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  She was about to continue, when Carelli rose to his feet and burst out venomously, "You see, Inspector? There's your murderess."

  Barbara rose quickly from the settee and moved away from Carelli, while Hastings hurried to her side. The Italian continued, "You shall have the truth, Inspector. I came down here especially to see that woman. She had sent for me. She said she would get Sir Claud's formula, and she offered to sell it to me. I'll admit that I've dealt with such things in the past."

  "That's not much of an admission," Japp advised him, moving between Carelli and Lucia. "We know as much already." He turned to Lucia. "What have you to say to all this, ma'am?"

  Lucia rose, her face drained of colour, and Richard went to her. "I'm not going to allow -" he began, when Japp stopped him.

  "If you please, sir."

  Carelli spoke again. "Just look at that woman! None of you know who she is. But I do! She's the daughter of Selma Goetz. The daughter of one of the most infamous women the world has ever known."

  "It's not true, Richard," Lucia cried. "It's not true! Don't listen to him -"

  "I'll break every bone in your body!" Richard Amory growled at Carelli.

  Japp took a pace towards Richard. "Keep calm, sir, do keep calm, please," he admonished. "We've got to get to the bottom of this." Japp turned to Lucia. "Now then, Mrs Amory."

  There was a pause. Lucia tried to speak. "I – I -" she began. She looked at her husband and then at Poirot, holding out her hand helplessly to the detective.

  "Have courage, madame," Poirot advised her. "Trust in me. Tell them. Tell them the truth. We have come to the point where lies will serve no longer. The truth will have to come out."

  Lucia looked pleadingly at Poirot, but he merely repeated, "Have courage, madame. Si, si. Be brave and speak."

  He returned to his position by the French windows.

  After a long pause, Lucia began to speak, her voice low and stifled. "It is true that I am Selma Goetz's daughter. It is not true that I asked that man to come here, or that I offered to sell him Sir Claud's formula. He came here to blackmail me!"

  "Blackmail!" gasped Richard, moving to her.

  Lucia turned to Richard. There was an urgency in her tone as she spoke. "He threatened to tell you about my mother unless I got the formula for him, but I didn't do it. I think he must have stolen it. He had the chance. He was alone in there – in the study. And I see now that he wanted me to take the hyoscine and kill myself, so that everyone would think that it was I who had stolen the formula. He almost hypnotized me into -" She broke down and sobbed on Richard's shoulder.

  With a cry of "Lucia, my darling!" Richard embraced her. Then, passing his wife over to Miss Amory, who had risen and who now embraced the distressed young woman consolingly, Richard addressed Japp. "Inspector, I want to speak to you alone."

  Japp looked at Richard Amory for a moment and then gave a brief nod to Johnson. "Very well," he agreed, as the constable opened the door for Miss Amory and Lucia. Barbara and Hastings took the opportunity of returning to the garden through the French windows, while Edward Raynor, as he left, murmured to Richard, "I'm sorry, Mr Amory, very sorry."

  As Carelli picked up his suitcase and followed Raynor out, Japp instructed his constable, "Keep your eye on Mrs Amory – and also on Dr Carelli." Carelli turned at the door, and Japp continued, to the constable, "There's to be no funny business from anyone, you understand?"

  "I understand, sir," replied Johnson as he followed Carelli out of the room.

  "I'm sorry, Mr Amory," said Japp to Richard Amory, "but after what Mr Raynor has told us, I'm bound to take every precaution. And I want Monsieur Poirot to remain here, as a witness to whatever you tell me."

  Richard approached Japp with the air of a man who has come to a momentous decision. Taking a deep breath, he spoke with determination. "Inspector!"

  "Well, sir, what is it?" asked Japp.

  Very deliberately and slowly, Richard replied, "I think it's time I confessed. I killed my father."

  Japp smiled. "I'm afraid that won't wash, sir."

  Richard looked astonished. "What do you mean?"

  "No, sir," Japp continued. "Or, to put it differently, that cat won't jump. You're very set on your good lady, I realize. Newly married and all that. But, to speak plainly to you, it's no manner of use putting your neck in a halter for the sake of a bad woman. Though she's a good-looker, and no mistake, I'll admit."

  "Inspector Japp!" exclaimed Richard angrily.

  "There's no point in getting upset with me, sir," Japp continued imperturbably. "I've told you the plain truth without beating about the bush, and I've no doubt that Monsieur Poirot here will tell you the same. I'm sorry, sir, but duty is duty, and murder is murder. That's all there is to it." Japp nodded decisively and left the room.

  Turning to Poirot, who had been observing the scene from the settee, Richard asked coldly, "Well, are you going to tell me the same, Monsieur Poirot?"

  Rising, Poirot took a cigarette-case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. Instead of answering Richard's question, he posed one of his own. "Monsieur Amory, when did you first suspect your wife?" he asked.

  "I never -" Richard began, but Poirot interrupted him, picking up a box of matches from the table as he spoke.

  "Please, I beg of you, Monsieur Amory, nothing but the truth! You did suspect her, I know it. You suspected her before I arrived. That is why you were so anxious to get me away from this house. Do not deny it. It is impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot." He lit his cigarette, replaced the box of matches on the table, and smiled up at the much taller man, who towered over him. They made a ridiculous contrast.

  "You are mistaken," Richard told Poirot stiffly. "Utterly mistaken. How could I suspect Lucia?"

  "And yet, of course, there is an equally good case to be made against you," Poirot continued reflectively, as he resumed his seat. "You handled the drugs, you handled the coffee, you were short of money and desperate to acquire some. Oh, yes, anyone might be excused for suspecting you."

  "Inspector Japp doesn't seem to agree with you," Richard observed.

  "Ah, Japp! He has the common sense," Poirot smiled. "He is not a woman in love."

  "A woman in love?" Richard sounded puzzled.

  "Let me give you a lesson in psychology, monsieur," Poirot offered. "When I first arrived, your wife came up to me and begged me to stay here and discover the murderer. Would a guilty woman have done that?"

  "You mean -" Richard began quickly.

  "I mean," Poirot interrupted him, "that before the sun sets tonight, you will be asking her pardon upon your knees."

  "What are you saying?"

  "I am saying too much, perhaps," Poirot admitted, rising. "Now, monsieur, place yourself in my hands. In the hands of Hercule Poirot."

  "You can save her?" Richard asked with desperation in his voice.

  Poirot regarded him solemnly. "I have pledged my word – although, when I did so, I did not realize how difficult it was going to be. You see, the time it is very short, and something must be done quickly. You must promise me that you will do exactly as I tell you, without asking questions or making difficulties. Do you promise me that?"

  "Very well," replied Richard rather unwillingly.

  "That is good. And now, listen to me. What I suggest is neither difficult nor impossible. It is, in fact, the common sense. This house will shortly be given over to the police. They will swarm all over it. They will make their investigations everywhere. For yourself and your family it could be very unpleasant. I suggest that you leave."

  "Give the house over to the police?" Richard asked, incredulous.

  "That is my suggestion," Poirot repeated. "Of course, you will have to remain in the neighbourhood. But they say the local hotel is fairly comfortable. Engage rooms there. Then you will be close at hand when the police wish to question you all."

  "But when do you suggest that this should take place?"

  Poirot beamed at him. "My idea was –
immediately."

  "Surely it will all look very odd?"

  "Not at all, not at all," the little detective assured Richard, smiling again. "It will appear to be a move of the utmost – how do you say? – the utmost sensitivity. The associations here are hateful to you – you cannot bear to remain another hour. I assure you, it will sound very well."

  "But how about the Inspector?"

  "I myself will fix it up with Inspector Japp."

  "I still can't see what good this is going to achieve," Richard persisted.

  "No, of course you do not see." Poirot sounded more than a trifle smug. He shrugged his shoulders. "It is not necessary that you should see. But I see. I, Hercule Poirot. That is enough." He took Richard by the shoulders. "Go, and make the arrangements. Or, if you cannot give your mind to it, let Raynor make them for you. Go! Go!" He almost pushed Richard to the door.

  With a final anxious look back at Poirot, Richard left the room.

  "Oh, these English! How obstinate," muttered Poirot. He moved to the French windows and called, "Mademoiselle Barbara!"

  Chapter 18

  In answer to Poirot's call, Barbara Amory appeared outside the French windows. "What is it? Has something else happened?" she asked.

  Poirot gave her his most winning smile. "Ah, mademoiselle," he said. "I wonder if you might be able to spare my colleague Hastings for just a little minute or two, perhaps?"

  Barbara's reply was accompanied by a skittish glance. "So! You want to take my little pet away from me, do you?"

  "Just for a very short time, mademoiselle, I promise you."

  "Then you shall, Monsieur Poirot." Turning back into the garden, Barbara called, "My pet, you're wanted."

  "I thank you," Poirot smiled again with a polite bow.

  Barbara returned to the garden, and a few moments later Hastings entered the library through the French windows, looking somewhat ashamed.

  "And what have you to say for yourself?" Poirot asked in a tone of mock annoyance.

  Hastings attempted an apologetic smile. "It is all well to put on the grin of the sheep," Poirot admonished him. "I leave you here on guard, and the next thing I know you are promenading yourself with that very charming young lady in the garden. You are generally the most reliable of men, mon cher, but as soon as a pretty young woman appears upon the scene, your judgement flies out of the window. Alors!"

  Hastings 's sheepish grin faded, to be replaced by a blush of embarrassment. "I say, I'm awfully sorry, Poirot," he exclaimed. "I just stepped outside for a second, and then I saw you through the window, coming into the room, so. I thought it didn't matter."

  "You mean you thought it better not to return to face me," declared Poirot. "Well, my dear Hastings, you may have done the most irreparable damage. I found Carelli in here. The good Lord alone knows what he was doing, or what evidence he was tampering with."

  "I say, Poirot, I really am sorry," Hastings apologized again. "I'm most awfully sorry."

  "If you have not done the damage irreparable, it is more by good luck than for any other reason. But now, mon ami, the moment has come when we must employ our little grey cells." Pretending to smack Hastings on the cheek, Poirot in fact gave his colleague an affectionate pat.

  "Ah, good! Let's get to work," Hastings exclaimed.

  "No, it is not good, my friend," Poirot told him. "It is bad. It is obscure." His face wore a troubled look as he continued, "It is dark, as dark as it was last night." He thought for a moment, and then added, "But – yes – I think there is perhaps an idea. The germ of an idea. Yes, we will start there!"

  Looking completely mystified, Hastings asked, "What on earth are you talking about?"

  The tone of Poirot's voice changed. He spoke gravely and thoughtfully. "Why did Sir Claud die, Hastings? Answer me that. Why did Sir Claud die?"

  Hastings stared at him. "But we know that," he exclaimed.

  "Do we?" asked Poirot. "Are you so very sure?"

  "Er – yes," Hastings responded, though somewhat uncertainly. "He died – he died because he was poisoned."

  Poirot made an impatient gesture. "Yes, but why was he poisoned?"

  Hastings thought carefully before replying. Then, "Surely it must have been because the thief suspected -" he began.

  Poirot slowly shook his head as Hastings continued, "because the thief suspected – that he had been discovered -" he broke off again as he observed Poirot continuing to shake his head.

  "Suppose, Hastings -" Poirot murmured, "just suppose that the thief did not suspect?"

  "I don't quite see," Hastings confessed.

  Poirot moved away, and then turned back with his arm raised in a gesture that seemed intended to hold his friend's attention. He paused and cleared his throat.

  "Let me recount to you, Hastings," he declared, "the sequence of events as they might have gone, or rather as I think they were meant to go."

  Hastings sat in a chair by the table as Poirot continued.

  "Sir Claud dies in his chair one night." Poirot moved to the arm-chair, sat, and paused for a moment before repeating thoughtfully, "Yes, Sir Claud dies in his chair. There are no suspicious circumstances attending that death. In all probability it will be put down to heart failure. It will be some days before his private papers are examined. His will is the only document that will be searched for. After the funeral, in due course, it will be discovered that his notes on the new explosive are incomplete. It may never be known that the exact formula existed. You see what that gives to our thief, Hastings?"

  "Yes."

  "What?" asked Poirot.

  Hastings looked puzzled. "What?" he repeated.

  "Security. That is what it gives the thief. He can dispose of his booty quite safely, whenever he wishes to. There is no pressure upon him. Even if the existence of the formula is known, he will have had plenty of time to cover his tracks."

  "Well, it's an idea – yes, I suppose so," Hastings commented in a dubious tone.

  "But naturally it is an idea!" Poirot cried. "Am I not Hercule Poirot? But see now where this idea leads us. It tells us that the murder of Sir Claud was not a chance manoeuvre executed on the spur of the moment. It was planned beforehand. Beforehand. You see now where we are?"

  "No," Hastings admitted with an engaging candour. "You know very well I never see these things. I know that we're in the library of Sir Claud's house, and that's all."

  "Yes, my friend, you are right," Poirot told him. "We are in the library of Sir Claud Amory's house. It is not morning but evening. The lights have just gone out. The thief's plans have gone awry."

  Poirot sat very upright and wagged his forefinger emphatically to emphasize his points. "Sir Claud, who, in the normal course of things, would not have gone to that safe until the following day, has discovered his loss by a mere chance. And, as the old gentleman himself said, the thief is caught like a rat in a trap. Yes, but the thief, who is also the murderer, knows something, too, that Sir Claud does not. The thief knows that in a very few minutes Sir Claud will be silenced for ever. He – or she – has one problem that has to be solved, and one only – to hide the paper safely during those few moments of darkness. Shut your eyes, Hastings, as I shut mine. The lights have gone out, and we can see nothing. But we can hear. Repeat to me, Hastings, as accurately as you can, the words of Miss Amory when she described this scene for us."

  Hastings shut his eyes. Then he began to speak, slowly, with an effort of memory and several pauses. "Gasps," he uttered.

  Poirot nodded. "A lot of little gasps," Hastings went on, and Poirot nodded again.

  Hastings concentrated for a time, and then continued, "The noise of a chair falling – a metallic clink – that must have been the key, I imagine."

  "Quite right," said Poirot. "The key. Continue."

  "A scream. That was Lucia screaming. She called out to Sir Claud – Then the knocking came at the door – Oh! Wait a moment – right at the beginning, the noise of tearing silk." Hastings opened his eyes.


  "Yes, tearing silk," Poirot exclaimed. He rose, moved to the desk, and then crossed to the fireplace. "It is all there, Hastings, in those few moments of darkness. All there. And yet our ears tell us – nothing." He stopped at the mantelpiece and mechanically straightened the vase of spills.

  "Oh, do stop straightening those damned things, Poirot," Hastings complained. "You're always at it."

  His attention arrested, Poirot removed his hand from the vase.

  "What is that you say?" he asked. "Yes, it is true."

  He stared at the vase of spills. "I remember straightening them but a little hour ago. And now – it is necessary that I straighten them again." He spoke excitedly. "Why, Hastings – why is that?"

  "Because they're crooked, I suppose," Hastings replied in a bored tone. "It's just your little mania for neatness."

  "Tearing silk!" exclaimed Poirot. "No, Hastings! The sound is the same." He stared at the paper spills, and snatched up the vase that contained them. "Tearing paper," he continued as he moved away from the mantelpiece.

  His excitement communicated itself to his friend. "What is it?" Hastings asked, springing up and moving to him.

  Poirot stood, tumbling out the spills onto the settee, and examining them. Every now and then he handed one to Hastings, muttering, "Here is one. Ah, another, and yet another."

  Hastings unfolded the spills and scrutinized them.

  "Cig-23" he began to read aloud from one of them.

  "Yes, yes!" exclaimed Poirot. "It is the formula!"

  "I say, that's wonderful!"

  "Quick! Fold them up again!" Poirot ordered, and Hastings began to do so. "Oh, you are so slow!" Poirot admonished him. "Quick! Quick!" Snatching the spills from Hastings, he put them back into the vase and hastened to return it to the mantelpiece.

  Looking dumbfounded, Hastings joined him there. Poirot beamed. "It intrigues you what I do there, yes? Tell me, Hastings, what is it that I have here in this vase?"

  "Why, spills, of course," Hastings replied in a tone of tremendous irony.

  "No, mon ami, it is cheese."

  "Cheese?"

  "Precisely, my friend, cheese."

  "I say, Poirot," Hastings inquired sarcastically, "you're all right, aren't you? I mean, you haven't got a headache or anything?"