‘But I killed him, I tell you.’ Lucia’s voice was almost at screaming pitch.
‘Promise number two,’ Poirot continued imperturbably, ‘is that I will save your husband!’
‘Oh!’ Lucia gasped, gazing at him in bewilderment.
The butler, Tredwell, entered the room. Addressing Poirot, he announced, ‘Inspector Japp, from Scotland Yard.’
Chapter 15
Fifteen minutes later, Inspector Japp, accompanied by Johnson, a young constable, had finished his initial inspection of the library. Japp, a bluff, hearty, middle-aged man with a thick-set figure and a ruddy complexion, was reminiscing with Poirot and Hastings, who had returned from his exile in the garden.
‘Yes,’ Japp told his constable, ‘Mr Poirot and I go back a long way. You’ve heard me speak often of him. He was still a member of the Belgian police force when we first worked together. It was the Abercrombie forgery case, wasn’t it, Poirot? We ran him down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days. And do you remember “Baron” Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him in Antwerp – thanks to Mr Poirot here.’
Japp turned from Johnson to Poirot. ‘And then we met again in this country, didn’t we, Poirot?’ he exclaimed. ‘You’d retired by then, of course. You solved that mysterious affair at Styles, remember? The last time we collaborated on a case was about two years ago, wasn’t it? That affair of the Italian nobleman in London. Well it’s really good to see you again, Poirot. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I came in a few minutes ago and saw your funny old mug.’
‘My mug?’ asked Poirot, looking puzzled. English slang never failed to mystify him.
‘Your face, I mean, old chap,’ Japp explained, with a grin. ‘Well, shall we work together on this?’
Poirot smiled. ‘My good Japp, you know my little weaknesses!’
‘Secretive old beggar, aren’t you?’ remarked Japp, smacking Poirot on the shoulder. ‘I say, that Mrs Amory you were talking to when I came in, she’s a good looker. Richard Amory’s wife, I suppose? I’ll bet you were enjoying yourself, you old dog!’
The inspector gave a rather coarse laugh, and seated himself on a chair by the table. ‘Anyway,’ he continued, ‘this is just the sort of case that suits you down to the ground. It pleases your tortuous mind. Now, I loathe a poisoning case. Nothing to go on. You have to find out what they ate and drank, and who handled it, and who so much as breathed on it! I admit Dr Graham seems pretty clear on the case. He says the dope must have been in the coffee. According to him, such a large dose would have had an almost instantaneous effect. Of course, we shall know for certain when we get the analyst’s report, but we’ve got enough to go on.’
Japp rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’ve finished with this room,’ he declared. ‘I’d better have a few words with Mr Richard Amory, I suppose, and then I’ll see this Dr Carelli. It looks as though he’s our man. But keep an open mind, that’s what I always say, keep an open mind.’ He moved to the door. ‘Coming, Poirot?’
‘But certainly, I will accompany you,’ said Poirot, joining him.
‘Captain Hastings too, I’ve no doubt,’ Japp laughed. ‘Sticks as close to you as your shadow, doesn’t he, Poirot?’
Poirot threw a meaningful glance at his friend. ‘Perhaps Hastings would prefer to remain here,’ he remarked.
Taking his cue in a somewhat obvious manner, Hastings replied, ‘Yes, yes, I think I’ll stay here.’
‘Well, as you please.’ Japp sounded surprised. He and Poirot left, followed by the young constable, and a moment later Barbara Amory entered from the garden through the french windows, wearing a pink blouse and light-coloured slacks. ‘Ah! There you are, my pet. I say, what’s this that’s just blown in upon us?’ she asked Hastings, as she moved across to the settee and sat down. ‘Is it the police?’
‘Yes,’ Hastings told her. He joined her on the settee. ‘It’s Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. He’s gone to see your cousin now, to ask him a few questions.’
‘Will he want to ask me questions, do you think?’
‘I don’t imagine so. But even if he does,’ Hastings assured her, ‘there’s nothing to be alarmed about.’
‘Oh, I’m not alarmed,’ Barbara declared. ‘In fact, I think it would be absolutely wizard! But it would be so tempting to embroider a bit, just to make a sensation. I adore sensation, don’t you?’
Hastings looked puzzled. ‘I – I really don’t know. No, I don’t think I adore sensation.’
Barbara Amory regarded him quizzically. ‘You know, you intrigue me,’ she declared. ‘Where have you been all your life?’
‘Well, I’ve spent several years in South America.’
‘I knew it!’ Barbara exclaimed. She gestured, with her hand over her eyes. ‘The wide open spaces. That’s why you’re so deliciously old-fashioned.’
Hastings now looked offended. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly.
‘Oh, but I adore it,’ Barbara hastened to explain. ‘I think you’re a pet, an absolute pet.’
‘What exactly do you mean by old-fashioned?’
‘Well,’ Barbara continued, ‘I’m sure you believe in all sorts of stuffy old things, like decency, and not telling lies except for a very good reason, and putting a good face on things.’
‘Quite,’ agreed Hastings in some surprise. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Me? Well, for example, do you expect me to keep up the fiction that Uncle Claud’s death is a regrettable incident?’
‘Isn’t it?’ Hastings sounded shocked.
‘My dear!’ exclaimed Barbara. She rose, and perched herself on the edge of the coffee table. ‘As far as I’m concerned, it’s the most marvellous thing that ever happened. You don’t know what an old skinflint he was. You don’t know how he ground us all down!’ She stopped, overcome by the strength of her feelings.
Embarrassed, Hastings began, ‘I – I – wish you wouldn’t –’ but was interrupted by Barbara. ‘You don’t like honesty?’ she asked. ‘That’s just what I thought you’d be like. You’d prefer me to be wearing black instead of this, and to be talking in a hushed voice about “Poor Uncle Claud! So good to us all.” ’
‘Really!’ Hastings exclaimed.
‘Oh, you needn’t pretend,’ Barbara went on, ‘I knew that’s what you’d turn out to be like, if I got to know you properly. But what I say is that life isn’t long enough for all that lying and pretence. Uncle Claud wasn’t good to us at all. I’m certain we’re all glad he’s dead, really, in our heart of hearts. Yes, even Aunt Caroline. Poor dear, she’s stood him longer than any of us.’
Barbara suddenly calmed down. When she spoke again, it was in a milder tone. ‘You know, I’ve been thinking. Scientifically speaking, Aunt Caroline might have poisoned Uncle Claud. That heart attack last night was really very queer. I don’t believe it was a heart attack at all. Just suppose that suppressing her feelings all these years had led to Aunt Caroline developing some powerful complex –’
‘I suppose it’s theoretically possible,’ Hastings murmured guardedly.
‘I wonder who pinched the formula, though,’ Barbara continued. ‘Everyone says it was the Italian, but personally I suspect Tredwell.’
‘Your butler? Good heavens! Why?’
‘Because he never went near the study!’
Hastings looked perplexed. ‘But then –’
‘I’m very orthodox in some ways,’ Barbara remarked. ‘I’ve been brought up to suspect the least likely person. That’s who it is in all the best murder mysteries. And Tredwell is certainly the least likely person.’
‘Except you, perhaps,’ Hastings suggested with a laugh.
‘Oh, me!’ Barbara smiled uncertainly as she rose and moved away from him. ‘How curious –’ she murmured to herself.
‘What’s curious?’ Hastings asked, rising to his feet.
‘Something I’ve just thought of. Let’s go out in the garden. I hate it in here.�
�� She moved towards the french windows.
‘I’m afraid I have to stay here,’ Hastings told her.
‘Why?’
‘I mustn’t leave this room.’
‘You know,’ Barbara observed, ‘you’ve got a complex about this room. Do you remember last night? There we all were, completely shattered by the disappearance of the formula, and in you strode, and produced the most marvellous anti-climax by saying in your best conversational manner, “What a delightful room, Mr Amory.” It was so funny when the two of you walked in. There was this extraordinary little man with you, no more than five feet four, but with an air of immense dignity. And you, being oh, so polite.’
‘Poirot is rather odd at first sight, I admit,’ Hastings agreed. ‘And he has all kinds of little foibles. For instance, he has an absolute passion for neatness of any kind. If he sees an ornament set crookedly, or a speck of dust, or even a slight disarray in someone’s attire, it’s absolute torture to him.’
‘You make such a wonderful contrast to each other,’ Barbara said, laughing.
‘Poirot’s methods of detection are very much his own, you know,’ Hastings continued. ‘Order and method are his gods. He has a great disdain for tangible evidence, things like footprints and cigarette ash, you know what I mean. In fact he maintains that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. The true work, he says, is done from within. And then he taps that egg-shaped head of his, and remarks with great satisfaction, “The little grey cells of the brain – always remember the little grey cells, mon ami.”’
‘Oh, I think he’s a poppet,’ Barbara declared. ‘But not as sweet as you, with your “What a delightful room”!’
‘But it is a delightful room,’ Hastings insisted, sounding rather nettled.
‘Personally, I don’t agree with you,’ said Barbara. She took his hand and tried to pull him towards the open french windows. ‘Anyway, you’ve had quite enough of it for now. Come along.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Hastings declared, taking his hand away from her. ‘I promised Poirot.’
Barbara spoke slowly. ‘You promised Monsieur Poirot that you would not leave this room? But why?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Oh!’ Barbara was silent for a moment or two, and then her manner changed. She moved behind Hastings and began to recite, in an exaggerated dramatic voice, ‘“The boy stood on the burning deck –”’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘“Whence all but he had fled.” Well, my pet?’
‘I simply cannot understand you,’ Hastings declared in exasperation.
‘Why should you understand me? Oh, you really are a delight,’ declared Barbara, slipping her arm through his. ‘Come and be vamped. Really, you know, I think you’re adorable.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘Not at all,’ Barbara insisted. ‘I’m crazy about you. You’re positively pre-war.’
She pulled him to the french windows, and this time Hastings allowed himself to yield to the pressure of her arm. ‘You really are an extraordinary person,’ he told her. ‘You’re quite different from any girl I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. That’s a very good sign,’ said Barbara, as they now stood, face to face, framed in the open windows.
‘A good sign?’
‘Yes, it makes a girl feel hopeful.’
Hastings blushed, and Barbara laughed light-heartedly as she dragged him out into the garden.
Chapter 16
After Barbara’s exit with Hastings into the garden, the library remained unoccupied for no longer than a moment or two. Then the door to the hall opened, and Miss Amory entered, carrying a small work-bag. She went over to the settee, put the bag down, knelt, and began to feel at the back of the seat. As she did so, Dr Carelli entered by the other door, carrying a hat and a small suitcase. Seeing Miss Amory, Carelli stopped and murmured a word of apology at having intruded upon her.
Miss Amory rose from the settee, looking a trifle flustered. ‘I was searching for a knitting needle,’ she explained unnecessarily, brandishing her discovery as she spoke. ‘It had slipped down behind the seat.’ Then, taking in the significance of his suitcase, she asked, ‘Are you leaving us, Dr Carelli?’
Carelli put his hat and suitcase on a chair. ‘I feel I can no longer trespass on your hospitality,’ he announced.
Obviously delighted, Miss Amory was polite enough to murmur, ‘Well, of course, if you feel like that –’ Then, remembering the situation in which the occupants of the house currently found themselves, she added, ‘But I thought there were some tiresome formalities –’ Her voice trailed off indecisively.
‘Oh, that is all arranged,’ Carelli assured her.
‘Well, if you feel you must go –’
‘I do, indeed.’
‘Then I will order the car,’ Miss Amory declared briskly, moving to the bell above the fireplace.
‘No, no,’ Carelli insisted. ‘That, too, is all arranged.’
‘But you’ve even had to carry your suitcase down yourself. Really, the servants! They’re all demoralized, completely demoralized!’ She returned to the settee, and took her knitting from her bag. ‘They can’t concentrate, Dr Carelli. They cannot keep their heads. So curious, is it not?’
Looking distinctly on edge, Carelli replied offhandedly, ‘Very curious.’ He glanced at the telephone.
Miss Amory began to knit, keeping up a flow of aimless conversation as she did so. ‘I suppose you are catching the twelve-fifteen. You mustn’t run it too fine. Not that I want to fuss, of course. I always say that fussing over –’
‘Yes, indeed,’ Dr Carelli interrupted peremptorily, ‘but there is plenty of time, I think. I – I wondered if I might use the telephone?’
Miss Amory looked up momentarily. ‘Oh, yes, of course,’ she said, as she continued to knit. It seemed not to have occurred to her that Dr Carelli might have wanted to make his telephone call in private.
‘Thank you,’ murmured Carelli, moving to the desk and making a pretence of looking up a number in the telephone directory. He glanced across impatiently at Miss Amory. ‘I think your niece was looking for you,’ he remarked.
Miss Amory’s only reaction to this information was to talk about her niece while continuing with her knitting undisturbed. ‘Dear Barbara!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such a sweet creature. You know, she leads rather a sad life here, far too dull for a young girl. Well, well, things will be different now, I dare say.’ She dwelt pleasurably on this thought for a moment, before continuing, ‘Not that I haven’t done all I could. But what a girl needs is a little gaiety. All the Beeswax in the world won’t make up for that.’
Dr Carelli’s face was a study in incomprehension, mixed with more than a little irritation. ‘Beeswax?’ he felt obliged to ask.
‘Yes, Beeswax – or is it Bemax? Vitamins, you know, or at least that’s what it says on the tin. A and B and C and D. All of them, except the one that keeps you from having beri-beri. And I really think there’s no need for that, if one is living in England. It’s not a disease one encounters here. It comes, I believe, from polishing the rice in native countries. So interesting. I made Mr Raynor take it – Beeswax, I mean – after breakfast every day. He was looking pale, poor young fellow. I tried to make Lucia take it too, but she wouldn’t.’ Miss Amory shook her head disapprovingly. ‘And to think, when I was a girl, I was strictly forbidden to eat caramels because of the Beeswax – I mean Bemax. Times change, you know. Times do change.’
Though he attempted to disguise the fact, by now Dr Carelli was positively fuming. ‘Yes, yes, Miss Amory,’ he replied as politely as he could manage. Moving towards her, he tried a somewhat more direct approach. ‘I think your niece is calling you.’
‘Calling me?’
‘Yes. Do you not hear?’
Miss Amory listened. ‘No – no,’ she confessed. ‘How curious.’ She rolled up her knitting. ‘You must have keen
ears, Dr Carelli. Not that my hearing is bad. Indeed, I’ve been told that –’
She dropped her ball of wool, and Carelli picked it up for her. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘All the Amorys have keen hearing, you know.’ She rose from the settee. ‘My father kept his faculties in the most remarkable way. He could read without glasses when he was eighty.’ She dropped the ball of wool again, and again Carelli stooped to retrieve it for her.
‘Oh, thank you so much,’ Miss Amory continued. ‘A remarkable man, Dr Carelli. My father, I mean. Such a remarkable man. He always slept in a four-poster feather bed; and the windows of his bedroom were never opened. The night air, he used to say, was most injurious. Unfortunately, when he had an attack of gout he was nursed by a young woman who insisted on the window being opened at the top, and my poor father died of it.’
She dropped the ball of wool yet again. This time, after picking it up, Carelli planted it firmly in her hand and led her to the door. Miss Amory moved slowly, talking all the time. ‘I do not care at all for hospital nurses, Dr Carelli,’ she informed him. ‘They gossip about their cases, they drink far too much tea, and they always upset the servants.’
‘Very true, dear lady, very true,’ Carelli agreed hastily, opening the door for her.
‘Thank you so much,’ Miss Amory said as he propelled her out of the room. Shutting the door after her, Carelli moved quickly to the desk and lifted the telephone receiver. After a pause, he spoke into it softly but urgently. ‘This is Market Cleve three-one-four. I want London . . . Soho double eight-five-three . . . no, five-three, that’s right . . . Eh? . . . Will you call me? . . . Right.’
He replaced the receiver, and then stood, biting his nails impatiently. After a moment, he crossed to the door of the study, opened it, and entered the room. Hardly had he done so, when Edward Raynor came into the library from the hall. Glancing around, Raynor strolled casually to the fireplace. He touched the vase of spills on the mantelpiece and, as he did so, Carelli came back into the room from the study. As Carelli closed the study door, Raynor turned and saw him.
Black Coffee Page 11