Black Coffee hp-7 Page 13

  Poirot's reply ignored his friend's frivolous question.

  "For what do you use cheese, Hastings? I will tell you, mon ami. You use it to bait a mousetrap. We wait now for one thing only – the mouse."

  "And the mouse -"

  "The mouse will come, my friend," Poirot assured Hastings. "Rest assured of that. I have sent him a message. He will not fail to respond."

  Before Hastings had time to react to Poirot's cryptic announcement, the door opened and Edward Raynor entered the room. "Oh, you're here, Monsieur Poirot," the secretary observed. "And Captain Hastings also. Inspector Japp would like to speak to you both upstairs."

  Chapter 19

  "We will come at once," Poirot replied. Followed by Hastings, he walked to the door, as Raynor entered the library and crossed to the fireplace. At the door, Poirot suddenly wheeled round to look at the secretary. "By the way, Mr Raynor," the detective asked, as he moved back to the center of the room, "do you by any chance know whether Dr Carelli was here in the library at all this morning?"

  "Yes, he was," Raynor told the detective. "I found him here."

  "Ah!" Poirot seemed pleased at this. "And what was he doing?"

  "He was telephoning, I believe."

  "Was he telephoning when you came in?"

  "No, he was just coming back into the room. He had been in Sir Claud's study."

  Poirot considered this for a moment, and then asked Raynor, "Where exactly were you then? Can you remember?"

  Still standing by the fireplace, Raynor replied, "Oh, somewhere about here, I think."

  "Did you hear any of Dr Carelli's conversation on the phone?"

  "No," said the secretary. "He made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be alone, so I cleared out."

  "I see." Poirot hesitated, and then took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. Writing a few words on a page, he tore it out. " Hastings!" he called.

  Hastings, who had been hovering by the door, came to him, and Poirot gave his friend the folded page. "Would you be so kind as to take that up to Inspector Japp?"

  Raynor watched Hastings leave the room on his errand, and then asked, "What was that all about?"

  Putting the notebook and pencil back in his pocket, Poirot replied, "I told Japp that I would be with him in a few minutes, and that I might be able to tell him the name of the murderer."

  "Really? You know who it is?" asked Raynor in a state of some excitement.

  There was a momentary pause. Hercule Poirot seemed to hold the secretary under the spell of his personality.

  Raynor watched the detective, fascinated, as he began slowly to speak. "Yes, I think I know who the murderer is – at last," Poirot announced. "I am reminded of another case, not so long ago. Never shall I forget the killing of Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeated – yes, I, Hercule Poirot! – by the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. You see, Monsieur Raynor, the very simple-minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that the murderer of Sir Claud, on the other hand, is intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist – how do you say? – painting the lily." Poirot's eyes lit up in vivid animation.

  "I'm not sure that I understand you," said Raynor. "Do you mean that it's not Mrs Amory?"

  "No, it is not Mrs Amory," Poirot told him. "That is why I wrote my little note. That poor lady has suffered enough. She must be spared any further questioning."

  Raynor looked thoughtful, and then exclaimed, "Then I'll bet it's Carelli. Yes?"

  Poirot wagged a finger at him playfully. "Monsieur Raynor, you must permit me to keep my little secrets until the last moment." Taking out a handkerchief, he mopped his brow. "Mon Dieu, how hot it is today!" he complained.

  "Would you like a drink?" asked Raynor. "I'm forgetting my manners. I should have offered you one earlier."

  Poirot beamed. "You are very kind. I will have a whisky, please, if I may."

  "Certainly. Just a moment." Raynor left the room, while Poirot wandered across to the French windows and looked out into the garden for a moment. Then, moving to the settee, he shook the cushions, before drifting across to the mantelpiece to examine the ornaments. In a few moments Raynor returned with two whiskies and sodas on a tray. He watched as Poirot lifted a hand to an ornament on the mantelpiece.

  "This is a valuable antique, I fancy," Poirot remarked, picking up a jug.

  "Is it?" was Raynor's uninterested comment. "I don't know much about that kind of thing. Come and have a drink," he suggested as he set his tray down on the coffee-table.

  "Thank you," murmured Poirot, joining him there.

  "Well, here's luck," said Raynor, taking a glass and drinking.

  With a bow, Poirot raised the other glass to his lips.

  "To you, my friend. And now let me tell you of my suspicions. I first realized that -"

  He broke off suddenly, jerking his head over his shoulder as though some sound had caught his ear. Looking first at the door and then at Raynor, he put his finger to his lips, indicating that he thought someone might be eavesdropping.

  Raynor nodded in comprehension. The two men crept stealthily up to the door, and Poirot gestured to the secretary to remain in the room. Poirot opened the door sharply and bounced outside, but returned immediately looking extremely crestfallen.

  "Surprising," he admitted to Raynor. "I could have sworn I heard something. Ah well, I made a mistake. It does not happen very often. A votre santé, my friend." He drained the contents of his glass.

  "Ah!" exclaimed Raynor, as he also drank.

  "I beg your pardon?" asked Poirot.

  "Nothing. A load off my mind, that is all."

  Poirot moved to the table and put his glass down. "Do you know, Monsieur Raynor," he confided, "to be absolutely honest with you, I have never become quite used to your English national drink, the whisky. The taste, it pleases me not. It is bitter." He moved to the armchair and sat.

  "Really? I'm so sorry. Mine didn't taste at all bitter."

  Raynor put his glass down on the coffee-table, and continued, "I think you were about to tell me something just now, were you not?"

  Poirot looked surprised. "Was I? What can it have been? Can I have forgotten already? I think that perhaps I wanted to explain to you how I proceed in an investigation. Voyons! One fact leads to another, so we continue. Does the next one fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact – no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing – a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that perhaps paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" Poirot made an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It is significant! It is tremendous!"

  "Y-es, I see," Raynor murmured dubiously.

  Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely in Raynor's face that the secretary almost quailed before it. "Ah, beware! Peril to the detective who says, 'It is so small, it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters." Poirot suddenly stopped and tapped his head. "Ah! Now I remember what I wanted to talk to you about. It was one of those small, unimportant little facts. I wanted to talk to you, Monsieur Raynor, about dust."

  Raynor smiled politely. "Dust?"

  "Precisely. Dust," Poirot repeated. "My friend Hastings, he reminded me just now that I am a detective and not a housemaid. He thought himself very clever to make such a remark, but I am not so sure. The housemaid and the detective, after all, have something in common. The housemaid, what does she do? She explores all the dark corners with her broom. She brings into the light of day all the hidden things that have rolled conveniently out of sight. Does not the detective do much the same?"

  Raynor looked bored, but murmured, "Very interesting, Monsieur Poirot." He moved to the chair by the table and sat, before asking, "But – is that all you were intending to say?"

  "No, not quite," replied Poirot. He leaned forward.

  "You did not
throw dust in my eyes, Monsieur Raynor, because there was no dust. Do you understand?"

  The secretary stared at him intently. "No, I'm afraid I didn't."

  "There was no dust on that box of drugs. Mademoiselle Barbara commented on the fact. But there should have been dust. That shelf on which it stands -" and Poirot gestured towards it as he spoke – "is thick with dust. It was then that I knew -"

  "Knew what?"

  "I knew," Poirot continued, "that someone had taken that box down recently. That the person who poisoned Sir Claud Amory would not need to go near the box last night, since he had on some earlier occasion helped himself to all the poison he needed, choosing a time when he knew he would not be disturbed. You did not go near the box of drugs last night, because you had already taken from it the hyoscine you needed. But you did handle the coffee, Monsieur Raynor."

  Raynor smiled patiently. "Dear me! Do you accuse me of murdering Sir Claud?"

  "Do you deny it?" asked Poirot.

  Raynor paused before replying. When he spoke again, a harsher tone had entered his voice. "Oh, no," he declared, "I don't deny it. Why should I? I'm really rather proud of the whole thing. It ought to have gone off without a hitch. It was sheer bad luck that made Sir Claud open the safe again last night. He's never done such a thing before."

  Poirot sounded rather drowsy as he asked, "Why are you telling me all this?"

  "Why not? You're so sympathetic. It's a pleasure to talk to you." Raynor laughed, and continued. "Yes, things very nearly went wrong. But that's what I really pride myself on, turning a failure into a success." A triumphant expression appeared on his face. "To devise a hiding place on the spur of the moment was really rather creditable. Would you like me to tell you where the formula is now?"

  His drowsiness now accentuated, Poirot seemed to find difficulty in speaking clearly. "I – I do not understand you," he whispered.

  "You made one little mistake, Monsieur Poirot," Raynor told him with a sneer. "You underestimated my intelligence. I wasn't really taken in just now by your ingenious red herring about poor old Carelli. A man with your brains couldn't seriously have believed that Carelli – why, it won't bear thinking about. You see, I'm playing for big stakes. That piece of paper, delivered in the right quarters, means fifty thousand pounds to me." He leaned back. "Just think what a man of my ability can do with fifty thousand pounds."

  In a voice of increasing drowsiness, Poirot managed to reply, "I – I do not – like to think of it."

  "Well, perhaps not. I appreciate that," Raynor conceded. "One has to allow for a different point of view."

  Poirot leaned forward, and appeared to be making an effort to pull himself together. "And it will not be so," he exclaimed. "I will denounce you. I, Hercule Poirot -" He broke off suddenly.

  "Hercule Poirot will do nothing," declared Raynor, as the detective sank back in his seat. With a laugh which was close to a sneer, the secretary continued, "You never guessed, did you, even when you said that the whisky was bitter? You see, my dear Monsieur Poirot, I took not just one but several tubes of hyoscine from that box. If anything, you have had slightly more than I gave Sir Claud."

  "Ah, mon Dieu," Poirot gasped, struggling to rise. In a weak voice he tried to call, " Hastings! Has-" His voice faded away, and he sank back into his chair. His eyelids closed.

  Raynor got to his feet, pushed his chair aside, and moved to stand over Poirot. "Try to keep awake, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Surely you'd like to see where the formula was hidden, wouldn't you?"

  He waited for a moment, but Poirot's eyes remained closed. "A swift, dreamless sleep, and no awakening, as our dear friend Carelli puts it," Raynor commented drily as he went to the mantelpiece, took the spills, folded them, and put them in his pocket. He moved towards the French windows, pausing only to call over his shoulder, "Goodbye, my dear Monsieur Poirot."

  He was about to step out into the garden when he was halted by the sound of Poirot's voice, speaking cheerfully and naturally. "Would you not like the envelope as well?"

  Raynor spun around, and at the same moment Inspector Japp entered the library from the garden. Moving back a few steps, Raynor paused irresolutely, and then decided to bolt. He rushed to the French windows, only to be seized by Japp and by Constable Johnson, who also suddenly appeared from the garden.

  Poirot rose from his chair, stretching himself. "Well, my dear Japp," he asked. "Did you get it all?"

  Dragging Raynor back to the center of the room with the aid of his constable, Japp replied, "Every word, thanks to your note, Poirot. You can hear everything perfectly from the terrace there, just outside the window. Now, let's go over him and see what we can find." He pulled the spills from Raynor's pocket and threw them onto the coffee-table.

  He next pulled out a small tube. "Aha! Hyoscine! Empty."

  "Ah, Hastings," Poirot greeted his friend, as he entered from the hall carrying a glass of whisky and soda, which he handed to the detective.

  "You see?" Poirot addressed Raynor in his kindliest manner. "I refused to play in your comedy. Instead, I made you play in mine. In my note, I gave instructions to Japp and also to Hastings. Then I make things easy for you by complaining of the heat. I know you will suggest a drink. It is, after all, the opening that you need. After that, it is all so straightforward. When I go to the door, the good Hastings, he is ready outside with another whisky and soda. I change glasses and I am back again. And so – on with the comedy."

  Poirot gave the glass back to Hastings. "Myself, I think I play my part rather well," he declared.

  There was a pause while Poirot and Raynor surveyed each other. Then Raynor spoke. "I've been afraid of you ever since you came into this house. My scheme could have worked. I could have set myself up for life with the fifty thousand pounds – perhaps even more – that I would have got for that wretched formula. But, from the moment you arrived, I stopped feeling absolutely confident that I'd get away with killing that pompous old fool and stealing his precious scrap of paper."

  "I have observed already that you are intelligent," Poirot replied. He sat again in the arm-chair, looking distinctly pleased with himself, as Japp began to speak rapidly.

  "Edward Raynor, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Sir Claud Amory, and I warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence." Japp made a gesture to the constable to take Raynor away.

  Chapter 20

  As Raynor made his exit in the custody of Constable Johnson, the two men passed Miss Amory, who was entering the library at the same moment. She looked back at them anxiously, and then hastened to Poirot. "Monsieur Poirot," she gasped as Poirot rose to greet her, "is this true? Was it Mr Raynor who murdered my poor brother?"

  "I am afraid so, mademoiselle," said Poirot.

  Miss Amory looked dumbfounded. "Oh! Oh!" she exclaimed. "I can't believe it! What wickedness! We've always treated him like one of the family. And the Beeswax and everything -" She turned abruptly, and was about to leave when Richard entered and held the door open for her. As she almost ran from the room, her niece Barbara entered from the garden.

  "This is simply too shattering for words," Barbara exclaimed. "Edward Raynor, of all people. Who would have believed it? Somebody has been frightfully clever to have found out. I wonder who!"

  She looked meaningfully at Poirot who, however, gave a bow in the direction of the police inspector as he murmured, "It was Inspector Japp who solved the case, mademoiselle."

  Japp beamed. "I will say for you, Monsieur Poirot, you're the goods. And a gentleman as well." With a nod to the assembled company, Japp made a brisk exit, snatching the whisky glass from a bemused Hastings, with the words, "I'll take charge of the evidence, if you please, Captain Hastings!"

  "Yes, but was it really Inspector Japp who found out who killed Uncle Claud? Or," Barbara asked Poirot coyly as she approached him, "was it you, Monsieur Hercule Poirot?"

  Poirot moved to Hastings, putting an arm around his old friend.

  "Mademoiselle," he informed
Barbara, "the real credit belongs to Hastings here. He made a remark of surpassing brilliance which put me on the right track. Take him into the garden and make him tell you about it."

  He pushed Hastings towards Barbara and shepherded them both towards the French windows.

  "Ah, my pet," Barbara sighed comically to Hastings as they went out into the garden.

  Richard Amory was about to address Poirot, when the door to the hall opened and Lucia entered. Giving a start when she saw her husband, Lucia murmured uncertainly, "Richard."

  Richard turned to look at her. "Lucia!"

  Lucia moved a few steps into the room. "I -" she began, and then broke off.

  Richard approached her, and then stopped. "You -"

  They both looked extremely nervous and ill at ease with each other. Then Lucia suddenly caught sight of Poirot and went to him with outstretched hands. "Monsieur Poirot! How can we ever thank you?"

  Poirot took both her hands in his. "So, madame, your troubles are over!" he announced.

  "A murderer has been caught. But my troubles, are they really over?" Lucia asked wistfully.

  "It is true that you do not look quite happy yet, my child," Poirot observed.

  "Shall I ever be happy again, I wonder?"

  "I think so," said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye. "Trust in your old Poirot."

  Guiding Lucia to the chair by the table in the center of the room, he picked up the spills from the coffee-table, went across to Richard, and handed them to him.

  "Monsieur," he declared, "I have pleasure in restoring to you Sir Claud's formula! It can be pieced together – what is the expression you use? – it will be as good as new."

  "My God, the formula!" Richard exclaimed. "I'd almost forgotten it. I can hardly bear to look at it again. Think what it has done to us all. It's cost my father his life, and it's all but ruined the lives of all of us as well."

  "What are you going to do with it, Richard?" Lucia asked him.