Книга - Lord Edgware Dies

Lord Edgware Dies
Agatha Christie


Agatha Christie’s famous murder mystery, reissued with a striking cover designed to appeal to the latest generation of Agatha Christie fans and book lovers.Poirot had been present when Jane bragged of her plan to ‘get rid of’ her estranged husband. Now the monstrous man was dead. And yet the great Belgian detective couldn’t help feeling that he was being taken for a ride.After all, how could Jane have stabbed Lord Edgware to death in his library at exactly the same time she was seen dining with friends? And what could be her motive now that the aristocrat had finally granted her a divorce?
















Lord Edgware Dies










Copyright (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)


This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by Collins 1933

Agatha Christie® Poirot® Lord Edgware Dies™

Copyright © 1933 Agatha Christie Limited. All rights reserved.

www.agathachristie.com (http://www.agathachristie.com)

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Title lettering by Ghost Design

Cover layout design © HarperColl‌insPublishers Ltd 2016. Title lettering by Ghost Design. Cover photograph © Angie Milam/Arcangel Images

Agatha Christie asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780008164850

Ebook Edition © SEPTEMBER 2016 ISBN: 9780007422432

Version: 2017-04-13


To Dr and Mrs Campbell Thompson


Contents

Cover (#u33f3ee0c-ce9c-5f29-8f1a-6c15bda10312)

Title Page (#udf13520b-2bae-5f07-b849-a66a334ca297)

Copyright (#u493d1b98-0b02-5bd6-92e2-c3bfe24bebc9)

Dedication (#u343a3862-3e6f-56af-a7b4-048c07150862)

CHAPTER 1: A Theatrical Party (#ubde1676e-725f-54bc-88a1-9c313a61ac9d)

CHAPTER 2: A Supper Party (#u2bb78bf1-af21-55c1-9b16-e40f61d93c12)

CHAPTER 3: The Man With the Gold Tooth (#u82fa6c85-fe50-5cfc-8116-9a29be2a11b9)



CHAPTER 4: An Interview (#ub78a4ab3-2cb7-55e2-b033-7ed655e94a40)



CHAPTER 5: Murder (#u1a1f136f-3913-51ae-8050-20cd2438e261)



CHAPTER 6: The Widow (#ua58e121d-2194-521d-ac7c-620a39322778)



CHAPTER 7: The Secretary (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 8: Possibilities (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 9: The Second Death (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 10: Jenny Driver (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 11: The Egoist (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 12: The Daughter (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 13: The Nephew (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 14: Five Questions (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 15: Sir Montagu Corner (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 16: Mainly Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 17: The Butler (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 18: The Other Man (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 19: A Great Lady (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 20: The Taxi-Driver (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 21: Ronald’s Story (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 22: Strange Behaviour of Hercule Poirot (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 23: The Letter (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 24: News From Paris (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 25: A Luncheon Party (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 26: Paris? (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 27: Concerning Pince-Nez (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 28: Poirot Asks a Few Questions (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 29: Poirot Speaks (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 30: The Story (#litres_trial_promo)



CHAPTER 31: A Human Document (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Agatha Christie (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




CHAPTER 1 (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)

A Theatrical Party (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)


The memory of the public is short. Already the intense interest and excitement aroused by the murder of George Alfred St Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, is a thing past and forgotten. Newer sensations have taken its place.

My friend, Hercule Poirot, was never openly mentioned in connection with the case. This, I may say, was entirely in accordance with his own wishes. He did not choose to appear in it. The credit went elsewhere—and that is how he wished it to be. Moreover, from Poirot’s own peculiar private point of view, the case was one of his failures. He always swears that it was the chance remark of a stranger in the street that put him on the right track.

However that may be, it was his genius that discovered the truth of the affair. But for Hercule Poirot I doubt if the crime would have been brought home to its perpetrator.

I feel therefore that the time has come for me to set down all I know of the affair in black and white. I know the ins and outs of the case thoroughly and I may also mention that I shall be fulfilling the wishes of a very fascinating lady in so doing.

I have often recalled that day in Poirot’s prim neat little sitting-room when, striding up and down a particular strip of carpet, my little friend gave us his masterly and astounding résumé of the case. I am going to begin my narrative where he did on that occasion—at a London theatre in June of last year.

Carlotta Adams was quite the rage in London at that moment. The year before she had given a couple of matinées which had been a wild success. This year she had had a three weeks’ season of which this was the last night but one.

Carlotta Adams was an American girl with the most amazing talent for single-handed sketches unhampered by make-up or scenery. She seemed to speak every language with ease. Her sketch of an evening in a foreign hotel was really wonderful. In turn, American tourists, German tourists, middle-class English families, questionable ladies, impoverished Russian aristocrats and weary discreet waiters all flitted across the scene.

Her sketches went from grave to gay and back again. Her dying Czecho-Slovakian woman in hospital brought a lump to the throat. A minute later we were rocking with laughter as a dentist plied his trade and chatted amiably with his victims.

Her programme closed with what she announced as ‘Some Imitations’.

Here again, she was amazingly clever. Without make-up of any kind, her features seemed to dissolve suddenly and re-form themselves into those of a famous politician, or a well-known actress, or a society beauty. In each character she gave a short typical speech. These speeches, by the way, were remarkably clever. They seemed to hit off every weakness of the subject selected.

One of her last impersonations was Jane Wilkinson—a talented young American actress well known in London. It was really very clever. Inanities slipped off her tongue charged with some powerful emotional appeal so that in spite of yourself you felt that each word was uttered with some potent and fundamental meaning. Her voice, exquisitely toned, with a deep husky note in it, was intoxicating. The restrained gestures, each strangely significant, the slightly swaying body, the impression even, of strong physical beauty—how she did it, I cannot think!

I had always been an admirer of the beautiful Jane Wilkinson. She had thrilled me in her emotional parts, and I had always maintained in face of those who admitted her beauty but declared she was no actress, that she had considerable histrionic powers.

It was a little uncanny to hear that well-known, slightly husky voice with the fatalistic drop in it that had stirred me so often, and to watch that seemingly poignant gesture of the slowly closing and unclosing hand, and the sudden throw back of the head with the hair shaken back from the face that I realized she always gave at the close of a dramatic scene.

Jane Wilkinson was one of those actresses who had left the stage on her marriage only to return to it a couple of years later.

Three years ago she had married the wealthy but slightly eccentric Lord Edgware. Rumour went that she left him shortly afterwards. At any rate eighteen months after the marriage, she was acting for the films in America, and had this season appeared in a successful play in London.

Watching Carlotta Adams’ clever but perhaps slightly malicious imitation, it occurred to me to wonder how such imitations were regarded by the subject selected. Were they pleased at the notoriety—at the advertisement it afforded? Or were they annoyed at what was, after all, a deliberate exposing of the tricks of their trade? Was not Carlotta Adams in the position of the rival conjurer who says: ‘Oh! this is an old trick! Very simple. I’ll show you how this one’s done!’

I decided that if I were the subject in question, I should be very much annoyed. I should, of course, conceal my vexation, but decidedly I should not like it. One would need great broad-mindedness and a distinct sense of humour to appreciate such a merciless exposé.

I had just arrived at these conclusions when the delightful husky laugh from the stage was echoed from behind me.

I turned my head sharply. In the seat immediately behind mine, leaning forward with her lips slightly parted, was the subject of the present imitation—Lady Edgware, better known as Jane Wilkinson.

I realized immediately that my deductions had been all wrong. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, with an expression of delight and excitement in her eyes.

As the ‘imitation’ finished, she applauded loudly, laughing and turning to her companion, a tall extremely good-looking man, of the Greek god type, whose face I recognized as one better known on the screen than on the stage. It was Bryan Martin, the hero of the screen most popular at the moment. He and Jane Wilkinson had been starred together in several screen productions.

‘Marvellous, isn’t she?’ Lady Edgware was saying.

He laughed.

‘Jane—you look all excited.’

‘Well, she really is too wonderful! Heaps better than I thought she’d be.’

I did not catch Bryan Martin’s amused rejoinder. Carlotta Adams had started on a fresh improvisation.

What happened later is, I shall always think, a very curious coincidence.

After the theatre, Poirot and I went on to supper at the Savoy.

At the very next table to ours were Lady Edgware, Bryan Martin and two other people whom I did not know. I pointed them out to Poirot and, as I was doing so, another couple came and took their places at the table beyond that again. The woman’s face was familiar and yet strangely enough, for the moment I could not place it.

Then suddenly I realized that it was Carlotta Adams at whom I was staring! The man I did not know. He was well-groomed, with a cheerful, somewhat vacuous face. Not a type that I admire.

Carlotta Adams was dressed very inconspicuously in black. Hers was not a face to command instant attention or recognition. It was one of those mobile sensitive faces that pre-eminently lend themselves to the art of mimicry. It could take on an alien character easily, but it had no very recognizable character of its own.

I imparted these reflections of mine to Poirot. He listened attentively, his egg-shaped head cocked slightly to one side whilst he darted a sharp glance at the two tables in question.

‘So that is Lady Edgware? Yes, I remember—I have seen her act. She is belle femme.’

‘And a fine actress too.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You don’t seem convinced.’

‘I think it would depend on the setting, my friend. If she is the centre of the play, if all revolves round her—yes, then she could play her part. I doubt if she could play a small part adequately or even what is called a character part. The play must be written about her and for her. She appears to me of the type of women who are interested only in themselves.’ He paused and then added rather unexpectedly: ‘Such people go through life in great danger.’

‘Danger?’ I said, surprised.

‘I have used a word that surprises you, I see, mon ami. Yes, danger. Because, you see, a woman like that sees only one thing—herself. Such women see nothing of the dangers and hazards that surround them—the million conflicting interests and relationships of life. No, they see only their own forward path. And so—sooner or later—disaster.’

I was interested. I confessed to myself that such a point of view would not have struck me.

‘And the other?’ I asked.

‘Miss Adams?’

His gaze swept to her table.

‘Well?’ he said, smiling. ‘What do you want me to say about her?’

‘Only how she strikes you.’

‘Mon cher, am I tonight the fortune-teller who reads the palm and tells the character?’

‘You could do it better than most,’ I rejoined.

‘It is a very pretty faith that you have in me, Hastings. It touches me. Do you not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desires and aptitudes? Mais oui, c’est vrai. One makes one’s little judgments—but nine times out of ten one is wrong.’

‘Not Hercule Poirot,’ I said, smiling.

‘Even Hercule Poirot! Oh! I know very well that you have always a little idea that I am conceited, but, indeed, I assure you, I am really a very humble person.’

I laughed.

‘You—humble!’

‘It is so. Except—I confess it—that I am a little proud of my moustaches. Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them.’

‘You are quite safe,’ I said dryly. ‘You won’t. So you are not going to risk judgment on Carlotta Adams?’

‘Elle est artiste!’ said Poirot simply. ‘That covers nearly all, does it not?’

‘Anyway, you don’t consider that she walks through life in peril?’

‘We all do that, my friend,’ said Poirot gravely. ‘Misfortune may always be waiting to rush out upon us. But as to your question, Miss Adams, I think, will succeed. She is shrewd and she is something more. You observed without doubt that she is a Jewess?’

I had not. But now that he mentioned it, I saw the faint traces of Semitic ancestry. Poirot nodded.

‘It makes for success—that. Though there is still one avenue of danger—since it is of danger we are talking.’

‘You mean?’

‘Love of money. Love of money might lead such a one from the prudent and cautious path.’

‘It might do that to all of us,’ I said.

‘That is true, but at any rate you or I would see the danger involved. We could weigh the pros and cons. If you care for money too much, it is only the money you see, everything else is in shadow.’

I laughed at his serious manner.

‘Esmeralda, the gipsy queen, is in good form,’ I remarked teasingly.

‘The psychology of character is interesting,’ returned Poirot unmoved. ‘One cannot be interested in crime without being interested in psychology. It is not the mere act of killing, it is what lies behind it that appeals to the expert. You follow me, Hastings?’

I said that I followed him perfectly.

‘I have noticed that when we work on a case together, you are always urging me on to physical action, Hastings. You wish me to measure footprints, to analyse cigarette-ash, to prostrate myself on my stomach for the examination of detail. You never realize that by lying back in an arm-chair with the eyes closed one can come nearer to the solution of any problem. One sees then with the eyes of the mind.’

‘I don’t,’ I said. ‘When I lie back in an arm-chair with my eyes closed one thing happens to me and one thing only!’

‘I have noticed it!’ said Poirot. ‘It is strange. At such moments the brain should be working feverishly, not sinking into sluggish repose. The mental activity, it is so interesting, so stimulating! The employment of the little grey cells is a mental pleasure. They and they only can be trusted to lead one through fog to the truth…’

I am afraid that I have got into the habit of averting my attention whenever Poirot mentions his little grey cells. I have heard it all so often before.

In this instance my attention wandered to the four people sitting at the next table. When Poirot’s monologue drew to a close I remarked with a chuckle:

‘You have made a hit, Poirot. The fair Lady Edgware can hardly take her eyes off you.’

‘Doubtless she has been informed of my identity,’ said Poirot, trying to look modest and failing.

‘I think it is the famous moustaches,’ I said. ‘She is carried away by their beauty.’

Poirot caressed them surreptitiously.

‘It is true that they are unique,’ he admitted. ‘Oh, my friend, the “tooth-brush” as you call it, that you wear—it is a horror—an atrocity—a wilful stunting of the bounties of nature. Abandon it, my friend, I pray of you.’

‘By Jove,’ I said, disregarding Poirot’s appeal. ‘The lady’s getting up. I believe she’s coming to speak to us. Bryan Martin is protesting, but she won’t listen to him.’

Sure enough, Jane Wilkinson swept impetuously from her seat and came over to our table. Poirot rose to his feet bowing, and I rose also.

‘M. Hercule Poirot, isn’t it?’ said the soft husky voice.

‘At your service.’

‘M. Poirot, I want to talk to you. I must talk to you.’

‘But certainly, Madame, will you not sit down?’

‘No, no, not here. I want to talk to you privately. We’ll go right upstairs to my suite.’

Bryan Martin had joined her, he spoke now with a deprecating laugh.

‘You must wait a little, Jane. We’re in the middle of supper. So is M. Poirot.’

But Jane Wilkinson was not so easily turned from her purpose.

‘Why, Bryan, what does that matter? We’ll have supper sent up to the suite. Speak to them about it, will you? And, Bryan—’

She went after him as he was turning away and appeared to urge some course upon him. He stood out about it, I gathered, shaking his head and frowning. But she spoke even more emphatically and finally with a shrug of the shoulders he gave way.

Once or twice during her speech to him she had glanced at the table where Carlotta Adams sat, and I wondered if what she were suggesting had anything to do with the American girl.

Her point gained, Jane came back, radiant.

‘We’ll go right up now,’ she said, and included me in a dazzling smile.

The question of our agreeing or not agreeing to her plan didn’t seem to occur to her mind. She swept us off without a shade of apology.

‘It’s the greatest luck just seeing you here this evening, M. Poirot,’ she said as she led the way to the lift. ‘It’s wonderful how everything seems to turn out right for me. I’d just been thinking and wondering what on earth I was going to do and I looked up and there you were at the next table, and I said to myself: “M. Poirot will tell me what to do.”’

She broke off to say ‘Second Floor’ to the lift-boy.

‘If I can be of aid to you—’ began Poirot.

‘I’m sure you can. I’ve heard you’re just the most marvellous man that ever existed. Somebody’s got to get me out of the tangle I’m in and I feel you’re just the man to do it.’

We got out at the second floor and she led the way along the corridor, paused at a door and entered one of the most opulent of the Savoy suites.

Casting her white fur wrap on one chair, and her small jewelled bag on the table, the actress sank on to a chair and exclaimed:

‘M. Poirot, somehow or other I’ve just got to get rid of my husband!’




CHAPTER 2 (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)

A Supper Party (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)


After a moment’s astonishment Poirot recovered himself!

‘But, Madame,’ he said, his eyes twinkling, ‘getting rid of husbands is not my speciality.’

‘Well, of course I know that.’

‘It is a lawyer you require.’

‘That’s just where you’re wrong. I’m just about sick and tired of lawyers. I’ve had straight lawyers and crooked lawyers, and not one of them’s done me any good. Lawyers just know the law, they don’t seem to have any kind of natural sense.’

‘And you think I have?’

She laughed.

‘I’ve heard that you’re the cat’s whiskers, M. Poirot.’

‘Comment? The cat’s whiskers? I do not understand.’

‘Well—that you’re It.’

‘Madame, I may or may not have brains—as a matter of fact I have—why pretend? But your little affair, it is not my genre.’

‘I don’t see why not. It’s a problem.’

‘Oh! a problem!’

‘And it’s difficult,’ went on Jane Wilkinson. ‘I should say you weren’t the man to shy at difficulties.’

‘Let me compliment you on your insight, Madame. But all the same, me, I do not make the investigations for divorce. It is not pretty—ce métier là.’

‘My dear man, I’m not asking you to do spying work. It wouldn’t be any good. But I’ve just got to get rid of the man, and I’m sure you could tell me how to do it.’

Poirot paused awhile before replying. When he did, there was a new note in his voice.

‘First tell me, Madame, why are you so anxious to “get rid” of Lord Edgware?’

There was no delay or hesitation about her answer. It came swift and pat.

‘Why, of course. I want to get married again. What other reason could there be?’

Her great blue eyes opened ingenuously.

‘But surely a divorce should be easy to obtain?’

‘You don’t know my husband, M. Poirot. He’s—he’s—’ she shivered. ‘I don’t know how to explain it. He’s a queer man—he’s not like other people.’

She paused and then went on.

‘He should never have married—anyone. I know what I’m talking about. I just can’t describe him, but he’s—queer. His first wife, you know, ran away from him. Left a baby of three months behind. He never divorced her and she died miserably abroad somewhere. Then he married me. Well—I couldn’t stick it. I was frightened. I left him and went to the States. I’ve no grounds for a divorce, and if I’ve given him grounds for one, he won’t take any notice of them. He’s—he’s a kind of fanatic.’

‘In certain American states you could obtain a divorce, Madame.’

‘That’s no good to me—not if I’m going to live in England.’

‘You want to live in England?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who is the man you want to marry?’

‘That’s just it. The Duke of Merton.’

I drew in my breath sharply. The Duke of Merton had so far been the despair of matchmaking mammas. A young man of monkish tendencies, a violent Anglo-Catholic, he was reported to be completely under the thumb of his mother, the redoubtable dowager duchess. His life was austere in the extreme. He collected Chinese porcelain and was reputed to be of aesthetic tastes. He was supposed to care nothing for women.

‘I’m just crazy about him,’ said Jane sentimentally. ‘He’s unlike anyone I ever met, and Merton Castle is too wonderful. The whole thing is the most romantic business that ever happened. He’s so good-looking too—like a dreamy kind of monk.’

She paused.

‘I’m going to give up the stage when I marry. I just don’t seem to care about it any more.’

‘In the meantime,’ said Poirot dryly, ‘Lord Edgware stands in the way of these romantic dreams.’

‘Yes—and it’s driving me to distraction.’ She leaned back thoughtfully. ‘Of course if we were only in Chicago I could get him bumped off quite easily, but you don’t seem to run to gunmen over here.’

‘Over here,’ said Poirot, smiling, ‘we consider that every human being has the right to live.’

‘Well, I don’t know about that. I guess you’d be better off without some of your politicians, and knowing what I do of Edgware I think he’d be no loss—rather the contrary.’

There was a knock at the door, and a waiter entered with supper dishes. Jane Wilkinson continued to discuss her problem with no appreciation of his presence.

‘But I don’t want you to kill him for me, M. Poirot.’

‘Merci, Madame.’

‘I thought perhaps you might argue with him in some clever way. Get him to give in to the idea of divorce. I’m sure you could.’

‘I think you overrate my persuasive powers, Madame.’

‘Oh! but you can surely think of something, M. Poirot.’ She leaned forward. Her blue eyes opened wide again. ‘You’d like me to be happy, wouldn’t you?’

Her voice was soft, low and deliciously seductive.

‘I should like everybody to be happy,’ said Poirot cautiously.

‘Yes, but I wasn’t thinking of everybody. I was thinking of just me.’

‘I should say you always do that, Madame.’

He smiled.

‘You think I’m selfish?’

‘Oh! I did not say so, Madame.’

‘I dare say I am. But, you see, I do so hate being unhappy. It affects my acting, even. And I’m going to be ever so unhappy unless he agrees to a divorce—or dies.

‘On the whole,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘it would be much better if he died. I mean, I’d feel more finally quit of him.’

She looked at Poirot for sympathy.

‘You will help me, won’t you, M. Poirot?’ She rose, picking up the white wrap, and stood looking appealingly into his face. I heard the noise of voices outside in the corridor. The door was ajar. ‘If you don’t—’ she went on.

‘If I don’t, Madame?’

She laughed.

‘I’ll have to call a taxi to go round and bump him off myself.’

Laughing, she disappeared through a door to an adjoining room just as Bryan Martin came in with the American girl, Carlotta Adams, and her escort, and the two people who had been supping with him and Jane Wilkinson. They were introduced to me as Mr and Mrs Widburn.

‘Hello!’ said Bryan. ‘Where’s Jane? I want to tell her I’ve succeeded in the commission she gave me.’

Jane appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. She held a lipstick in one hand.

‘Have you got her? How marvellous. Miss Adams, I do admire your performance so. I felt I just had to know you. Come in here and talk to me while I fix my face. It’s looking too perfectly frightful.’

Carlotta Adams accepted the invitation. Bryan Martin flung himself down in a chair.

‘Well, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘You were duly captured. Has our Jane persuaded you to fight her battles? You might as well give in sooner as later. She doesn’t understand the word “No.”’

‘She has not come across it, perhaps.’

‘A very interesting character, Jane,’ said Bryan Martin. He lay back in his hair and puffed cigarette smoke idly towards the ceiling. ‘Taboos have no meaning for her. No morals whatever. I don’t mean she’s exactly immoral—she isn’t. Amoral is the word, I believe. Just sees one thing only in life—what Jane wants.’

He laughed.

‘I believe she’d kill somebody quite cheerfully—and feel injured if they caught her and wanted to hang her for it. The trouble is that she would be caught. She hasn’t any brains. Her idea of a murder would be to drive up in a taxi, sail in under her own name and shoot.’

‘Now, I wonder what makes you say that?’ murmured Poirot.

‘Eh?’

‘You know her well, Monsieur?’

‘I should say I did.’

He laughed again, and it struck me that his laugh was unusually bitter.

‘You agree, don’t you?’ he flung out to the others.

‘Oh! Jane’s an egoist,’ agreed Mrs Widburn. ‘An actress has got to be, though. That is, if she wants to express her personality.’

Poirot did not speak. His eyes were resting on Bryan Martin’s face, dwelling there with a curious speculative expression that I could not quite understand.

At that moment Jane sailed in from the next room, Carlotta Adams behind her. I presume that Jane had now ‘fixed her face’, whatever that term denoted, to her own satisfaction. It looked to me exactly the same as before and quite incapable of improvement.

The supper party that followed was quite a merry one, yet I sometimes had the feeling that there were undercurrents which I was incapable of appreciating.

Jane Wilkinson I acquitted of any subtleties. She was obviously a young woman who saw only one thing at a time. She had desired an interview with Poirot, and had carried her point and obtained her desire without delay. Now she was obviously in high good humour. Her desire to include Carlotta Adams in the party had been, I decided, a mere whim. She had been highly amused, as a child might be amused, by the clever counterfeit of herself.

No, the undercurrents that I sensed were nothing to do with Jane Wilkinson. In what direction did they lie?

I studied the guests in turn. Bryan Martin? He was certainly not behaving quite naturally. But that, I told myself, might be merely characteristic of a film star. The exaggerated self-consciousness of a vain man too accustomed to playing a part to lay it aside easily.

Carlotta Adams, at any rate, was behaving naturally enough. She was a quiet girl with a pleasant low voice. I studied her with some attention now that I had a chance to do so at close quarters. She had, I thought, distinct charm, but charm of a somewhat negative order. It consisted in an absence of any jarring or strident note. She was a kind of personified soft agreement. Her very appearance was negative. Soft dark hair, eyes a rather colourless pale blue, pale face and a mobile sensitive mouth. A face that you liked but that you would find it hard to know again if you were to meet her, say, in different clothes.

She seemed pleased at Jane’s graciousness and complimentary sayings. Any girl would be, I thought—and then—just at that moment—something occurred that caused me to revise that rather too hasty opinion.

Carlotta Adams looked across the table at her hostess who was at that moment turning her head to talk to Poirot. There was a curious scrutinizing quality in the girl’s gaze—it seemed a deliberate summing up, and at the same time it struck me that there was a very definite hostility in those pale blue eyes.

Fancy, perhaps. Or possibly professional jealousy. Jane was a successful actress who had definitely arrived. Carlotta was merely climbing the ladder.

I looked at the three other members of the party. Mr and Mrs Widburn, what about them? He was a tall cadaverous man, she a plump, fair, gushing soul. They appeared to be wealthy people with a passion for everything connected with the stage. They were in fact, unwilling to talk on any other subject. Owing to my recent absence from England they found me sadly ill-informed, and finally Mrs Widburn turned a plump shoulder on me and remembered my existence no more.

The last member of the party was the dark young man with the round cheerful face who was Carlotta Adams’ escort. I had had my suspicions from the first that the young man was not quite so sober as he might have been. As he drank more champagne this became even more clearly apparent.

He appeared to be suffering from a profound sense of injury. For the first half of the meal he sat in gloomy silence. Towards the latter half he unbosomed himself to me apparently under the impression that I was one of his oldest friends.

‘What I mean to say,’ he said. ‘It isn’t. No, dear old chap, it isn’t—’

I omit the slight slurring together of the words.

‘I mean to say,’ he went on, ‘I ask you? I mean if you take a girl—well, I mean—butting in. Going round upsetting things. Not as though I’d ever said a word to her I shouldn’t have done. She’s not the sort. You know—Puritan fathers—the Mayflower—all that. Dash it—the girl’s straight. What I mean is—what was I saying?’

‘That it was hard lines,’ I said soothingly.

‘Well, dash it all, it is. Dash it, I had to borrow the money for this beano from my tailor. Very obliging chap, my tailor. I’ve owed him money for years. Makes a sort of bond between us. Nothing like a bond, is there, dear old fellow. You and I. You and I. Who the devil are you, by the way?’

‘My name is Hastings.’

‘You don’t say so. Now I could have sworn you were a chap called Spencer Jones. Dear old Spencer Jones. Met him at the Eton and Harrow and borrowed a fiver from him. What I say is one face is very like another face—that’s what I say. If we were all Chinese we wouldn’t know each other apart.’

He shook his head sadly, then cheered up suddenly and drank off some more champagne.

‘Look on the bright side, my boy,’ he adjured me. ‘What I say is, look on the bright side. One of these days—when I’m seventy-five or so, I’m going to be a rich man. When my uncle dies. Then I can pay my tailor.’

He sat smiling happily at the thought.

There was something strangely likeable about the young man. He had a round face and an absurdly small black moustache that gave one the impression of being marooned in the middle of a desert.

Carlotta Adams, I noticed, had an eye on him, and it was after a glance in his direction that she rose and broke up the party.

‘It was just sweet of you to come up here,’ said Jane. ‘I do so love doing things on the spur of the moment, don’t you?’

‘No,’ said Miss Adams. ‘I’m afraid I always plan a thing out very carefully before I do it. It saves—worry.’

There was something faintly disagreeable in her manner.

‘Well, at any rate the results justify you,’ laughed Jane. ‘I don’t know when I enjoyed anything so much as I did your show tonight.’

The American girl’s face relaxed.

‘Well, that’s very sweet of you,’ she said warmly. ‘And I guess I appreciate your telling me so. I need encouragement. We all do.’

‘Carlotta,’ said the young man with the black moustache. ‘Shake hands and say thank you for the party to Aunt Jane and come along.’

The way he walked straight through the door was a miracle of concentration. Carlotta followed him quickly.

‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘what was that that blew in and called me Aunt Jane? I hadn’t noticed him before.’

‘My dear,’ said Mrs Widburn. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of him. Most brilliant as a boy in the O.U.D.S. You’d hardly think so now, would you? I hate to see early promise come to nothing. But Charles and I positively must toddle.’

The Widburns duly toddled and Bryan Martin went with them.

‘Well, M. Poirot?’

He smiled at her.

‘Eh bien, Lady Edgware?’

‘For goodness’ sake, don’t call me that. Let me forget it! If you aren’t the hardest-hearted little man in Europe!’

‘But no, but no, I am not hard-hearted.’

Poirot, I thought, had had quite enough champagne, possibly a glass too much.

‘Then you’ll go and see my husband? And make him do what I want?’

‘I will go and see him,’ Poirot promised cautiously.

‘And if he turns you down—as he will—you’ll think of a clever plan. They say you’re the cleverest man in England, M. Poirot.’

‘Madame, when I am hard-hearted, it is Europe you mention. But for cleverness you say only England.’

‘If you put this through I’ll say the universe.’

Poirot raised a deprecating hand.

‘Madame, I promise nothing. In the interests of the psychology I will endeavour to arrange a meeting with your husband.’

‘Psycho-analyse him as much as you like. Maybe it would do him good. But you’ve got to pull it off—for my sake. I’ve got to have my romance, M. Poirot.’

She added dreamily: ‘Just think of the sensation it will make.’




CHAPTER 3 (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)

The Man with the Gold Tooth (#ubde09f20-740f-569f-8828-ef77a7642829)


It was a few days later, when we were sitting at breakfast, that Poirot flung across to me a letter that he had just opened.

‘Well, mon ami,’ he said. ‘What do you think of that?’

The note was from Lord Edgware and in stiff formal language it made an appointment for the following day at eleven.

I must say that I was very much surprised. I had taken Poirot’s words as uttered lightly in a convivial moment, and I had had no idea that he had actually taken steps to carry out his promise.

Poirot, who was very quick-witted, read my mind and his eyes twinkled a little.

‘But yes, mon ami, it was not solely the champagne.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘But yes—but yes—you thought to yourself, the poor old one, he has the spirit of the party, he promises things that he will not perform—that he has no intention of performing. But, my friend, the promises of Hercule Poirot are sacred.’

He drew himself up in a stately manner as he said the last words. ‘Of course. Of course. I know that,’ I said hastily. ‘But I thought that perhaps your judgment was slightly—what shall I say—influenced.’

‘I am not in the habit of letting my judgment be “influenced” as you call it, Hastings. The best and driest of champagne, the most golden-haired and seductive of women—nothing influences the judgment of Hercule Poirot. No, mon ami, I am interested—that is all.’

‘In Jane Wilkinson’s love affair?’

‘Not exactly that. Her love affair, as you call it, is a very commonplace business. It is a step in the successful career of a very beautiful woman. If the Duke of Merton had neither a title nor wealth his romantic likeness to a dreamy monk would no longer interest the lady. No, Hastings, what intrigues me is the psychology of the matter. The interplay of character. I welcome the chance of studying Lord Edgware at close quarters.’

‘You do not expect to be successful in your mission?’

‘Pourquoi pas? Every man has his weak spot. Do not imagine, Hastings, that because I am studying the case from a psychological standpoint, I shall not try my best to succeed in the commission entrusted to me. I always enjoy exercising my ingenuity.’

I had feared an allusion to the little grey cells and was thankful to be spared it.

‘So we go to Regent Gate at eleven tomorrow?’ I said.

‘We?’ Poirot raised his eyebrows quizzically.

‘Poirot!’ I cried. ‘You are not going to leave me behind. I always go with you.’

‘If it were a crime, a mysterious poisoning case, an assassination—ah! these are the things your soul delights in. But a mere matter of social adjustment?’

‘Not another word,’ I said determinedly. ‘I’m coming.’

Poirot laughed gently, and at that moment we were told that a gentleman had called.

To our great surprise our visitor proved to be Bryan Martin.

The actor looked older by daylight. He was still handsome, but it was a kind of ravaged handsomeness. It flashed across my mind that he might conceivably take drugs. There was a kind of nervous tension about him that suggested the possibility.

‘Good morning, M. Poirot,’ he said in a cheerful manner. ‘You and Captain Hastings breakfast at a reasonable hour, I am glad to see. By the way, I suppose you are very busy just now?’

Poirot smiled at him amiably.

‘No,’ he said. ‘At the moment I have practically no business of importance on hand.’

‘Come now,’ laughed Bryan. ‘Not called in by Scotland Yard? No delicate matters to investigate for Royalty? I can hardly believe it.’

‘You confound fiction with reality, my friend,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I am, I assure you, at the moment completely out of work, though not yet on the dole. Dieu merci.’

‘Well, that’s luck for me,’ said Bryan with another laugh. ‘Perhaps you’ll take on something for me.’

Poirot considered the young man thoughtfully.

‘You have a problem for me—yes?’ he said in a minute or two.

‘Well—it’s like this. I have and I haven’t.’

This time his laugh was rather nervous. Still considering him thoughtfully, Poirot indicated a chair. The young man took it. He sat facing us, for I had taken a seat by Poirot’s side.

‘And now,’ said Poirot, ‘let us hear all about it.’

Bryan Martin still seemed to have a little difficulty in getting under way.

‘The trouble is that I can’t tell you quite as much as I’d like to.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s difficult. You see, the whole business started in America.’

‘In America? Yes?’

‘A mere incident first drew my attention to it. As a matter of fact, I was travelling by train and I noticed a certain fellow. Ugly little chap, clean-shaven, glasses, and a gold tooth.’

‘Ah! a gold tooth.’

‘Exactly. That’s really the crux of the matter.’

Poirot nodded his head several times.

‘I begin to comprehend. Go on.’

‘Well, as I say. I just noticed the fellow. I was travelling, by the way, to New York. Six months later I was in Los Angeles, and I noticed the fellow again. Don’t know why I should have—but I did. Still, nothing in that.’

‘Continue.’

‘A month afterwards I had occasion to go to Seattle, and shortly after I got there who should I see but my friend again, only this time he wore a beard.’

‘Distinctly curious.’

‘Wasn’t it? Of course I didn’t fancy it had anything to do with me at that time, but when I saw the man again in Los Angeles, beardless, in Chicago with a moustache and different eyebrows and in a mountain village disguised as a hobo—well, I began to wonder.’

‘Naturally.’

‘And at last—well, it seemed odd—but not a doubt about it. I was being what you call shadowed.’

‘Most remarkable.’

‘Wasn’t it? After that I made sure of it. Wherever I was, there, somewhere near at hand, was my shadow made up in different disguises. Fortunately, owing to the gold tooth, I could always spot him.’

‘Ah! that gold tooth, it was a very fortunate occurrence.’

‘It was.’

‘Pardon me, M. Martin, but did you never speak to the man? Question him as to the reason of his persistent shadowing?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ The actor hesitated. ‘I thought of doing so once or twice, but I always decided against it. It seemed to me that I should merely put the fellow on his guard and learn nothing. Possibly once they had discovered that I had spotted him, they would have put someone else on my track—someone whom I might not recognize.’

‘En effet…someone without that useful gold tooth.’

‘Exactly. I may have been wrong—but that’s how I figured it out.’

‘Now, M. Martin, you referred to “they” just now. Whom did you mean by “they”?’

‘It was a mere figure of speech used for convenience. I assumed—I don’t know why—a nebulous “they” in the background.’

‘Have you any reason for that belief?’

‘None.’

‘You mean you have no conception of who could want you shadowed or for what purpose?’

‘Not the slightest idea. At least—’

‘Continuez,’ said Poirot encouragingly.

‘I have an idea,’ said Bryan Martin slowly. ‘It’s a mere guess on my part, mind.’

‘A guess may be very successful sometimes, Monsieur.’

‘It concerns a certain incident that took place in London about two years ago. It was a slight incident, but an inexplicable and an unforgettable one. I’ve often wondered and puzzled over it. Just because I could find no explanation of it at the time, I am inclined to wonder if this shadowing business might not be connected in some way with it—but for the life of me I can’t see why or how.’

‘Perhaps I can.’

‘Yes, but you see—’ Bryan Martin’s embarrassment returned. ‘The awkward thing is that I can’t tell you about it—not now, that is. In a day or so I might be able to.’

Stung into further speech by Poirot’s inquiring glance he continued desperately.

‘You see—a girl was concerned in it.’

‘Ah! parfaitement! An English girl?’

‘Yes. At least—why?’

‘Very simple. You cannot tell me now, but you hope to do so in a day or two. That means that you want to obtain the consent of the young lady. Therefore she is in England. Also, she must have been in England during the time you were shadowed, for if she had been in America you would have sought her out then and there. Therefore, since she has been in England for the last eighteen months she is probably, though not certainly, English. It is good reasoning that, eh?’

‘Rather. Now tell me, M. Poirot, if I get her permission, will you look into the matter for me?’

There was a pause. Poirot seemed to be debating the matter in his mind. Finally he said:

‘Why have you come to me before going to her?’

‘Well, I thought—’ he hesitated. ‘I wanted to persuade her to—to clear things up—I mean to let things be cleared up by you. What I mean is, if you investigate the affair, nothing need be made public, need it?’

‘That depends,’ said Poirot calmly.

‘What do you mean?’

‘If there is any question of crime—’

‘Oh! there’s no crime concerned.’

‘You do not know. There may be.’

‘But you would do your best for her—for us?’

‘That, naturally.’

He was silent for a moment and then said:

‘Tell me, this follower of yours—this shadow—of what age was he?’

‘Oh! quite youngish. About thirty.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘That is indeed remarkable. Yes, that makes the whole thing very much more interesting.’

I stared at him. So did Bryan Martin. This remark of his was, I am sure, equally inexplicable to us both. Bryan questioned me with a lift of his eyebrows. I shook my head.

‘Yes,’ murmured Poirot. ‘It makes the whole story very interesting.’

‘He may have been older,’ said Bryan doubtfully, ‘but I don’t think so.’

‘No, no, I am sure your observation is quite accurate, M. Martin. Very interesting—extraordinarily interesting.’

Rather taken aback by Poirot’s enigmatical words, Bryan Martin seemed at a loss what to say or do next. He started making desultory conversation.

‘An amusing party the other night,’ he said. ‘Jane Wilkinson is the most high-handed woman that ever existed.’

‘She has the single vision,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘One thing at a time.’

‘She gets away with it, too,’ said Martin. ‘How people stand it, I don’t know!’

‘One will stand a good deal from a beautiful woman, my friend,’ said Poirot with a twinkle. ‘If she had the pug nose, the sallow skin, the greasy hair, then—ah! then she would not “get away with it” as you put it.’

‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bryan. ‘But it makes me mad sometimes. All the same, I’m devoted to Jane, though in some ways, mind you, I don’t think she’s quite all there.’

‘On the contrary, I should say she was very much on the spot.’

‘I don’t mean that, exactly. She can look after her interests all right. She’s got plenty of business shrewdness. No, I meant morally.’

‘Ah! morally.’

‘She’s what they call amoral. Right and wrong don’t exist for her.’

‘Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening.’

‘We were talking of crime just now—’

‘Yes, my friend?’

‘Well, it would never surprise me if Jane committed a crime.’

‘And you should know her well,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. ‘You have acted much with her, have you not?’

‘Yes. I suppose I know her through and through and up and down. I can see her killing anybody quite easily.’

‘Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?’

‘No, no, not at all. Cool as a cucumber. I mean if anyone were in her way she’d just remove them—without a thought. And one couldn’t really blame her—morally, I mean. She’d just think that anyone who interfered with Jane Wilkinson had got to go.’

There was a bitterness in his last words that had been lacking heretofore. I wondered what memory he was recalling.

‘You think she would do—murder?’

Poirot watched him intently.

Bryan drew a deep breath.

‘Upon my soul, I do. Perhaps one of these days, you’ll remember my words… I know her, you see. She’d kill as easily as she’d drink her morning tea. I mean it, M. Poirot.’

He had risen to his feet.

‘Yes,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘I can see you mean it.’

‘I know her,’ said Bryan Martin again, ‘through and through.’

He stood frowning for a minute, then with a change of tone, he said:

‘As to this business we’ve been talking about, I’ll let you know, M. Poirot, in a few days. You will undertake it, won’t you?’

Poirot looked at him for a moment or two without replying.

‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I will undertake it. I find it—interesting.’

There was something queer in the way he said the last word. I went downstairs with Bryan Martin. At the door he said to me:

‘Did you get the hang of what he meant about that fellow’s age? I mean, why was it interesting that he should be about thirty? I didn’t get the hang of that at all.’

‘No more did I,’ I admitted.

‘It doesn’t seem to make sense. Perhaps he was just having a game with me.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Poirot is not like that. Depend upon it, the point has significance since he says so.’

‘Well, blessed if I can see it. Glad you can’t either. I’d hate to feel I was a complete mutt.’

He strode away. I rejoined my friend.

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘What was the point about the age of the shadower?’

‘You do not see? My poor Hastings!’ He smiled and shook his head. Then he asked: ‘What did you think of our interview on the whole?’

‘There’s so little to go upon. It seems difficult to say. If we knew more—’

‘Even without knowing more, do not certain ideas suggest themselves to you, mon ami?’

The telephone ringing at that moment saved me from the ignominy of admitting that no ideas whatever suggested themselves to me. I took up the receiver.

A woman’s voice spoke, a crisp, clear efficient voice.

‘This is Lord Edgware’s secretary speaking. Lord Edgware regrets that he must cancel the appointment with M. Poirot for tomorrow morning. He has to go over to Paris tomorrow unexpectedly. He could see M. Poirot for a few minutes at a quarter-past twelve this morning if that would be convenient.’

I consulted Poirot.

‘Certainly, my friend, we will go there this morning.’

I repeated this into the mouthpiece.

‘Very good,’ said the crisp business-like voice. ‘A quarter-past twelve this morning.’

She rang off.




CHAPTER 4 (#ulink_8c596710-6e87-5ed4-9766-3df0ecfc6ed5)

An Interview (#ulink_8c596710-6e87-5ed4-9766-3df0ecfc6ed5)


I arrived with Poirot at Lord Edgware’s house in Regent Gate in a very pleasant state of anticipation. Though I had not Poirot’s devotion to ‘the psychology’, yet the few words in which Lady Edgware had referred to her husband had aroused my curiosity. I was anxious to see what my own judgment would be.

The house was an imposing one—well-built, handsome and slightly gloomy. There were no window-boxes or such frivolities.

The door was opened to us promptly, and by no aged white-haired butler such as would have been in keeping with the exterior of the house. On the contrary, it was opened by one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. Tall, fair, he might have posed to a sculptor for Hermes or Apollo. Despite his good looks there was something vaguely effeminate that I disliked about the softness of his voice. Also, in a curious way, he reminded me of someone—someone, too, whom I had met quite lately—but who it was I could not for the life of me remember.

We asked for Lord Edgware.

‘This way, sir.’

He led us along the hall, past the staircase, to a door at the rear of the hall.

Opening it, he announced us in that same soft voice which I instinctively distrusted.

The room into which we were shown was a kind of library. The walls were lined with books, the furnishings were dark and sombre but handsome, the chairs were formal and not too comfortable.

Lord Edgware, who rose to receive us, was a tall man of about fifty. He had dark hair streaked with grey, a thin face and a sneering mouth. He looked bad-tempered and bitter. His eyes had a queer secretive look about them. There was something, I thought, distinctly odd about those eyes.

His manner was stiff and formal.

‘M. Hercule Poirot? Captain Hastings? Please be seated.’

We sat down. The room felt chilly. There was little light coming in from the one window and the dimness contributed to the cold atmosphere.

Lord Edgware had taken up a letter which I saw to be in my friend’s handwriting.

‘I am familiar, of course, with your name, M. Poirot. Who is not?’ Poirot bowed at the compliment. ‘But I cannot quite understand your position in this matter. You say that you wish to see me on behalf of’—he paused—‘my wife.’

He said the last two words in a peculiar way—as though it were an effort to get them out.

‘That is so,’ said my friend.

‘I understood that you were an investigator of—crime, M. Poirot?’

‘Of problems, Lord Edgware. There are problems of crime, certainly. There are other problems.’

‘Indeed. And what may this one be?’

The sneer in his words was palpable by now. Poirot took no notice of it.

‘I have the honour to approach you on behalf of Lady Edgware,’ he said. ‘Lady Edgware, as you may know, desires—a divorce.’

‘I am quite aware of that,’ said Lord Edgware coldly.

‘Her suggestion was that you and I should discuss the matter.’

‘There is nothing to discuss.’

‘You refuse, then?’

‘Refuse? Certainly not.’

Whatever else Poirot had expected, he had not expected this. It is seldom that I have seen my friend utterly taken aback, but I did on this occasion. His appearance was ludicrous. His mouth fell open, his hands flew out, his eyebrows rose. He looked like a cartoon in a comic paper.

‘Comment?’ he cried. ‘What is this? You do not refuse?’

‘I am at a loss to understand your astonishment, M. Poirot.’

‘Ecoutez, you are willing to divorce your wife?’

‘Certainly I am willing. She knows that perfectly well. I wrote and told her so.’

‘You wrote and told her so?’

‘Yes. Six months ago.’

‘But I do not understand. I do not understand at all.’ Lord Edgware said nothing.

‘I understood that you were opposed to the principle of divorce.’

‘I do not see that my principles are your business, M. Poirot. It is true that I did not divorce my first wife. My conscience would not allow me to do so. My second marriage, I will admit frankly, was a mistake. When my wife suggested a divorce, I refused point blank. Six months ago she wrote to me again urging the point. I have an idea she wanted to marry again—some film actor or fellow of that kind. My views had, by this time, undergone modification. I wrote to her at Hollywood telling her so. Why she has sent you to me I cannot imagine. I suppose it is a question of money.’

His lips sneered again as he said the last words.

‘Extremely curious,’ muttered Poirot. ‘Extremely curious. There is something here I do not understand at all.’

‘As regards money,’ went on Lord Edgware. ‘I have no intention of making any financial arrangement. My wife deserted me of her own accord. If she wishes to marry another man, I can set her free to do so, but there is no reason why she should receive a penny from me and she will not do so.’

‘There is no question of any financial arrangement.’

Lord Edgware raised his eyebrows.

‘Jane must be marrying a rich man,’ he murmured cynically.

‘There is something here that I do not understand,’ said Poirot. His face was perplexed and wrinkled with the effort of thought. ‘I understood from Lady Edgware that she had approached you repeatedly through lawyers?’

‘She did,’ replied Lord Edgware dryly. ‘English lawyers, American lawyers, every kind of lawyer, down to the lowest kind of scallywag. Finally, as I say, she wrote to me herself.’

‘You having previously refused?’

‘That is so.’

‘But on receiving her letter, you changed your mind. Why did you change your mind, Lord Edgware?’

‘Not on account of anything in that letter,’ he said sharply. ‘My views happened to have changed, that is all.’

‘The change was somewhat sudden.’

Lord Edgware did not reply.

‘What special circumstance brought about your change of mind, Lord Edgware?’

‘That, really, is my own business M. Poirot. I cannot enter into that subject. Shall we say that gradually I had perceived the advantages of severing what—you will forgive my plain speaking—I considered a degrading association. My second marriage was a mistake.’

‘Your wife says the same,’ said Poirot softly.

‘Does she?’

There was a queer flicker for a moment in his eyes, but it was gone almost at once.

He rose with an air of finality and as we said goodbye his manner became less unbending.

‘You must forgive my altering the appointment. I have to go over to Paris tomorrow.’

‘Perfectly—perfectly.’

‘A sale of works of art as a matter of fact. I have my eye on a little statuette—a perfect thing in its way—a macabre way, perhaps. But I enjoy the macabre. I always have. My taste is peculiar.’

Again that queer smile. I had been looking at the books in the shelves near. There were the memoirs of Casanova, also a volume on the Comte de Sade, another on medieval tortures.

I remembered Jane Wilkinson’s little shudder as she spoke of her husband. That had not been acting. That had been real enough. I wondered exactly what kind of a man George Alfred St Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, was.

Very suavely he bid us farewell, touching the bell as he did so. We went out of the door. The Greek god of a butler was waiting in the hall. As I closed the library door behind me, I glanced back into the room. I almost uttered an exclamation as I did so.

That suave smiling face was transformed. The lips were drawn back from the teeth in a snarl, the eyes were alive with fury and an almost insane rage.

I wondered no longer that two wives had left Lord Edgware. What I did marvel at was the iron self-control of the man. To have gone through that interview with such frozen self-control, such aloof politeness!

Just as we reached the front door, a door on the right opened. A girl stood at the doorway of the room, shrinking back a little as she saw us.

She was a tall slender girl, with dark hair and a white face. Her eyes, dark and startled, looked for a moment into mine. Then, like a shadow, she shrank back into the room again, closing the door.

A moment later we were out in the street. Poirot hailed a taxi. We got in and he told the man to drive to the Savoy.

‘Well, Hastings,’ he said with a twinkle, ‘that interview did not go at all as I figured to myself it would.’

‘No, indeed. What an extraordinary man Lord Edgware is.’

I related to him how I had looked back before closing the door of the study and what I had seen. He nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully.

‘I fancy that he is very near the border line of madness, Hastings. I should imagine he practises many curious vices, and that beneath his frigid exterior he hides a deep-rooted instinct of cruelty.’

‘It is no wonder both his wives left him.’

‘As you say.’

‘Poirot, did you notice a girl as we were coming out? A dark girl with a white face.’

‘Yes, I noticed her, mon ami. A young lady who was frightened and not happy.’

His voice was grave.

‘Who do you think she was?’

‘Probably his daughter. He has one.’

‘She did look frightened,’ I said slowly. ‘That house must be a gloomy place for a young girl.’

‘Yes, indeed. Ah! here we are, mon ami. Now to acquaint her ladyship with the good news.’

Jane was in, and after telephoning, the clerk informed us that we were to go up. A page-boy took us to the door.

It was opened by a neat middle-aged woman with glasses and primly arranged grey hair. From the bedroom Jane’s voice, with its husky note, called to her.

‘Is that M. Poirot, Ellis? Make him sit right down. I’ll find a rag to put on and be there in a moment.’

Jane Wilkinson’s idea of a rag was a gossamer negligée which revealed more than it hid. She came in eagerly, saying: ‘Well?’

Poirot rose and bowed over her hand.

‘Exactly the word, Madame, it is well.’

‘Why—how do you mean?’

‘Lord Edgware is perfectly willing to agree to a divorce.’

‘What?’

Either the stupefaction on her face was genuine, or else she was indeed a most marvellous actress.

‘M. Poirot! You’ve managed it! At once! Like that! Why, you’re a genius. How in mercy’s name did you set about it?’

‘Madame, I cannot take compliments where they are not earned. Six months ago your husband wrote to you withdrawing his opposition.’

‘What’s that you say? Wrote to me? Where?’

‘It was when you were at Hollywood, I understand.’

‘I never got it. Must have gone astray, I suppose. And to think I’ve been thinking and planning and fretting and going nearly crazy all these months.’

‘Lord Edgware seemed to be under the impression that you wished to marry an actor.’

‘Naturally. That’s what I told him.’ She gave a pleased child’s smile. Suddenly it changed to a look of alarm. ‘Why, M. Poirot, you didn’t go and tell him about me and the duke?’

‘No, no, reassure yourself. I am discreet. That would not have done, eh?’

‘Well, you see, he’s got a queer mean nature. Marrying Merton, he’d feel, was perhaps a kind of leg up for me—so then naturally he’d queer the pitch. But a film actor’s different. Though, all the same, I’m surprised. Yes, I am. Aren’t you surprised, Ellis?’

I had noticed that the maid had come to and fro from the bedroom tidying away various outdoor garments which were lying flung over the backs of chairs. It had been my opinion that she had been listening to the conversation. Now it seemed that she was completely in Jane’s confidence.

‘Yes, indeed, m’lady. His lordship must have changed a good deal since we knew him,’ said the maid spitefully.

‘Yes, he must.’

‘You cannot understand his attitude. It puzzles you?’ suggested Poirot.

‘Oh, it does. But anyway, we needn’t worry about that. What does it matter what made him change his mind so long as he has changed it?’

‘It may not interest you, but it interests me, Madame.’

Jane paid no attention to him.

‘The thing is that I’m free—at last.’

‘Not yet, Madame.’

She looked at him impatiently.

‘Well, going to be free. It’s the same thing.’

Poirot looked as though he did not think it was.

‘The duke is in Paris,’ said Jane. ‘I must cable him right away. My—won’t his old mother be wild!’

Poirot rose.

‘I am glad, Madame, that all is turning out as you wish.’

‘Goodbye, M. Poirot, and thanks awfully.’

‘I did nothing.’

‘You brought me the good news, anyway, M. Poirot, and I’m ever so grateful. I really am.’

‘And that is that,’ said Poirot to me, as we left the suite. ‘The single idea—herself! She has no speculation, no curiosity as to why that letter never reached her. You observe, Hastings, she is shrewd beyond belief in the business sense, but she has absolutely no intellect. Well, well, the good God cannot give everything.’

‘Except to Hercule Poirot,’ I said slyly.

‘You mock yourself at me, my friend,’ he replied serenely. ‘But come, let me walk along the Embankment. I wish to arrange my ideas with order and method.’

I maintained a discreet silence until such time as the oracle should speak.

‘That letter,’ he resumed when we were pacing along by the river. ‘It intrigues me. There are four solutions of that problem, my friend.’

‘Four?’

‘Yes. First, it was lost in the post. That does happen, you know. But not very often. No, not very often. Incorrectly addressed, it would have been returned to Lord Edgware long before this. No, I am inclined to rule out that solution—though, of course, it may be the true one.

‘Solution two, our beautiful lady is lying when she says she never received it. That, of course, is quite possible. That charming lady is capable of telling any lie to her advantage with the most childlike candour. But I cannot see, Hastings, how it could be to her advantage. If she knows that he will divorce her, why send me to ask him to do so? It does not make sense.

‘Solution three. Lord Edgware is lying. And if anyone is lying it seems more likely that it is he than his wife. But I do not see much point in such a lie. Why invent a fictitious letter sent six months ago? Why not simply agree to my proposition? No, I am inclined to think that he did send that letter—though what the motive was for his sudden change of attitude I cannot guess.

‘So we come to the fourth solution—that someone suppressed that letter. And there, Hastings, we enter on a very interesting field of speculation, because that letter could have been suppressed at either end—in America or England.

‘Whoever suppressed it was someone who did not want that marriage dissolved. Hastings, I would give a great deal to know what is behind this affair. There is something—I swear there is something.’

He paused and then added slowly.

‘Something of which as yet I have only been able to get a glimpse.’




CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_818f3807-2dda-5e9f-9ca8-9d4d83fc72de)

Murder (#ulink_818f3807-2dda-5e9f-9ca8-9d4d83fc72de)


The following day was the 30th of June.

It was just half-past nine when we were told that Inspector Japp was below and anxious to see us.

It was some years since we had seen anything of the Scotland Yard inspector.

‘Ah! ce bon Japp,’ said Poirot. ‘What does he want, I wonder?’

‘Help,’ I snapped. ‘He’s out of his depth over some case and he’s come to you.’

I had not the indulgence for Japp that Poirot had. It was not so much that I minded his picking Poirot’s brains—after all, Poirot enjoyed the process, it was a delicate flattery. What did annoy me was Japp’s hypocritical pretence that he was doing nothing of the kind. I liked people to be straightforward. I said so, and Poirot laughed.

‘You are the dog of the bulldog breed, eh, Hastings? But you must remember that the poor Japp he has to save his face. So he makes his little pretence. It is very natural.’

I thought it merely foolish and said so. Poirot did not agree.

‘The outward form—it is a bagatelle—but it matters to people. It enables them to keep the amour propre.’

Personally I thought a dash of inferiority complex would do Japp no harm, but there was no point in arguing the matter. Besides, I was anxious to learn what Japp had come about.

He greeted us both heartily.

‘Just going to have breakfast, I see. Not got the hens to lay square eggs for you yet, M. Poirot?’

This was an allusion to a complaint from Poirot as to the varying sizes of eggs which had offended his sense of symmetry.

‘As yet, no,’ said Poirot smiling. ‘And what brings you to see us so early, my good Japp?’

‘It’s not early—not for me. I’ve been up and at work for a good two hours. As to what brings me to see you—well, it’s murder.’

‘Murder?’

Japp nodded.

‘Lord Edgware was killed at his house in Regent Gate last night. Stabbed in the neck by his wife.’

‘By his wife?’ I cried.

In a flash I remembered Bryan Martin’s words on the previous morning. Had he had a prophetic knowledge of what was going to happen? I remembered, too, Jane’s easy reference to ‘bumping him off’. Amoral, Bryan Martin had called her. She was the type, yes. Callous, egotistical and stupid. How right he had been in his judgment.

All this passed through my mind while Japp went on:

‘Yes. Actress, you know. Well known. Jane Wilkinson. Married him three years ago. They didn’t get on. She left him.’

Poirot was looking puzzled and serious.

‘What makes you believe that it was she who killed him?’

‘No belief about it. She was recognized. Not much concealment about it, either. She drove up in a taxi—’

‘A taxi—’ I echoed involuntarily, her words at the Savoy that night coming back to me.

‘—rang the bell, asked for Lord Edgware. It was ten o’clock. Butler said he’d see. “Oh!” she says cool as a cucumber. “You needn’t. I am Lady Edgware. I suppose he’s in the library.” And with that she walks along and opens the door and goes in and shuts it behind her.

‘Well the butler thought it was queer, but all right. He went downstairs again. About ten minutes later he heard the front door shut. So, anyway, she hadn’t stayed long. He locked up for the night about eleven. He opened the library door, but it was dark, so he thought his master had gone to bed. This morning the body was discovered by a housemaid. Stabbed in the back of the neck just at the roots of the hair.’

‘Was there no cry? Nothing heard?’

‘They say not. That library’s got pretty well sound-proof doors, you know. And there’s traffic passing, too. Stabbed in that way, death results amazingly quickly. Straight through the cistern into the medulla, that’s what the doctor said—or something very like it. If you hit on exactly the right spot it kills a man instantaneously.’

‘That implies a knowledge of exactly where to strike. It almost implies medical knowledge.’

‘Yes—that’s true. A point in her favour as far as it goes. But ten to one it was a chance. She just struck lucky. Some people do have amazing luck, you know.’

‘Not so lucky if it results in her being hanged, mon ami,’ observed Poirot.

‘No. Of course she was a fool—sailing in like that and giving her name and all.’

‘Indeed, very curious.’

‘Possibly she didn’t intend mischief. They quarrelled and she whipped out a penknife and jabbed him one.’

‘Was it a penknife?’

‘Something of that kind, the doctor says. Whatever it was, she took it away with her. It wasn’t left in the wound.’

Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

‘No, no, my friend, it was not like that. I know the lady. She would be quite incapable of such a hot-blooded impulsive action. Besides, she would be most unlikely to have a penknife with her. Few women have—and assuredly not Jane Wilkinson.’

‘You know her, you say, M. Poirot?’

‘Yes. I know her.’

He said no more for the moment. Japp was looking at him inquisitively.

‘Got something up your sleeve, M. Poirot?’ he ventured at last.

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘That reminds me. What has brought you to me? Eh? It is not merely to pass the time of day with an old comrade? Assuredly not. You have here a nice straightforward murder. You have the criminal. You have the motive—what exactly is the motive, by the way?’

‘Wanted to marry another man. She was heard to say so not a week ago. Also heard to make threats. Said she meant to call round in a taxi and bump him off.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘You are very well informed—very well informed. Someone has been very obliging.’

I thought his eyes looked a question, but if so, Japp did not respond.

‘We get to hear things, M. Poirot,’ he said stolidly.

Poirot nodded. He had reached out for the daily paper. It had been opened by Japp, doubtless while he was waiting, and had been cast impatiently aside on our entry. In a mechanical manner, Poirot folded it back at the middle page, smoothed and arranged it. Though his eyes were on the paper, his mind was deep in some kind of puzzle.

‘You have not answered,’ he said presently. ‘Since all goes in the swimming fashion, why come to me?’

‘Because I heard you were at Regent Gate yesterday morning.’

‘I see.’

‘Now, as soon as I heard that, I said to myself, “Something here.” His lordship sent for M. Poirot. Why? What did he suspect? What did he fear? Before doing anything definite, I’d better go round and have a word with him.’

‘What do you mean by “anything definite”? Arresting the lady, I suppose?’

‘Exactly.’

‘You have not seen her yet?’

‘Oh! yes, I have. Went round to the Savoy first thing. Wasn’t going to risk her giving us the slip.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘So you—’

He stopped. His eyes, which had been fixed thoughtfully and up to now unseeingly on the paper in front of him, now took on a different expression. He lifted his head and spoke in a changed tone of voice.

‘And what did she say? Eh! my friend. What did she say?’

‘I gave her the usual stuff, of course, about wanting a statement and cautioning her—you can’t say the English police aren’t fair.’

‘In my opinion foolishly so. But proceed. What did milady say?’

‘Took hysterics—that’s what she did. Rolled herself about, threw up her arms and finally flopped down on the ground. Oh! she did it well—I’ll say that for her. A pretty bit of acting.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot blandly. ‘You formed, then, the impression that the hysterics were not genuine?’

Japp winked vulgarly.

‘What do you think? I’m not to be taken in with those tricks. She hadn’t fainted—not she! Just trying it on, she was. I’ll swear she was enjoying it.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘I should say that was perfectly possible. What next?’

‘Oh! well, she came to—pretended to, I mean. And moaned—and groaned and carried on and that sour-faced maid of hers doped her with smelling salts and at last she recovered enough to ask for her solicitor. Wasn’t going to say anything without her solicitor. Hysterics one moment, solicitor the next, now I ask you, is that natural behaviour, sir?’

‘In this case quite natural, I should say,’ said Poirot calmly.

‘You mean because she’s guilty and knows it.’

‘Not at all, I mean because of her temperament. First she gives you her conception of how the part of a wife suddenly learning of her husband’s death should be played. Then, having satisfied her histrionic instinct, her native shrewdness makes her send for a solicitor. That she creates an artificial scene and enjoys it is no proof of her guilt. It merely indicates that she is a born actress.’

‘Well, she can’t be innocent. That’s sure.’

‘You are very positive,’ said Poirot. ‘I suppose that it must be so. She made no statement, you say? No statement at all?’

Japp grinned.

‘Wouldn’t say a word without her solicitor. The maid telephoned for him. I left two of my men there and came along to you. I thought it just as well to get put wise to whatever there was going on before I went on with things.’

‘And yet you are sure?’

‘Of course I’m sure. But I like as many facts as possible. You see, there’s going to be a big splash made about this. No hole and corner business. All the papers will be full of it. And you know what papers are.’

‘Talking of papers,’ said Poirot. ‘How do you account for this, my dear friend. You have not read your morning paper very carefully.’

He leant across the table, his finger on a paragraph in the society news. Japp read the item aloud.

Sir Montagu Corner gave a very successful dinner-party last night at his house on the river at Chiswick. Among those present were Sir George and Lady du Fisse, Mr James Blunt, the well-known dramatic critic, Sir Oscar Hammerfeldt of the Overton Film Studios, Miss Jane Wilkinson (Lady Edgware) and others.

For a moment Japp looked taken aback. Then he rallied.

‘What’s that got to do with it? This thing was sent to the Press beforehand. You’ll see. You’ll find that our lady wasn’t there, or that she came in late—eleven o’clock or so. Bless you sir, you mustn’t believe everything you see in the Press to be gospel. You of all people ought to know better than that.’

‘Oh! I do, I do. It only struck me as curious, that was all.’

‘These coincidences do happen. Now, M. Poirot, closed as an oyster I know you to be by bitter experience. But you’ll come across with things, won’t you? You’ll tell me why Lord Edgware sent for you?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Lord Edgware did not send for me. It was I who requested him to give me an appointment.’

‘Really? And for what reason?’

Poirot hesitated a minute.

‘I will answer your question,’ he said slowly. ‘But I should like to answer it in my own way.’

Japp groaned. I felt a sneaking sympathy with him. Poirot can be intensely irritating at times.

‘I will request,’ went on Poirot, ‘that you permit me to ring up a certain person and ask him to come here.’

‘What person?’

‘Mr Bryan Martin.’

‘The film star? What’s he got to do with it?’

‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that you may find what he has got to say interesting—and possibly helpful. Hastings, will you be so good?’

I took up the telephone-book. The actor had a flat in a big block of buildings near St James’ Park.

‘Victoria 49499.’

The somewhat sleepy voice of Bryan Martin spoke after a few minutes.

‘Hello—who’s speaking?’

‘What am I to say?’ I whispered, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.

‘Tell him,’ said Poirot, ‘that Lord Edgware has been murdered, and that I should esteem it a favour if he would come round here and see me immediately.’

I repeated this meticulously. There was a startled exclamation at the other end.

‘My God,’ said Martin. ‘So she’s done it then! I’ll come at once.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Poirot. I told him.

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. He seemed pleased. ‘So she’s done it then. That was what he said? Then it is as I thought, it is as I thought.’

Japp looked at him curiously.

‘I can’t make you out, M. Poirot. First you sound as though you thought the woman might not have done it after all. And now you make out that you knew it all along.’

Poirot only smiled.




CHAPTER 6 (#ulink_31bbc71e-3a7c-5cd1-b5f1-a5088f1cb08e)

The Widow (#ulink_31bbc71e-3a7c-5cd1-b5f1-a5088f1cb08e)


Bryan Martin was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes he had joined us. During the time that we awaited his arrival, Poirot would only talk of extraneous subjects and refused to satisfy Japp’s curiosity in the smallest degree.

Evidently our news had upset the young actor terribly. His face was white and drawn.

‘Good heavens, M. Poirot,’ he said as he shook hands. ‘This is a terrible business. I’m shocked to the core—and yet I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve always half-suspected that something of this kind might happen. You may remember I was saying so yesterday.’

‘Mais oui, mais oui,’ said Poirot. ‘I remember perfectly what you said to me yesterday. Let me introduce you to Inspector Japp who is in charge of the case.’

Bryan Martin shot a glance of reproach at Poirot.

‘I had no idea,’ he murmured. ‘You should have warned me.’

He nodded coldly to the inspector.

He sat down, his lips pressed tightly together.

‘I don’t see,’ he objected, ‘why you asked me to come round. All this has nothing to do with me.’

‘I think it has,’ said Poirot gently. ‘In a case of murder one must put one’s private repugnancy behind one.’

‘No, no. I’ve acted with Jane. I know her well. Dash it all, she’s a friend of mine.’

‘And yet the moment that you hear Lord Edgware is murdered, you jump to the conclusion that it is she who has murdered him,’ remarked Poirot dryly.

The actor started.

‘Do you mean to say—?’ His eyes seemed starting out of his head. ‘Do you mean to say that I’m wrong? That she had nothing to do with it?’

Japp broke in.

‘No, no, Mr Martin. She did it right enough.’

The young man sank back again in his chair.

‘For a moment,’ he murmured, ‘I thought I’d made the most ghastly mistake.’

‘In a matter of this kind friendship must not be allowed to influence you,’ said Poirot decisively.

‘That’s all very well, but—’

‘My friend, do you seriously wish to range yourself on the side of a woman who has murdered? Murder—the most repugnant of human crimes.’

Bryan Martin sighed.

‘You don’t understand. Jane is not an ordinary murderess. She—she has no sense of right or wrong. Honestly she’s not responsible.’

‘That’ll be a question for the jury,’ said Japp.

‘Come, come,’ said Poirot kindly. ‘It is not as though you were accusing her. She is already accused. You cannot refuse to tell us what you know. You have a duty to society, young man.’

Bryan Martin sighed.

‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’

Poirot looked at Japp.

‘Have you ever heard Lady Edgware—or perhaps I’d better call her Miss Wilkinson—utter threats against her husband?’ asked Japp.

‘Yes, several times.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She said that if he didn’t give her her freedom she’d have to “bump him off”.’

‘And that was not a joke, eh?’

‘No. I think she meant it seriously. Once she said she’d take a taxi and go round and kill him—you heard that, M. Poirot?’

He appealed pathetically to my friend.

Poirot nodded.

Japp went on with his questions.

‘Now, Mr Martin, we’ve been informed that she wanted her freedom in order to marry another man. Do you know who that man was?’

Bryan nodded.

‘Who?’

‘It was—the Duke of Merton.’

‘The Duke of Merton! Whew!’ The detective whistled. ‘Flying at high game, eh? Why, he’s said to be one of the richest men in England.’

Bryan nodded more dejectedly than ever.

I could not quite understand Poirot’s attitude. He was lying back in his chair, his fingers pressed together and the rhythmic motion of his head suggested the complete approval of a man who has put a chosen record on the gramophone and is enjoying the result.

‘Wouldn’t her husband divorce her?’

‘No, he refused absolutely.’

‘You know that for a fact?’

‘Yes.’

‘And now,’ said Poirot, suddenly taking part once more in the proceedings, ‘you see where I come in, my good Japp. I was asked by Lady Edgware to see her husband and try and get him to agree to a divorce. I had an appointment for this morning.’

Bryan Martin shook his head.

‘It would have been of no use,’ he declared confidently. ‘Edgware would never have agreed.’

‘You think not?’ said Poirot, turning an amiable glance on him.

‘Sure of it. Jane knew that in her heart of hearts. She’d no real confidence that you’d succeed. She’d given up hope. The man was a monomaniac on the subject of divorce.’

Poirot smiled. His eyes grew suddenly very green.

‘You are wrong, my dear young man,’ he said gently. ‘I saw Lord Edgware yesterday, and he agreed to a divorce.’

There was no doubt that Bryan Martin was completely dumbfounded by this piece of news. He stared at Poirot with his eyes almost starting out of his head.

‘You—you saw him yesterday?’ he spluttered.

‘At a quarter-past twelve,’ said Poirot in his methodical manner.

‘And he agreed to a divorce?’

‘He agreed to a divorce.’

‘You should have told Jane at once,’ cried the young man reproachfully.

‘I did, M. Martin.’

‘You did?’ cried Martin and Japp together.

Poirot smiled.

‘It impairs the motive a little, does it not?’ he murmured. ‘And now, M. Martin, let me call your attention to this.’

He showed him the newspaper paragraph.

Bryan read it, but without much interest.

‘You mean this makes an alibi?’ he said. ‘I suppose Edgware was shot some time yesterday evening?’

‘He was stabbed, not shot,’ said Poirot.

Martin laid the paper down slowly.

‘I’m afraid this does no good,’ he said regretfully. ‘Jane didn’t go to that dinner.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I forget. Somebody told me.’

‘That is a pity,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.

Japp looked at him curiously.

‘I can’t make you out, Moosior. Seems now as though you don’t want the young woman to be guilty.’

‘No, no, my good Japp. I am not the partisan you think. But frankly, the case as you present it, revolts the intelligence.’

‘What do you mean, revolts the intelligence? It doesn’t revolt mine.’

I could see words trembling on Poirot’s lips. He restrained them.

‘Here is a young woman who wishes, you say, to get rid of her husband. That point I do not dispute. She told me so frankly. Eh bien, how does she set about it? She repeats several times in the loud clear voice before witnesses that she is thinking of killing him. She then goes out one evening, calls at his house, has herself announced, stabs him and goes away. What do you call that, my good friend? Has it even the common sense?’

‘It was a bit foolish, of course.’

‘Foolish? It is the imbecility!’

‘Well,’ said Japp, rising. ‘It’s all to the advantage of the police when criminals lose their heads. I must go back to the Savoy now.’

‘You permit that I accompany you?’

Japp made no demur and we set out. Bryan Martin took a reluctant leave of us. He seemed to be in a great state of nervous excitement. He begged earnestly that any further development might be reported to him.

‘Nervy sort of chap,’ was Japp’s comment on him.

Poirot agreed.

At the Savoy we found an extremely legal-looking gentleman who had just arrived, and we proceeded all together to Jane’s suite. Japp spoke to one of his men.

‘Anything?’ he inquired laconically.

‘She wanted to use the telephone!’

‘Who did she telephone to?’ inquired Japp eagerly.

‘Jay’s. For mourning.’

Japp swore under his breath. We entered the suite. The widowed Lady Edgware was trying on hats in front of the glass. She was dressed in a filmy creation of black and white. She greeted us with a dazzling smile.

‘Why, M. Poirot, how good of you to come along. Mr Moxon,’ (this was to the solicitor) ‘I’m so glad you’ve come. Just sit right by me and tell what questions I ought to answer. This man here seems to think that I went out and killed George this morning.’

‘Last night, madam,’ said Japp.

‘You said this morning. Ten o’clock.’

‘I said ten p.m.’

‘Well, I can never tell which is which—a.m.’s and p.m.’s.’

‘It’s only just about ten o’clock now,’ added the inspector severely.

Jane’s eyes opened very wide.

‘Mercy,’ she murmured. ‘It’s years since I’ve been awake as early as this. Why, it must have been early dawn when you came along.’

‘One moment, Inspector,’ said Mr Moxon in his ponderous legal voice. ‘When am I to understand that this—er—regrettable—most shocking—occurrence took place?’

‘Round about ten o’clock last night, sir.’

‘Why, that’s all right,’ said Jane sharply. ‘I was at a party—Oh!’ She covered her mouth up suddenly. ‘Perhaps I oughtn’t to have said that.’

Her eyes sought the solicitor’s in timid appeal.

‘If, at ten o’clock last night, you were—er—at a party, Lady Edgware, I—er—I can see no objection to your informing the inspector of the fact—no objection whatever.’

‘That’s right,’ said Japp. ‘I only asked you for a statement of your movements yesterday evening.’

‘You didn’t. You said ten something m. And anyway you gave me the most terrible shock. I fainted dead away, Mr Moxon.’





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