She stood there quivering.
"I'm a seller," said Norman, his voice growing commoner as he threw himself more whole-heartedly into the part of Mr Robinson. "Are you a buyer? That's the question."
"How did you get hold of this evidence?"
"Now really, Lady Horbury, that's rather beside the point. I've got it – that's the main thing."
"I don't believe you. Show it to me."
"Oh, no." Norman shook his head with a cunning leer. "I didn't bring anything with me. I'm not so green as that. If we agree to do business, that's another matter. I'll show you the stuff before you hand the money over. All fair and aboveboard."
"How – how much?"
"Ten thousand of the best – pounds, not dollars."
"Impossible. I could never lay my hands on anything like that amount."
"It's wonderful what you can do if you try. Jewels aren't fetching what they did, but pearls are still pearls. Look here, to oblige a lady, I'll make it eight thousand. That's my last word. And I'll give you two days to think it over."
"I can't get the money, I tell you."
Norman sighed and shook his head.
"Well, perhaps it's only right Lord Horbury should know what's been going on. I believe I'm correct in saying that a divorced woman gets no alimony, and Mr Barraclough's a very promising young actor, but he's not touching big money yet. Now not another word. I'll leave you to think it over, and mind what I say – I mean it."
He paused, and then added:
"I mean it just as Giselle meant it."
Then quickly, before the wretched woman could reply, he had left the room.
"Ouch!" said Norman as he reached the street. He wiped his brow. "Thank goodness that's over."
It was a bare hour later when a card was brought to Lady Horbury.
"M. Hercule Poirot."
She thrust it aside.
"Who is he? I can't see him!"
"He said, m'lady, that he was here at the request of Mr Raymond Barraclough."
"Oh." She paused. "Very well, show him in."
The butler departed, reappeared.
"M. Hercule Poirot."
Exquisitely dressed in the most dandiacal style, M. Poirot entered, bowed.
The butler closed the door. Cicely took a step forward.
"Mr Barraclough sent you?"
"Sit down, madame," His tone was kindly but authoritative.
Mechanically she sat. He took a chair near her. His manner was fatherly and reassuring.
"Madame, I entreat you, look upon me as a friend. I come to advise you. You are, I know, in grave trouble."
She murmured faintly: "I don't -"
"Écoutez, madame. I do not ask you to give away your secrets. It is unnecessary. I know them beforehand. That is the essence of being a good detective – to know."
"A detective." Her eyes widened. "I remember. You were on the plane; it was you -"
"Precisely. It was me. Now, madame, let us get to business. As I said just now, I do not press you to confide in me. You shall not start by telling me things; I will tell them to you. This morning, not an hour ago, you had a visitor. That visitor – his name was Brown, perhaps."
"Robinson," said Cicely faintly.
"It is the same thing – Brown, Smith, Robinson – he uses them in turn. He came her to blackmail you, madame. He has in his possession certain proofs of, shall we say, indiscretion? Those proofs were once in the keeping of Madame Giselle. Now this man has them. He offers them to you for, perhaps, seven thousand pounds."
"Eight."
"Eight, then. And you, madame, will not find it easy to get that sum very quickly?"
"I can't do it – I simply can't do it. I'm in debt already. I don't know what to do."
"Calm yourself, madame. I come to assist you."
She stared at him.
"How do you know all this?"
"Simply, madame, because I am Hercule Poirot. Eh bien, have no fears. Place yourself in my hands; I will deal with this Mr Robinson."
"Yes," said Cicely sharply. "And how much will you want?"
Hercule Poirot bowed.
"I shall ask only a photograph, signed, of a very beautiful lady."
She cried out: "Oh, dear, I don't know what to do! My nerves! I'm going mad!"
"No, no, all is well. Trust Hercule Poirot. Only, madame, I must have the truth – the whole truth. Do not keep anything back or my hands will be tied."
"And you'll get me out of this mess?"
"I swear to you solemnly that you will never hear of Mr Robinson again."
She said, "All right. I'll tell you everything."
"Good. Now then, you borrowed money from this woman Giselle?"
Lady Horbury nodded.
"When was that? When did it begin, I mean?"
"Eighteen months ago. I was in a hole."
"Gambling?"
"Yes, I had an appalling run of luck."
"And she lent you as much as you wanted?"
"Not at first. Only a small sum to begin with."
"Who sent you to her?"
"Raymond – Mr Barraclough told me that he had heard she lent money to society women."
"But later she lent you more?"
"Yes, as much as I wanted. It seemed like a miracle at the time."
"It was Madame Giselle's special kind of miracle," said Poirot dryly. "I gather that before then you and Mr Barraclough had become – er – friends?"
"Yes."
"But you were very anxious that your husband should not know about it?"
Cicely cried angrily:
"Stephen's a prig! He's tired of me! He wants to marry someone else. He'd have jumped at the thought of divorcing me."
"And you did not want divorce?"
"No. I – I -"
"You liked your position, and also you enjoyed the use of a very ample income. Quite so. Les femmes, naturally, they must look after themselves. To proceed, there arose the question of repayment?"
"Yes. And I – I couldn't pay back the money. And then the old devil turned nasty. She knew about me and Raymond. She'd found out places and dates and everything. I can't think how."
"She had her methods," said Poirot dryly. "And she threatened, I suppose, to send all this evidence to Lord Horbury."
"Yes, unless I paid up."
"And you couldn't pay?"
"No."
"So her death was quite providential?"
Cicely Horbury said earnestly:
"It seemed too, too wonderful."
"Ah, precisely – too, too wonderful. But it made you a little nervous, perhaps?"
"Nervous?"
"Well, after all, madame, you alone of anyone on the plane had a motive for desiring her death."
She drew in her breath sharply.
"I know. It was awful. I was in an absolute state about it."
"Especially since you had been to see her in Paris the night before and had had something of a scene with her?"
"The old devil! She wouldn't budge an inch. I think she actually enjoyed it. Oh, she was a beast through and through! I came away like a rag."
"And yet you said at the inquest that you had never seen the woman before?"
"Well, naturally, what else could I say?"
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
"You, madame, could say nothing else."
"It's been too ghastly – nothing but lies, lies, lies. That dreadful inspector man has been here again and again badgering me with questions. But I felt pretty safe. I could see he was only trying it on. He didn't know anything."
"If one does guess, one should guess with assurance."
"And then," continued Cicely, pursuing her own line of thought, "I couldn't help feeling that if anything were to leak out, it would have leaked out at once. I felt safe till that awful letter yesterday."
"You have not been afraid all this time?"
"Of course I've been afraid!"
"But of what? Of exposure? Or of being arr
ested for murder?"
The color ebbed away from her cheeks.
"Murder! But I didn't – Oh, you don't believe that! I didn't kill her. I didn't!"
"You wanted her dead."
"Yes, but I didn't kill her!… Oh, you must believe me – you must. I never moved from my seat. I -"
She broke off. Her beautiful blue eyes were fixed on him imploringly.
Hercule Poirot nodded soothingly.
"I believe you, madame, for two reasons – first, because of your sex, and, secondly, because of a wasp."
She stared at him.
"A wasp?"
"Exactly. That does not make sense to you, I see. Now then, let us attend to the matter in hand. I will deal with this Mr Robinson. I pledge you my word that you shall never see or hear of him again. I will settle his – his – I have forgotten the word – his bacon? No, his goat. Now, in return for my services, I will ask you two little questions. Was Mr Barraclough in Paris the day before the murder?"
"Yes, we dined together. But he thought it better I should go and see the woman alone."
"Ah, he did, did he? Now, madame, one further question: Your stage name before you were married was Cicely Bland. Was that your real name?"
"No, my real name is Martha Jebb. But the other -"
"- made a better professional name. And you were born – where?"
" Doncaster; but why -"
"Mere curiosity. Forgive me. And now, Lady Horbury, will you permit me to give you some advice? Why not arrange with your husband a discreet divorce?"
"And let him many that woman?"
"And let him marry that woman. You have a generous heart, madame. And besides, you will be safe – oh, so safe and your husband he will pay you an income."
"Not a very large one."
"Eh bien, once you are free, you will marry a millionaire."
"There aren't any nowadays."
"Ah, do not believe that, madame. The man who had three millions, perhaps now he has two million – it is still enough."
Cicely laughed.
"You're very persuasive, M. Poirot. And are you really sure that dreadful man will never bother me again?"
"On the word of Hercule Poirot," said that gentleman solemnly.
Chapter 20
Detective Inspector Japp walked briskly up Harley Street, stopped at a certain door, and asked for Doctor Bryant.
"Have you an appointment, sir?"
"No, I'll just write a few words," and on an official card he wrote:
Should be much obliged if you could spare me a few moments. I won't keep you long.
He sealed up the card in an envelope and gave it to the butler.
He was shown into a waiting room. There were two women there and a man. Japp settled down with an elderly copy of Punch.
The butler reappeared, and crossing the floor, said in a discreet voice:
"If you wouldn't mind waiting a short time, sir, the doctor will see you, but he's very busy this morning."
Japp nodded. He did not in the least mind waiting – in fact, he rather welcomed it. The two women had begun to talk. They had, obviously, a very high opinion of Doctor Bryant's abilities. More patients came in. Evidently Doctor Bryant was doing well in his profession.
"Fairly coining money," thought Japp to himself. "That doesn't look like needing to borrow, but of course the loan may have taken place a long time ago. Anyway, he's got a fine practice; a breath of scandal would bust it to bits. That's the worst of being a doctor."
A quarter of an hour later, the butler reappeared and said:
"The doctor will see you now, sir."
Japp was shown into Doctor Bryant's consulting room – a room at the back of the house with a big window. The doctor was sitting at his desk. He rose and shook hands with the detective.
His fine-lined face showed fatigue, but he seemed in no way disturbed by the inspector's visit.
"What can I do for you, inspector?" he said as he resumed his seat and motioned Japp to a chair opposite.
"I must apologize first for calling in your consulting hours, but I shan't keep you long, sir."
"That is all right. I suppose it is about the aeroplane death?"
"Quite right, sir. We're still working on it."
"With any result?"
"We're not so far on as we'd like to be. I really came to ask you some questions about the method employed. It's this snake-venom business that I can't get the hang of."
"I'm not a toxicologist, you know," said Doctor Bryant, smiling. "Such things aren't in my line. Winterspoon's your man."
"Ah, but you see, it's like this, doctor: Winterspoon's an expert – and you know what experts are. They talk so that the ordinary man can't understand them. But as far as I can make out, there's a medical side to this business. Is it true that snake venom is sometimes injected for epilepsy?"
"I'm not a specialist in epilepsy either," said Doctor Bryant. "But I believe that injections of cobra venom have been used in the treatment of epilepsy with excellent results. But, as I say, that's not really my line of country."
"I know – I know. What it really amounts to is this: I felt that you'd take an interest, having been on the aeroplane yourself. I thought it possible that you'd have some ideas on the subject yourself that might be useful to me. It's not much good my going to an expert if I don't know what to ask him?"
Doctor Bryant smiled.
"There is something in what you say, inspector. There is probably no man living who can remain entirely unaffected by having come in close contact with murder. I am interested, I admit. I have speculated a good deal about the case in my quiet way."
"And what do you think, sir?"
Bryant shook his head slowly.
"It amazes me. The whole thing seems almost unreal, if I might put it that way. An astounding way of committing a crime. It seems a chance in a hundred that the murderer was not seen. He must be a person with a reckless disregard of risks."
"Very true, sir."
"The choice of poison is equally amazing. How could a would-be murderer possibly get hold of such a thing?"
"I know. It seems incredible. Why, I don't suppose one man in a thousand has ever heard of such a thing as a boomslang, much less actually handled the venom. You yourself, sir – now, you're a doctor, but I don't suppose you've ever handled the stuff."
"There are certainly not many opportunities of doing so. I have a friend who works at tropical research. In his laboratory there are various specimens of dried snake venoms – that of the cobra, for instance – but I cannot remember any specimen of the boomslang."
"Perhaps you can help me." Japp took out a piece of paper and handed it to the doctor. "Winterspoon wrote down these three names; said I might get information there. Do you know any of these men?"
"I know Professor Kennedy slightly, Heidler I knew well; mention my name and I'm sure he'll do all he can for you. Carmichael's an Edinburgh man; I don't know him personally, but I believe they've done some good work up there."
"Thank you, sir; I'm much obliged. Well, I won't keep you any longer."
When Japp emerged into Harley Street, he was smiling to himself in a pleased fashion.
"Nothing like tact," he said to himself. "Tact does it. I'll be bound he never saw what I was after. Well, that's that."
Chapter 21
When Japp got back to Scotland Yard, he was told that M. Hercule Poirot was waiting to see him.
Japp greeted his friend heartily.
"Well, M. Poirot, and what brings you along? Any news?"
"I came to ask you for news, my good Japp."
"If that isn't just like you. Well, there isn't much and that's the truth. The dealer fellow in Paris has identified the blowpipe all right. Fournier's been worrying the life out of me from Paris about his moment psychologique. I've questioned those stewards till I'm blue in the face and they stick to it that there wasn't a moment psychologique. Nothing startling or out of the way happened on the voyage."
>
"It might have occurred when they were both in the front car."
"I've questioned the passengers too. Everyone can't be lying."
"In one case I investigated everyone was!"
"You and your cases! To tell the truth, M. Poirot, I'm not very happy. The more I look into things the less I get. The chief's inclined to look on me rather coldly. But what can I do? Luckily, it's one of those semi-foreign cases. We can put it on the Frenchmen over here, and in Paris they say it was done by an Englishman and that it's our business."
"Do you really believe the Frenchman did it?"
"Well, frankly, I don't. As I look at it, an archaeologist is a poor kind of fish. Always burrowing in the ground and talking through his hat about what happened thousands of years ago, and how do they know, I should like to know? Who's to contradict them? They say some rotten string of beads is five thousand three hundred and twenty-two years old, and who's to say it isn't? Well, there they are, liars perhaps – though they seem to believe it themselves – but harmless. I had an old chap in here the other day who'd had a scarab pinched. Terrible state he was in – nice old boy, but helpless as a baby in arms. No, between you and me, I don't think for a minute that pair of French archaeologists did it."
"Who do you think did it?"
"Well, there's Clancy, of course. He's in a queer way. Goes about muttering to himself. He's got something on his mind."
"The plot of a new book, perhaps."
"It may be that – and it may be something else. But try as I may, I can't get a line on motive. I still think CL 52 in the black book is Lady Horbury, but I can't get anything out of her. She's pretty hardboiled, I can tell you."
Poirot smiled to himself. Japp went on:
"The stewards – well, I can't find a thing to connect them with Giselle."
"Doctor Bryant?"
"I think I'm on to something there. Rumors about him and a patient. Pretty woman – nasty husband – takes drugs or something. If he's not careful he'll be struck off by the medical council. That fits in with RT 362 well enough, and I don't mind telling you that I've got a pretty shrewd idea where he could have got the snake venom from. I went to see him and he gave himself away rather badly over that. Still, so far it is all surmise, no facts. Facts aren't any too easy to get at in this case. Ryder seems all square and aboveboard; says he went to raise a loan in Paris and couldn't get it, gave names and addresses, all checked up. I've found out that the firm was nearly in Queer Street about a week or two ago, but they seem to be just pulling through. There you are again, unsatisfactory. The whole thing is a muddle."
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