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  Poirot nodded slow appreciation, at which Lucia appeared visibly to relax. Then suddenly, leaning over the table towards her, the detective remarked, "But I thought you had never been to Genoa."

  Taken unawares, Lucia gasped. She stared at Poirot as he put his pocket-book back in an inner pocket of his jacket. "You have no photograph," she said. It was half question, half statement.

  "No," Poirot confessed. "I have no photograph, madame. I knew the name that Selma Goetz passed under in Genoa. The rest – my friend and his photography – all of that was a harmless little invention of mine!"

  Lucia leaped to her feet, her eyes blazing with anger.

  "You set a trap for me!" she exclaimed furiously.

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, madame," he affirmed. "I fear I had no alternative."

  "What has all this to do with Sir Claud's death?" Lucia muttered as though to herself, looking wildly about the room.

  Poirot affected a tone of indifference as, instead of answering, he posed another question. "Madame," he asked, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket as he spoke, "is it true that you lost a valuable diamond necklace a little time ago?"

  Lucia glared at him. "Again I ask," her words emerging as though through clenched teeth, "what has that to do with Sir Claud's death?"

  Poirot spoke slowly and deliberately. "First a stolen necklace – then a stolen formula. Both would bring in a very large sum of money."

  "What do you mean?" Lucia gasped.

  "I mean, madame, that I would like you to answer this question. How much did Dr Carelli want – this time?" Lucia turned away from Poirot. "I – I – I will not answer any more questions," she whispered.

  "Because you are afraid?" asked Poirot, moving to her.

  Lucia turned to face him again, flinging her head back in a gesture of defiance.

  "No," she asserted, "I'm not afraid. I simply don't know what you are talking about! Why should Dr Carelli ask me for money?"

  "To buy his silence," Poirot replied. "The Amorys are a proud family, and you would not have wanted them to know that you are – the daughter of Selma Goetz!"

  Lucia glared at Poirot for a moment without replying, and then, her shoulders sagging, she collapsed onto a chair, resting her head in her hands. At least a minute elapsed before she looked up with a sigh. "Does Richard know?" she murmured.

  "He does not know yet, madame," Poirot replied slowly.

  Lucia sounded desperate as she pleaded, "Don't tell him, Monsieur Poirot! Please don't tell him! He is so proud of his family name, so proud of his honour! I was wicked to have married him! But I was so miserable. I hated that life, that awful life I was forced to live with my mother. I felt degraded by it. But what could I do? And then, when Mama died, I was at last free! Free to be honest! Free to get away from that life of lies and intrigue. I met Richard. That was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. Richard came into my life. I loved him, and he wanted to marry me. How could I tell him who I was? Why should I tell him?"

  "And then," Poirot prompted her gently, "Carelli recognized you somewhere with Monsieur Amory, and began to blackmail you?"

  "Yes, but I had no money of my own," Lucia gasped. "I sold the necklace and paid him. I thought that was the end of it all. But yesterday he turned up here. He had heard of this formula that Sir Claud had invented."

  "He wanted you to steal it for him?"

  Lucia sighed. "Yes."

  "And did you?" asked Poirot, moving closer to her.

  "You won't believe me – now," murmured Lucia, shaking her head sorrowfully.

  Poirot contemplated the beautiful young woman with a look of sympathy.

  "Yes, yes, my child," he assured her. "I will still believe you. Have courage, and trust Papa Poirot, yes? Just tell me the truth. Did you take Sir Claud's secret formula?"

  "No, no, I didn't, I didn't!" Lucia declared vehemently. "But it's true that I meant to. Carelli made a key of Sir Claud's safe from an impression I took."

  Taking a key from his pocket and showing it to her, Poirot asked, "Is this it?"

  Lucia looked at the key. "Yes, it was all quite easy. Carelli gave me that key. I was in the study, just steeling myself to open the safe when Sir Claud came in and found me. That's the truth, I swear it!"

  "I believe you, madame," said Poirot. He returned the key to his pocket, moved to the arm-chair and sat, placing the tips of his fingers together, and pondering for a moment.

  "And yet you acquiesced eagerly in Sir Claud's scheme of plunging the room into darkness?"

  "I didn't want to be searched," Lucia explained. "Carelli had passed me a note at the same time as the key, and they were both in my dress."

  "What did you do with them?" Poirot asked her.

  "When the lights went out, I threw the key as far from me as I could. Over there." She pointed in the direction of the chair in which Edward Raynor had sat on the previous evening.

  "And the note that Carelli had passed to you?" Poirot continued.

  "I didn't know what to do with the note." Lucia rose and went to the table. "So I slipped it between the leaves of a book." Taking a book from the table, she searched in it. "Yes, it is still here," she declared as she removed a piece of paper from the book. "Do you wish to see it?"

  "No, madame, it is yours," Poirot assured her.

  Sitting in a chair by the table, Lucia tore the note into small pieces which she put in her handbag. Poirot watched her but paused before asking, "One little thing more, madame. Did you, by any chance, tear your dress last night?"

  "I? No!" Lucia sounded surprised.

  "During those moments of darkness," asked Poirot, "did you hear the sound of a dress tearing?"

  Lucia considered for a few seconds. Then, "Yes, now that you mention it," she said, "I believe I did. But it was not mine. It must have been Miss Amory's or Barbara's."

  "Well, we will not worry about that," remarked Poirot dismissively. "Now, let us pass on to something else. Who poured out Sir Claud's coffee last night?"

  "I did."

  "And you put it down on that table, beside your own cup?"

  "Yes."

  Poirot rose, leaned forward over the table towards Lucia, and suddenly shot his next question at her. "Into which cup did you put the hyoscine?"

  Lucia looked at him wildly. "How did you know?" she gasped.

  "It is my business to know things. Into which cup, madame?"

  Lucia sighed. "My own."

  "Why?"

  "Because I wanted – I wanted to die. Richard suspected that there was something between Carelli and me – that we were having an affair. He could not have been further from the truth. I hated Carelli! I hate him now. But, as I had failed to obtain the formula for him, I was sure he would expose me to Richard. To kill myself was a way out – the only way. A swift, dreamless sleep – and no awakening – that's what he said."

  "Who said that to you?"

  "Dr Carelli."

  "I begin to see – I begin to see," said Poirot slowly. He pointed to the cup on the table. "This is your cup, then? A full cup, untasted?"

  "Yes."

  "What made you change your mind about drinking it?"

  "Richard came over to me. He said that he would take me away – abroad – that he would get the money to do so, somehow. He gave me back – hope."

  "Now, listen to me carefully, madame," said Poirot gravely. "This morning, Dr Graham took away the cup that was beside Sir Claud's chair."

  "Yes?

  "His fellow-doctors will have found nothing but the dregs of coffee in it -" He paused.

  Without looking at him, Lucia answered, "Of – of course."

  "That is correct, yes?" Poirot persisted.

  Lucia looked straight ahead of her without replying.

  Then, looking up at Poirot, she exclaimed, "Why are you staring at me like that? You frighten me!"

  "I said," Poirot repeated, "that they took away the cup that was beside Sir Claud's chair this
morning. Let us suppose instead that they had taken away the cup that was by his chair last night?" He moved to the table on which the plant bowl stood and took a coffee-cup from the bowl. "Let us suppose that they had taken this cup!"

  Lucia rose quickly, putting her hands up to her face.

  "You know!" she gasped.

  Poirot moved to her. "Madame!" His voice now was stern. "They will test their cup, if they have not already done so, and they will find – nothing. But last night I took some of the dregs from the original cup. What would you say if I were to tell you that there was hyoscine in Sir Claud's cup?"

  Lucia looked stricken. She swayed, but then recovered herself. For a moment she said nothing. Then, "You are right," she whispered. "You are quite right. I killed him." Her voice rang out suddenly. "I killed him! I put the hyoscine in his cup." Going to the table, she grasped the full cup of coffee. "This one – is only coffee!"

  She raised the full cup to her lips, but Poirot sprang orward, interposing his hand between the cup and her lips. They looked at each other intently for a time, then Lucia burst into sobs. Poirot took the cup from her and placed it on the table. "Madame!" he exclaimed.

  "Why did you stop me?" Lucia murmured.

  "Madame," Poirot told her, "the world is very beautiful. Why should you wish to leave it?"

  "I – Oh!" Lucia collapsed onto the settee, sobbing bitterly.

  When Poirot spoke, his voice was warm and gentle.

  "You told me the truth. You put the hyoscine in your own cup. I believe you. But there was hyoscine in the other cup as well. Now, speak the truth to me again. Who put the hyoscine in Sir Claud's cup?"

  Lucia stared at Poirot in terror. "No, no, you're wrong. He didn't. I killed him," she cried hysterically.

  "Who didn't? Whom are you shielding, madame? Tell me," Poirot demanded.

  "He didn't, I tell you," Lucia sobbed.

  There was a knock at the door. "That will be the police!" declared Poirot. "We have very little time. I will make you two promises, madame. Promise number one is that I will save you -"

  "But I killed him, I tell you." Lucia's voice was almost at screaming pitch.

  "Promise number two," Poirot continued imperturbabiy, "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 been almost instantaneous in 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."