionately across the table at me.
“My good friend,” he said. “I depend upon you more than you know.”
I was confused and delighted by these unexpected words. He had never said anything of the kind to me before. Sometimes, secretly, I had felt slightly hurt. He seemed almost to go out of his way to disparage my mental powers.
Although I did not think his own powers were flagging, I did realize suddenly that perhaps he had come to depend on my aid more than he knew.
“Yes,” he said dreamily. “You may not always comprehend just how it is so—but you do often, and often point the way.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
“Really, Poirot,” I stammered. “I’m awfully glad, I suppose I’ve learnt a good deal from you one way or another—”
He shook his head.
“Mais non, ce n’est pas ça. You have learnt nothing.”
“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
“That is as it should be. No human being should learn from another. Each individual should develop his own powers to the uttermost, not try to imitate those of someone else. I do not wish you to be a second and inferior Poirot. I wish you to be the supreme Hastings. And you are the supreme Hastings. In you, Hastings, I find the normal mind almost perfectly illustrated.”
“I’m not abnormal, I hope,” I said.
“No, no. You are beautifully and perfectly balanced. In you sanity is personified. Do you realize what that means to me? When the criminal sets out to do a crime his first effort is to deceive. Who does he seek to deceive? The image in his mind is that of the normal man. There is probably no such thing actually—it is a mathematical abstraction. But you come as near to realizing it as is possible. There are moments when you have flashes of brilliance when you rise above the average, moments (I hope you will pardon me) when you descend to curious depths of obtuseness, but take it all for all, you are amazingly normal. Eh bien, how does this profit me? Simply in this way. As in a mirror I see reflected in your mind exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. That is terrifically helpful and suggestive.”
I did not quite understand. It seemed to me that what Poirot was saying was hardly complimentary. However, he quickly disabused me of that impression.
“I have expressed myself badly,” he said quickly. “You have an insight into the criminal mind, which I myself lack. You show me what the criminal
wishes me to believe. It is a great gift.”
“Insight,” I said thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps I have got insight.”
I looked across the table at him. He was smoking his tiny cigarettes and regarding me with great kindliness.
“Ce cher Hastings,” he murmured. “I have indeed much affection for you.”
I was pleased but embarrassed and hastened to change the subject.
“Come,” I said in a businesslike manner. “Let us discuss the case.”
“Eh bien.” Poirot threw his head back, his eyes narrowed. He slowly puffed out smoke.
“Je me pose des questions,” he said.
“Yes?” I said eagerly.
“You, too, doubtless?”
“Certainly,” I said. And also leaning back and narrowing my own eyes I threw out:
“Who killed Lord Edgware?”
Poirot immediately sat up and shook his head vigorously.
“No, no. Not at all. Is it a question, that? You are like someone who reads the detective story and who starts guessing each of the characters in turn without rhyme or reason. Once, I agree, I had to do that myself. It was a very exceptional case. I will tell you about it one of these days. It was a feather in my cap. But of what were we speaking?”
“Of the questions you were ‘posing’ to yourself,” I replied dryly. It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that my real use to Poirot was to provide him with a companion to whom he could boast, but I controlled myself. If he wished to instruct then let him.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s hear them.”
That was all that the vanity of the man wanted. He leaned back again and resumed his former attitude.
“The first question we have already discussed. Why did Lord Edgware change his mind on the subject of divorce? One or two ideas suggest themselves to me on that subject. One of them you know.
“The second question I ask myself is What happened to that letter? To whose interest was it that Lord Edgware and his wife should continue to be tied together?
“Three, What was the meaning of the expression on his face that you saw when you looked back yesterday morning on leaving the library? Have you any answer to that, Hastings?”
I shook my head.
“I can’t understand it.”
“You are sure that you didn’t imagine it? Sometimes, Hastings, you have the imagination un peu vif.”
“No, no.” I shook my head vigorously. “I’m quite sure I wasn’t mistaken.”
“Bien. Then it is a fact to be explained. My fourth question concerns those pince-nez. Neither Jane Wilkinson nor Carlotta Adams wore glasses. What, then, are the glasses doing in Carlotta Adams’ bag?
“And for my fifth question. Why did someone telephone to find out if Jane Wilkinson were at Chiswick and who was it?
“Those, my friend, are the questions with which I am tormenting myself. If I could answer those, I should feel happier in my mind. If I could even evolve a theory that explained them satisfactorily, my amour propre would not suffer so much.”
“There are several other questions,” I said.
“Such as?”
“Who incited Carlotta Adams to this hoax? Where was she that evening before and after ten o’clock? Who is D who gave her the golden box?”
“Those questions are self-evident,” said Poirot. “There is no subtlety about them. They are simply things we do not know. They are questions of fact. We may get to know them any minute. My questions, mon ami, are psychological. The little grey cells of the brain—”
“Poirot,” I said desperately. I felt that I must stop him at all costs. I could not bear to hear it all over again. “You spoke of making a visit tonight?”
Poirot looked at his watch.
“True,” he said. “I will telephone and find out if it is convenient.”
He went away and returned a few minutes later.
“Come,” he said. “All is well.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the house of Sir Montagu Corner at Chiswick. I would like to know a little more about that telephone call.”
Fifteen
SIR MONTAGU CORNER
It was about ten o’clock when we reached Sir Montagu Corner’s house on the river at Chiswick. It was a big house standing back in its own grounds. We were admitted into a beautifully-panelled hall. On our right, through an open door, we saw the dining room with its long polished table lit with candles.
“Will you come this way, please?”
The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first floor overlooking the river.
“M. Hercule Poirot,” announced the butler.
It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the four rose and came towards us.
“It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot.”
I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged toupee. He was a short man—five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree.
“Let me introduce you. Mr. and Mrs. Widburn.”
“We’ve met before,” said Mrs. Widburn brightly.
“And Mr. Ross.”
Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.
“I disturb your game. A million apologies,” said Poirot.
“Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only. Some coffee, M. Poirot?”
Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in immense goblets.
As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.
He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French Impressionists, of modern music and of the theories of Einstein.
Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light he looked like some genie of the mediaeval age. All around the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.
“And now, Sir Montagu,” said Poirot, “I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.”
Sir Montagu waved a curious clawlike hand.
“There is no hurry. Time is infinite.”
“One always feels that in this house,” sighed Mrs. Widburn. “So wonderful.”
“I would not live in London for a million pounds,” said Sir Montagu. “Here one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that—alas!—we have put behind us in these jarring days.”
A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down such heretical sentiments.
“What is money, after all?” murmured Mrs. Widburn.
“Ah!” said Mr. Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absentmindedly in his trouser pocket.
“Charles,” said Mrs. Widburn reproachfully.
“Sorry,” said Mr. Widburn and stopped.
“To speak of crime in such an atmosphere, is, I feel, unpardonable,” began Poirot apologetically.
“Not at all.” Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. “A crime can be a work of art. A detective can be an artist. I do not refer, of course, to the police. An inspector has been here today. A curious person. He had never heard of Benvenuto Cellini, for instance.”
“He came about Jane Wilkinson, I suppose,” said Mrs. Widburn with instant curiosity.
“It was fortunate for the lady that she was at your house last night,” said Poirot.
“So it seems,” said Sir Montagu. “I asked her here knowing that she was beautiful and talented and hoping that I might be able to be of use to her. She was thinking of going into management. But it seems that I was fated to be of use to her
in a very different way.”
“Jane’s got luck,” said Mrs. Widburn. “She’s been dying to get rid of Edgware and here’s somebody gone and saved her the trouble. She’ll marry the young Duke of Merton now. Everyone says so. His mother’s wild about it.”
“I was favourably impressed by her,” said Sir Montagu graciously. “She made several most intelligent remarks about Greek art.”
I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying “Yes” and “No,” “Really, how wonderful,” in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable attention.
“Edgware was a queer fish, by all accounts,” said Widburn. “I daresay he’s got a good few enemies.”
“Is it true, M. Poirot,” asked Mrs. Widburn, “that somebody ran a penknife into the back of his brain?”
“Perfectly true, Madame. It was very neatly and efficiently done—scientific, in fact.”
“I note your artistic pleasure, M. Poirot,” said Sir Montagu.
“And now,” said Poirot, “let me come to the object of my visit. Lady Edgware was called to the telephone when she was here at dinner. It is about that telephone call that I seek information. Perhaps you will allow me to question your domestics on the subject?”
“Certainly. Certainly. Just press that bell, will you, Ross.”
The butler answered the bell. He was a tall middle-aged man of ecclesiastical appearance.
Sir Montagu explained what was wanted. The butler turned to Poirot with polite attention.
“Who answered the telephone when it rang?” began Poirot.
“I answered it myself, sir. The telephone is in a recess leading out of the hall.”
“Did the person calling ask to speak to Lady Edgware or to Miss Jane Wilkinson?”
“To Lady Edgware, sir.”
“What did they say exactly?”
The butler reflected for a moment.
“As far as I remember, sir, I said ‘Hello.’ A voice then asked if I was Chiswick 43434. I replied that that was so. It then asked me to hold the line. Another voice then asked if that was Chiswick 43434 and on my replying ‘Yes’ it said, ‘Is Lady Edgware dining there?’ I said her ladyship was dining here. The voice said, ‘I would like to speak to her, please.’ I went and informed her ladyship who was at the dinner table. Her ladyship rose, and I showed her where the ’phone was.”
Lord Edgware Dies Page 11