Black Coffee

by Agatha Christie

  Poirot turned, and regarded Hastings quizzically. ‘No, no, please come with us,’ he requested his colleague.

  ‘But don’t you think it better –’ Hastings began, when Poirot interrupted him, now speaking solemnly and meaningfully. ‘I need your co-operation, my friend,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, well, of course, in that case –’

  The three men left the room together, closing the door behind them. No more than a few seconds later, the door leading to the hallway was opened cautiously and Lucia entered surreptitiously. After a hurried glance around the room as though to assure herself that there was no one there, she approached the round table in the centre of the room, and picked up Sir Claud’s coffee cup. A shrewd, hard look came into her eyes which belied their customary innocent appearance, and she suddenly looked a good deal older.

  Lucia was still standing with the cup in her hand, as though undecided what to do, when the other door leading to the front of the house opened and Poirot entered the library alone.

  ‘Permit me, madame,’ said Poirot, causing Lucia to start violently. He moved across to her, and took the cup from her hand with the air of one indulging in a gesture of simple politeness.

  ‘I – I – came back for my bag,’ Lucia gasped.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ said Poirot. ‘Now, let me see, where did I observe a lady’s handbag? Ah yes, over here.’ He went to the settee, picked up the bag, and handed it to Lucia. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said, glancing around distractedly as she spoke.

  ‘Not at all, madame.’

  After a brief nervous smile at Poirot, Lucia quickly left the room. When she had gone, Poirot stood quite still for a moment or two, and then picked up the coffee cup. After smelling it cautiously, he took from his pocket a test tube, poured some of the dregs from Sir Claud’s cup into it, and sealed the tube. Replacing it in his pocket, he then proceeded to look around the room, counting the cups aloud. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six. Yes, six coffee cups.’

  A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot’s brows, when suddenly his eyes shone with that green light that always betokened inward excitement. Moving swiftly to the door through which he had recently entered, he opened it and slammed it noisily shut again, and then darted to the french windows, concealing himself behind the curtains. After a few moments the other door, the one to the hallway, opened, and Lucia entered again, this time even more cautiously than before, appearing to be very much on her guard. Looking about her in an attempt to keep both doors in her sight, she snatched up the coffee cup from which Sir Claud had drunk, and surveyed the entire room.

  Her eye alighted on the small table near the door to the hall, on which there stood a large bowl containing a house plant. Moving to the table, Lucia thrust the coffee cup upside down into the bowl. Then, still watching the door, she took one of the other coffee cups and placed it near Sir Claud’s body. She then moved quickly to the door, but as she reached it, the door opened and her husband Richard entered with a very tall, sandy-haired man in his early thirties, whose countenance, though amiable, had an air of authority about it. The newcomer was carrying a Gladstone bag.

  ‘Lucia!’ Richard exclaimed, startled. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I – I – came to get my handbag,’ Lucia explained. ‘Hello, Dr Graham. Excuse me, please,’ she added, hurrying past them. As Richard watched her go, Poirot emerged from behind the curtains, approaching the two men as though he had just entered the room by the other door.

  ‘Ah, here is Monsieur Poirot. Let me introduce you. Poirot, this is Dr Graham. Kenneth Graham.’ Poirot and the doctor bowed to each other, and Dr Graham went immediately to the body of the dead scientist to examine it, watched by Richard. Hercule Poirot, to whom they paid no further attention, moved about the room, counting the coffee cups again with a smile. ‘One, two, three, four, five,’ he murmured. ‘Five, indeed.’ A light of pure enjoyment lit up Poirot’s face, and he smiled in his most inscrutable fashion. Taking the test tube out of his pocket, he looked at it, and slowly shook his head.

  Meanwhile, Dr Graham had concluded a cursory examination of Sir Claud Amory’s body. ‘I’m afraid,’ he said to Richard, ‘that I shan’t be able to sign a death certificate. Sir Claud was in a perfectly healthy condition, and it seems extremely unlikely to me that he could have suffered a sudden heart attack. I fear we shall have to find out what he had eaten or drunk in his last hours.’

  ‘Good heavens, man, is that really necessary?’ asked Richard, with a note of alarm in his voice. ‘He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything that the rest of us didn’t. It’s absurd to suggest –’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ Dr Graham interrupted, speaking firmly and with authority. ‘I’m telling you that there will have to be an inquest, by law, and that the coroner will certainly want to know the cause of death. At present I simply do not know what caused Sir Claud’s death. I’ll have his body removed, and I’ll arrange for an autopsy to be done first thing tomorrow morning as a matter of urgency. I should be able to get back to you later tomorrow with some hard facts.’

  He left the room swiftly, followed by a still expostulating Richard. Poirot looked after them, and then assumed a puzzled expression as he turned to look again at the body of the man who had called him away from London with such urgency in his voice. ‘What was it you wanted to tell me, my friend? I wonder. What did you fear?’ he thought to himself. ‘Was it simply the theft of your formula, or did you fear for your life as well? You relied on Hercule Poirot for help. You called for help too late, but I shall try to discover the truth.’

  Shaking his head thoughtfully, Poirot was about to leave the room when Tredwell entered. ‘I’ve shown the other gentleman to his room, sir,’ he told Poirot. ‘May I take you to yours, which is the adjoining one at the top of the stairs? I’ve also taken the liberty of providing a little cold supper for you both, after your journey. On the way upstairs I’ll show you where the dining-room is.’

  Poirot inclined his head in polite acceptance. ‘Thank you very much, Tredwell,’ he said. ‘Incidentally, I am going to advise Mr Amory most strongly that this room should be kept locked until tomorrow, when we should have further information about this evening’s distressing occurrence. Would you be so kind as to make it secure after we leave it now?’

  ‘Most certainly, sir, if that is your wish,’ replied Tredwell as Poirot preceded him out of the library.

  Chapter 8

  I

  When Hastings came down to breakfast late the following morning, after having slept long and well, he found himself eating alone. From Tredwell he learned that Edward Raynor had breakfasted much earlier, and had gone back to his room to put some of Sir Claud’s papers in order, that Mr and Mrs Amory had had breakfast in their suite of rooms and had not yet appeared, and that Barbara Amory had taken a cup of coffee out into the garden where she was presumably still sunning herself. Miss Caroline Amory had ordered breakfast in her room, pleading a slight headache, and Tredwell had not seen her subsequently.

  ‘Have you caught sight of Monsieur Poirot at all this morning, Tredwell?’ Hastings asked, and was told that his friend had risen early and had decided to take a walk to the village. ‘I understood Monsieur Poirot to say that he had some business to conduct there,’ Tredwell added.

  After finishing a lavish breakfast of bacon, sausage and eggs, toast and coffee, Hastings returned to his comfortable room on the first floor, which offered a splendid view of part of the garden and, for a few minutes which Hastings found rewarding, of the sun-bathing Barbara Amory as well. It was not until Barbara had come indoors that Hastings settled down in an arm-chair with that morning’s Times, which had of course gone to press too early to contain any mention of Sir Claud Amory’s death the previous evening.

  Hastings turned to the editorial page and began to read. A good half-hour later, he awakened from a light slumber to find Hercule Poirot standing over him.

  ‘Ah, mon cher, you are hard at work on the cas
e, I see,’ Poirot chuckled.

  ‘As a matter of fact, Poirot, I was thinking about last night’s events for quite some time,’ Hastings asserted. ‘I must have dozed off.’

  ‘And why not, my friend?’ Poirot assured him. ‘Me, I have been thinking about the death of Sir Claud as well, and, of course, the theft of his so important formula. I have, in fact, already taken some action, and I am expecting at any minute a telephone message to tell me if a certain suspicion of mine is correct or not.’

  ‘What or whom do you suspect, Poirot?’ Hastings asked eagerly.

  Poirot looked out of the window before replying. ‘No, I do not think I can reveal that to you at this stage of the game, my friend,’ he replied mischievously. ‘Let us just say that, as the magicians on the stage like to assure us, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye.’

  ‘Really, Poirot,’ Hastings exclaimed, ‘you can be extremely irritating at times. I do think you ought to at least let me know whom you suspect of having stolen the formula. After all, I might be able to help you by –’

  Poirot stopped his colleague with an airy gesture of his hand. The little detective was now wearing his most innocent expression, and gazing out of the window, meditatively, into the far distance. ‘You are puzzled, Hastings?’ he asked. ‘You are wondering to yourself why I do not launch myself in pursuit of a suspect?’

  ‘Well – something of the kind,’ Hastings admitted.

  ‘It is no doubt what you would do, if you were in my place,’ observed Poirot complacently. ‘I understand that. But I am not of those who enjoy rushing about, seeking a needle in a hay-stack, as you English say. For the moment, I am content to wait. As to why I wait – eh bien, to the intelligence of Hercule Poirot things are sometimes perfectly clear which are not at all clear to those who are not so greatly gifted.’

  ‘Good Lord, Poirot!’ Hastings exclaimed. ‘Do you know, I’d give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself – just for once. You’re so confoundedly conceited!’

  ‘Do not enrage yourself, my dear Hastings,’ Poirot replied soothingly. ‘In verity, I observe that there are times when you seem almost to detest me! Alas, I suffer the penalties of greatness!’

  The little man puffed out his chest, and sighed so comically that Hastings was forced to laugh. ‘Poirot, you really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I’ve ever known,’ he declared.

  ‘What will you? When one is unique, one knows it. But now to serious matters, my dear Hastings. Let me tell you that I have asked Sir Claud’s son, Mr Richard Amory, to meet us in the library at noon. I say “us”, Hastings, for I need you to be there, my friend, to observe closely.’

  ‘As always, I shall be delighted to assist you, Poirot,’ his friend assured him.

  II

  At noon, Poirot, Hastings and Richard Amory met in the library, from which the body of Sir Claud had been removed late the previous evening. While Hastings listened and observed from a comfortable position on the settee, the detective asked Richard Amory to recount in detail the events of the evening, prior to his, Poirot’s, arrival. When he had concluded his recital of events, Richard, sitting in the chair which his father had occupied the previous evening, added, ‘Well, that’s about everything, I think. I hope I’ve made myself clear?’

  ‘But perfectly, Monsieur Amory, perfectly,’ Poirot replied, leaning against an arm of the only arm-chair in the room. ‘I now have a clear tableau.’ Shutting his eyes, he attempted to conjure up the scene. ‘There is Sir Claud in his chair, dominating the situation. Then the darkness, the knocking on the door. Yes, indeed, a dramatic little scene.’

  ‘Well,’ said Richard, making as if to rise, ‘if that is all –’

  ‘Just one little minute,’ said Poirot, with a gesture as though to detain him.

  Lowering himself to his chair again with an air of reluctance, Richard asked, ‘Yes?’

  ‘What about earlier in the evening, Monsieur Amory?’

  ‘Earlier in the evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ Poirot reminded him. ‘After dinner.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ said Richard. ‘There’s really nothing more to tell. My father and his secretary, Raynor – Edward Raynor – went straight into my father’s study. The rest of us were in here.’

  Poirot beamed at Richard encouragingly. ‘And you did – what?’

  ‘Oh, we just talked. We had the gramophone on for most of the time.’

  Poirot thought for a moment. Then, ‘Nothing took place that strikes you as worth recalling?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing whatever,’ Richard affirmed very quickly.

  Watching him closely, Poirot pressed on. ‘When was the coffee served?’

  ‘Immediately after dinner,’ was Richard’s reply.

  Poirot made a circular motion with his hand. ‘Did the butler hand it around, or did he leave it here to be poured out?’

  ‘I really can’t remember,’ said Richard.

  Poirot gave a slight sigh. He thought for a moment, and then asked, ‘Did you all take coffee?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. All except Raynor, that is. He doesn’t drink coffee.’

  ‘And Sir Claud’s coffee was taken to him in the study?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Richard with some irritation beginning to show in his voice. ‘Are all these details really necessary?’

  Poirot lifted his arms in a gesture of apology. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘It is just that I am very anxious to get the whole picture straight in my mind’s eye. And, after all, we do want to get this precious formula back, do we not?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ was again Richard’s rather sullen rejoinder, at which Poirot’s eyebrows shot up exaggeratedly and he uttered an exclamation of surprise. ‘No, of course, of course, we do,’ Richard hastened to add.

  Poirot, looking away from Richard Amory, asked, ‘Now, when did Sir Claud come from the study into this room?’

  ‘Just as they were trying to get that door open,’ Amory told him.

  ‘They?’ queried Poirot, rounding on him.

  ‘Yes. Raynor and the others.’

  ‘May I ask who wanted it opened?’

  ‘My wife, Lucia,’ said Richard. ‘She hadn’t been feeling well all the evening.’

  Poirot’s tone was sympathetic as he replied, ‘La pauvre dame! I hope she finds herself better this morning? There are one or two things I urgently desire to ask her.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,’ said Richard. ‘She’s not up to seeing anyone, or answering any questions. In any case, there’s nothing she could tell you that I couldn’t.’

  ‘Quite so, quite so,’ Poirot assured him. ‘But women, Monsieur Amory, have a great capacity for observing things in detail. Still, doubtless your aunt, Miss Amory, will do as well.’

  ‘She’s in bed,’ said Richard hastily. ‘My father’s death was a great shock to her.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. There was a pause. Richard, looking distinctly uncomfortable, rose and turned to the french windows. ‘Let’s have some air,’ he announced. ‘It’s very hot in here.’

  ‘Ah, you are like all the English,’ Poirot declared, smiling. ‘The good open air, you will not leave it in the open. No! It must be brought inside the house.’

  ‘You don’t mind, I hope?’ Richard asked.

  ‘Me?’ said Poirot. ‘No, of course not. I have adopted all the English habits. Everywhere, I am taken for an Englishman.’ On the settee, Hastings could not help but smile to himself. ‘But, pardon me, Monsieur Amory, is not that window locked by some ingenious device?’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ replied Richard, ‘but the key to it is on my father’s bunch of keys which I have here.’ Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he moved to the french windows and undid the catch, flinging the windows open wide.

  Moving away from him, Poirot sat on the stool, well away from the french windows and the fresh air, and shivered, while Richard took a deep breath of air and then s
tood for a moment, looking out at the garden, before coming back to Poirot with the air of someone who has arrived at a decision.

  ‘Monsieur Poirot,’ Richard Amory declared, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I know my wife begged you last night to remain, but she was upset and hysterical, and hardly knew what she was doing. I’m the person concerned, and I tell you frankly that I don’t care a damn about the formula. My father was a rich man. This discovery of his was worth a great deal of money, but I don’t need more than I’ve got, and I can’t pretend to share his enthusiasm in the matter. There are explosives enough in the world already.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully.

  ‘What I say,’ continued Richard, ‘is that we should let the whole thing drop.’

  Poirot’s eyebrows shot up, as he made his familiar gesture of surprise. ‘You prefer that I should depart?’ he asked. ‘That I should make no further investigations?’

  ‘Yes, that’s it.’ Richard Amory sounded uncomfortable, as he half turned away from Poirot.

  ‘But,’ the detective persisted, ‘whoever stole the formula would not do so in order to make no use of it.’

  ‘No,’ Richard admitted. He turned back to Poirot. ‘But still –’

  Slowly and meaningfully, Poirot continued, ‘Then you do not object to the – how shall I put it – the stigma?’

  ‘Stigma?’ exclaimed Richard sharply.

  ‘Five people –’ Poirot explained to him, ‘five people had the opportunity of stealing the formula. Until one is proved guilty, the other four cannot be proved innocent.’

  Tredwell had entered the room while Poirot was speaking. As Richard began to stammer irresolutely, ‘I – that is –’ the butler interrupted him.

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said to his employer, ‘but Dr Graham is here, and would like to see you.’

  Clearly glad of the opportunity to escape further questioning from Poirot, Richard replied, ‘I’ll come at once,’ moving to the door as he spoke. Turning to Poirot, he asked, formally, ‘Would you excuse me, please?’ as he left with Tredwell.