Lord Edgware Dies Read online

  “And then?”

  “Her ladyship picked up the receiver and said: ‘Hello—who’s speaking?’ Then she said: ‘Yes—that’s all right. Lady Edgware speaking.’ I was just about to leave her ladyship when she called to me and said they had been cut off. She said someone had laughed and evidently hung up the receiver. She asked me if the person ringing up had given any name. They had not done so. That was all that occurred, sir.”

  Poirot frowned to himself.

  “Do you really think the telephone call has something to do with the murder, M. Poirot?” asked Mrs. Widburn.

  “Impossible to say, Madame. It is just a curious circumstance.”

  “People do ring up for a joke sometimes. It’s been done to me.”

  “C’est toujours possible, Madame.”

  He spoke to the butler again.

  “Was it a man’s voice or a woman’s who rang up?”

  “A lady’s, I think, sir.”

  “What kind of a voice, high or low?”

  “Low, sir. Careful and rather distinct.” He paused. “It may be my fancy, sir, but it sounded like a foreign voice. The R’s were very noticeable.”

  “As far as that goes it might have been a Scotch voice, Donald,” said Mrs. Widburn, smiling at Ross.

  Ross laughed.

  “Not guilty,” he said. “I was at the dinner table.”

  Poirot spoke once again to the butler.

  “Do you think,” he asked, “that you could recognize that voice if you were to hear it any time?”

  The butler hesitated.

  “I couldn’t quite say, sir. I might do so. I think it is possible that I should do so.”

  “I thank you, my friend.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The butler inclined his head and withdrew, pontificial to the last.

  Sir Montagu Corner continued to be very friendly and to play his role of old-world charm. He persuaded us to remain and play bridge. I excused myself—the stakes were bigger than I cared about. Young Ross seemed relieved also at the prospect of someone taking his hand. He and I sat looking on while the other four played. The evening ended in a heavy financial gain to Poirot and Sir Montagu.

  Then we thanked our host and took our departure. Ross came with us.

  “A strange little man,” said Poirot as we stepped out into the night.

  The night was fine and we had decided to walk until we picked up a taxi instead of having one telephoned for.

  “Yes, a strange little man,” said Poirot again.

  “A very rich little man,” said Ross with feeling.

  “I suppose so.”

  “He seems to have taken a fancy to me,” said Ross. “Hope it will last. A man like that behind you means a lot.”

  “You are an actor, Mr. Ross?”

  Ross said that he was. He seemed sad that his name had not brought instant recognition. Apparently he had recently won marvellous notices in some gloomy play translated from the Russian.

  When Poirot and I between us had soothed him down again, Poirot asked casually:

  “You knew Carlotta Adams, did you not?”

  “No. I saw her death announced in the paper tonight. Overdose of some drug or other. Idiotic the way all these girls dope.”

  “It is sad, yes. She was clever, too.”

  “I suppose so.”

  He displayed a characteristic lack of interest in anyone else’s performance but his own.

  “Did you see her show at all?” I asked.

  “No. That sort of thing’s not much in my line. Kind of craze for it at present, but I don’t think it will last.”

  “Ah!” said Poirot. “Here is a taxi.”

  He waved a stick.

  “Think I’ll walk,” said Ross. “I get a tube straight home from Hammersmith.”

  Suddenly he gave a nervous laugh.

  “Odd thing,” he said. “That dinner last night.”

  “Yes?”

  “We were thirteen. Some fellow failed at the last minute. We never noticed till just the end of dinner.”

  “And who got up first?” I asked.

  He gave a queer little nervous cackle of laughter.

  “I did,” he said.

  Sixteen

  MAINLY DISCUSSION

  When we got home we found Japp waiting for us.

  “Thought I’d just call round and have a chat with you before turning in, M. Poirot,” he said cheerfully.

  “Eh bien, my good friend, how goes it?”

  “Well, it doesn’t go any too well. And that’s a fact.”

  He looked distressed.

  “Got any help for me, M. Poirot?”

  “I have one or two little ideas that I should like to present to you,” said Poirot.

  “You and your ideas! In some ways, you know, you’re a caution. Not that I don’t want to hear them. I do. There’s some good stuff in that funny-shaped head of yours.”

  Poirot acknowledged the compliment somewhat coldly.

  “Have you any ideas about the double lady problem—that’s what I want to know? Eh, M. Poirot? What about it? Who was she?”

  “That is exactly what I wish to talk to you about.”

  He asked Japp if he had ever heard of Carlotta Adams.

  “I’ve heard the name. For the moment I can’t just place it.”

  Poirot explained.

  “Her! Does imitations does she? Now what made you fix on her? What have you got to go on?”

  Poirot related the steps we had taken and the conclusion we had drawn.

  “By the Lord, it looks as though you were right. Clothes, hat, gloves, etc., and the fair wig. Yes, it must be. I will say—you’re the goods, M. Poirot. Smart work, that! Not that I think there’s anything to show she was put out of the way. That seems a bit farfetched. I don’t quite see eye to eye with you there. Your theory is a bit fantastical for me. I’ve more experience than you have. I don’t believe in this villain-behind-the-scenes motif. Carlotta Adams was the woman all right, but I should put it one of two ways. She went there for purposes of her own—blackmail, maybe, since she hinted she was going to get money. They had a bit of a dispute. He turned nasty, she turned nasty, and she finished him off. And I should say that when she got home she went all to pieces. She hadn’t meant murder. It’s my belief she took an overdose on purpose as the easiest way out.”

  “You think that covers all the facts?”

  “Well, naturally there are a lot of things we don’t know yet. It’s a good working hypothesis to go on with. The other explanation is that the hoax and the murder had nothing to do with each other. It’s just a damned queer coincidence.”

  Poirot did not agree, I knew. But he merely said noncommittally:

  “Mais oui, c’est possible.”

  “Or, look here, how’s this? The hoax is innocent enough. Someone gets to hear of it and thinks it will suit their purpose jolly well. That’s not a bad idea?” He paused and went on: “But personally I prefer idea No. 1. What the link was between his lordship and the girl we’ll find out somehow or other.”

  Poirot told him of the letter to America posted by the maid, and Japp agreed that that might possibly be of great assistance.

  “I’ll get on to that at once,” he said, making a note of it in his little book.

  “I’m the more in favour of the lady being the killer because I can’t find anyone else,” he said, as he put the book away. “Captain Marsh, now, his lordship as now is. He’s got a motive sticking out a yard. A bad record too. Hard up and none too scrupulous over money. What’s more he had a row with his uncle yesterday morning. He told me that himself as a matter of fact—which rather takes the taste out of it. Yes, he’d be a likely customer. But he’s got an alibi for yesterday evening. He was at the opera with the Dortheimers. Rich Jews. Grosvenor Square. I’ve looked into that and it’s all right. He dined with them, went to the opera and they went on to supper at Sobranis. So that’s that.”

  “And Mademoiselle?”r />
  “The daughter, you mean? She was out of the house too. Dined with some people called Carthew West. They took her to the opera and saw her home afterwards. Quarter to twelve she got in. That disposes of her. The secretary woman seems all right—very efficient decent woman. Then there’s the butler. I can’t say I take to him much. It isn’t natural for a man to have good looks like that. There’s something fishy about him—and something odd about the way he came to enter Lord Edgware’s service. Yes, I’m checking up on him all right. I can’t see any motive for murder, though.”

  “No fresh facts have come to light?”

  “Yes, one or two. It’s hard to say whether they mean anything or not. For one thing, Lord Edgware’s key’s missing.”

  “The key to the front door?”

  “Yes.”

  “That is interesting, certainly.”

  “As I say, it may mean a good deal or nothing at all. Depends. What is a bit more significant to my mind is this. Lord Edgware cashed a cheque yesterday—not a particularly large one—a hundred pounds as a matter of fact. He took the money in French notes—that’s why he cashed the cheque, because of his journey to Paris today. Well, that money has disappeared.”

  “Who told you of this?”

  “Miss Carroll. She cashed the cheque and obtained the money. She mentioned it to me, and then I found that it had gone.”

  “Where was it yesterday evening?”

  “Miss Carroll doesn’t know. She gave it to Lord Edgware about half past three. It was in a bank envelope. He was in the library at the time. He took it and laid it down beside him on a table.”

  “That certainly gives one to think. It is a complication.”

  “Or a simplification. By the way—the wound.”

  “Yes?”

  “The doctor says it wasn’t made by an ordinary penknife. Something of that kind but a different shaped blade. And it was amazingly sharp.”

  “Not a razor?”

  “No, no. Much smaller.”

  Poirot frowned thoughtfully.

  “The new Lord Edgware seems to be fond of his joke,” remarked Japp. “He seems to think it amusing to be suspected of murder. He made sure we did suspect him of murder, too. Looks a bit queer, that.”

  “It might be merely intelligence.”

  “More likely guilty conscience. His uncle’s death came very pat for him. He’s moved into the house, by the way.”

  “Where was he living before?”

  “Martin Street, St. George’s Road. Not a very swell neighbourhood.”

  “You might make a note of that, Hastings.”

  I did so, though I wondered a little. If Ronald had moved to Regent Gate, his former address was hardly likely to be needed.

  “I think the Adams girl did it,” said Japp, rising. “A fine bit of work on your part, M. Poirot, to tumble to that. But there, of course, you go about to theatres and amusing yourself. Things strike you that don’t get the chance of striking me. Pity there’s no apparent motive, but a little spade work will soon bring it to light, I expect.”

  “There is one person with a motive to whom you have given no attention,” remarked Poirot.

  “Who’s that, sir?”

  “The gentleman who is reputed to have wanted to marry Lord Edgware’s wife. I mean the Duke of Merton.”

  “Yes. I suppose there is a motive.” Japp laughed. “But a gentleman in his position isn’t likely to do murder. And anyway, he’s over in Paris.”

  “You do not regard him as a serious suspect, then?”

  “Well, M. Poirot, do you?”

  And laughing at the absurdity of the idea, Japp left us.

  Seventeen

  THE BUTLER

  The following day was one of inactivity for us, and activity for Japp. He came round to see us about teatime.

  He was red and wrathful.

  “I’ve made a bloomer.”

  “Impossible, my friend,” said Poirot soothingly.

  “Yes, I have. I’ve let that (here he gave way to profanity)—of a butler slip through my fingers.”

  “He has disappeared?”

  “Yes. Hooked it. What makes me kick myself for a double-dyed idiot is that I didn’t particularly suspect him.”

  “Calm yourself—but calm yourself then.”

  “All very well to talk. You wouldn’t be calm if you’d been hauled over the coals at headquarters. Oh! he’s a slippery customer. It isn’t the first time he’s given anyone the slip. He’s an old hand.”

  Japp wiped his forehead and looked the picture of misery. Poirot made sympathetic noises—somewhat suggestive of a hen laying an egg. With more insight into the English character, I poured out a stiff whisky and soda and placed it in front of the gloomy inspector. He brightened a little.

  “Well,” he said. “I don’t mind if I do.”

  Presently he began to talk more cheerfully.

  “I’m not so sure even now that he’s the murderer! Of course it looks bad his bolting this way, but there might be other reasons for that. I’d begun to get on to him, you see. Seems he’s mixed up with a couple of disreputable night clubs. Not the usual thing. Something a great deal more recherché and nasty. In fact, he’s a real bad hat.”

  “Tout de même, that does not necessarily mean that he is a murderer.”

  “Exactly! He may have been up to some funny business or other, but not necessarily murder. No, I’m more than ever convinced it was the Adams girl. I’ve got nothing to prove it as yet, though. I’ve had men going all through her flat today, but we’ve found nothing that’s helpful. She was a canny one. Kept no letters except a few business ones about financial contracts. They’re all neatly docketed and labelled. Couple of letters from her sister in Washington. Quite straight and aboveboard. One or two pieces of good old-fashioned jewellery—nothing new or expensive. She didn’t keep a diary. Her passbook and chequebook don’t show anything helpful. Dash it all, the girl doesn’t seem to have had any private life at all!”

  “She was of a reserved character,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “From our point of view that is a pity.”

  “I’ve talked to the woman who did for her. Nothing there. I’ve been and seen that girl who keeps a hat shop and who, it seems, was a friend of hers.”

  “Ah! and what do you think of Miss Driver?”

  “She seemed a smart wide-awake bit of goods. She couldn’t help me, though. Not that that surprises me. The amount of missing girls I’ve had to trace and their family and their friends always say the same things. ‘She was of a bright and affectionate disposition and had no men friends.’ That’s never true. It’s unnatural. Girls ought to have men friends. If not there’s something wrong with them. It’s the muddle-headed loyalty of friends and relations that makes a detective’s life so difficult.”

  He paused for want of breath, and I replenished his glass.

  “Thank you, Captain Hastings, I don’t mind if I do. Well, there you are. You’ve got to hunt and hunt about. There’s about a dozen young men she went out to supper and danced with, but nothing to show that one of them meant more than another. There’s the present Lord Edgware, there’s Mr. Bryan Martin, the film star, there’s half a dozen others—but nothing special and particular. Your man behind idea is all wrong. I think you’ll find that she played a lone hand, M. Poirot. I’m looking now for the connection between her and the murdered man. That must exist. I think I’ll have to go over to Paris. There was Paris written in that little gold box, and the late Lord Edgware ran over to Paris several times last Autumn, so Miss Carroll tells me, attending sales and buying curios. Yes, I think I must go over to Paris. Inquest’s tomorrow. It’ll be adjourned, of course. After that I’ll take the afternoon boat.”

  “You have a furious energy, Japp. It amazes me.”

  “Yes, you’re getting lazy. You just sit here and think! What you call employing the little grey cells. No good, you’ve got to go out to things. They won’t come to you.”

  The little maidse
rvant opened the door.

  “Mr. Bryan Martin, sir. Are you busy or will you see him?”

  “I’m off, M. Poirot.” Japp hoisted himself up. “All the stars of the theatrical world seem to consult you.”

  Poirot shrugged a modest shoulder, and Japp laughed.

  “You must be a millionaire by now, M. Poirot. What do you do with the money? Save it?”

  “Assuredly I practise the thrift. And talking of the disposal of money, how did Lord Edgware dispose of his?”

  “Such property as wasn’t entailed he left to his daughter. Five hundred to Miss Carroll. No other bequests. Very simple will.”

  “And it was made—when?”

  “After his wife left him—just over two years ago. He expressly excludes her from participation, by the way.”

  “A vindictive man,” murmured Poirot to himself.

  With a cheerful “So long,” Japp departed.

  Bryan Martin entered. He was faultlessly attired and looked extremely handsome. Yet I thought that he looked haggard and not too happy.

  “I am afraid I have been a long time coming, M. Poirot,” he said apologetically. “And, after all, I have been guilty of taking up your time for nothing.”

  “En verité?”

  “Yes. I have seen the lady in question. I’ve argued with her, pleaded with her, but all to no purpose. She won’t hear of my interesting you in the matter. So I’m afraid we’ll have to let the thing drop. I’m very sorry—very sorry to have bothered you—”

  “Du tout—du tout,” said Poirot genially. “I expected this.”

  “Eh?” The young man seemed taken aback.

  “You expected this?” he asked in a puzzled way.

  “Mais oui. When you spoke of consulting your friend—I could have predicted that all would have arrived as it has done.”

  “You have a theory, then?”

  “A detective, M. Martin, always has a theory. It is expected of him. I do not call it a theory myself. I say that I have a little idea. That is the first stage.”