Black Coffee hp-7 Page 6

  "What was it you wanted to tell me, my friend? I wonder. What did you fear?" he thought to himself. "Was it simply the theft of your formula, or did you fear for your life as well? You relied on Hercule Poirot for help. You called for help too late, but I shall try to discover the truth."

  Shaking his head thoughtfully, Poirot was about to leave the room when Tredwell entered.

  "I've shown the other gentleman to his room, sir," he told Poirot. "May I take you to yours, which is the adjoining one at the top of the stairs? I've also taken the liberty of providing a little cold supper for you both, after your journey. On the way upstairs I'll show you where the dining-room is."

  Poirot inclined his head in polite acceptance.

  "Thank you very much, Tredwell," he said. "Incidentally, I am going to advise Mr Amory most strongly that this room should be kept locked until tomorrow, when we should have further information about this evening's distressing occurrence. Would you be so kind as to make it secure after we leave it now?"

  "Most certainly sir, if that is your wish," replied Tredwell as Poirot preceded him out of the library.

  Chapter 8

  When Hastings came down to breakfast late the following morning, after having slept long and well, he found himself eating alone. From Tredwell he learned that Edward Raynor had breakfasted much earlier, and had gone back to his room to put some of Sir Claud's papers in order, that Mr and Mrs Amory had had breakfast in their suite of rooms and had not yet appeared, and that Barbara Amory had taken a cup of coffee out into the garden, where she was presumably still sunning herself. Miss Caroline Amory had ordered breakfast in her room, pleading a slight headache, and Tredwell had not seen her subsequently.

  "Have you caught sight of Monsieur Poirot at all this morning, Tredwell?" Hastings asked, and was told that his friend had risen early and had decided to take a walk to the village.

  "I understood Monsieur Poirot to say that he had some business to conduct there," Tredwell added.

  After finishing a lavish breakfast of bacon, sausage and eggs, toast and coffee, Hastings returned to his comfortable room on the first floor, which offered a splendid view of part of the garden and, for a few minutes which Hastings found rewarding, of the sun-bathing Barbara Amory as well. It was not until Barbara had come indoors that Hastings settled down in an arm-chair with that morning's Times, which had of course gone to press too early to contain any mention of Sir Claud Amory's death the previous evening.

  Hastings turned to the editorial page and began to read. A good half-hour later, he awakened from a light slumber to find Hercule Poirot standing over him.

  "Ah, mon cher, you are hard at work on the case, I see," Poirot chuckled.

  "As a matter of fact, Poirot, I was thinking about last night's events for quite some time," Hastings asserted. "I must have dozed off."

  "And why not, my friend?" Poirot assured him. "Me, I have been thinking about the death of Sir Claud as well, and, of course, the theft of his so important formula. I have, in fact, already taken some action, and I am expecting at any minute a telephone message to tell me if a certain suspicion of mine is correct or not."

  "What or whom do you suspect, Poirot?" Hastings asked eagerly.

  Poirot looked out of the window before replying. "No, I do not think I can reveal that to you at this stage of the game, my friend," he replied mischievously. "Let us just say that, as the magicians on the stage like to assure us, the quickness of the hand deceives the eye."

  "Really, Poirot," Hastings exclaimed, "you can be extremely irritating at times. I do think you ought to at least let me know whom you suspect of having stolen the formula. After all, I might be able to help you by -"

  Poirot stopped his colleague with an airy gesture of his hand. The little detective was now wearing his most innocent expression and gazing out of the window, meditatively, into the far distance.

  "You are puzzled, Hastings?" he asked. "You are wondering to yourself why I do not launch myself in pursuit of a suspect?"

  "Well – something of the kind," Hastings admitted.

  "It is no doubt what you would do, if you were in my place," observed Poirot complacently. "I understand that. But I am not of those who enjoy rushing about, seeking a needle in a hay-stack, as you English say. For the moment, I am content to wait. As to why I wait – eh bien, to the intelligence of Hercule Poirot things are sometimes perfectly clear which are not at all clear to those who are not so greatly gifted."

  "Good Lord, Poirot!" Hastings exclaimed. "Do you know, I'd give a considerable sum of money to see you make a thorough ass of yourself – just for once. You're so confoundedly conceited!"

  "Do not enrage yourself, my dear Hastings," Poirot replied soothingly. "In verity, I observe that there are times when you seem almost to detest me! Alas, I suffer the penalties of greatness!"

  The little man puffed out his chest and sighed so comically that Hastings was forced to laugh. "Poirot, you really have the best opinion of yourself of anyone I've ever known," he declared.

  "What will you? When one is unique, one knows it. But now to serious matters, my dear Hastings. Let me tell you that I have asked Sir Claud's son, Mr Richard Amory, to meet us in the library at noon. I say 'us,' Hastings, for I need you to be there, my friend, to observe closely."

  "As always, I shall be delighted to assist you, Poirot," his friend assured him.

  At noon Poirot, Hastings and Richard Amory met in the library, from which the body of Sir Claud had been removed late the previous evening. While Hastings listened and observed from a comfortable position on the settee, the detective asked Richard Amory to recount in detail the events of the evening prior to his, Poirot's, arrival. When he had concluded his recital of events, Richard, sitting in the chair which his father had occupied the previous evening, added, "Well, that's about everything, I think. I hope I've made myself clear?"

  "But perfectly, Monsieur Amory, perfectly," Poirot replied, leaning against an arm of the only arm-chair in the room. "I now have a clear tableau." Shutting his eyes, he attempted to conjure up the scene. "There is Sir Claud in his chair, dominating the situation. Then the darkness, the knocking on the door. Yes, indeed, a dramatic little scene."

  "Well," said Richard, making as if to rise, "if that is all -"

  "Just one little minute," said Poirot, with a gesture as though to detain him.

  Lowering himself to his chair again with an air of reluctance, Richard asked, "Yes?"

  "What about earlier in the evening, Monsieur Amory?"

  "Earlier in the evening?"

  "Yes," Poirot reminded him. "After dinner."

  "Oh, that!" said Richard. "There's really nothing more to tell. My father and his secretary, Raynor – Edward Raynor – went straight into my father's study. The rest of us were in here."

  Poirot beamed at Richard encouragingly. "And you did – what?"

  "Oh, we just talked. We had the gramophone on for most of the time."

  Poirot thought for a moment. Then, "Nothing took place that strikes you as worth recalling?" he asked.

  "Nothing whatever," Richard affirmed very quickly.

  Watching him closely, Poirot pressed on. "When was the coffee served?"

  "Immediately after dinner," was Richard's reply. Poirot made a circular motion with his hand. "Did the butler hand it around, or did he leave it here to be poured out?"

  "I really can't remember," said Richard.

  Poirot gave a slight sigh. He thought for a moment, and then asked, "Did you all take coffee?"

  "Yes, I think so. All except Raynor, that is. He doesn't drink coffee."

  "And Sir Claud's coffee was taken to him in the study?"

  "I suppose so," replied Richard, with some irritation beginning to show in his voice. "Are all these details really necessary?"

  Poirot lifted his arms in a gesture of apology. "I am so sorry," he said. "It is just that I am very anxious to get the whole picture straight in my mind's eye. And, after all, we do want to get this
precious formula back, do we not?"

  "I suppose so," was again Richard's rather sullen rejoinder, at which Poirot's eyebrows shot up exaggeratedly and he uttered an exclamation of surprise. "No, of course, of course, we do," Richard hastened to add.

  Poirot, looking away from Richard Amory, asked, "Now, when did Sir Claud come from the study into this room?"

  "Just as they were trying to get that door open," Amory told him.

  "They?" queried Poirot, rounding on him.

  "Yes. Raynor and the others."

  "May I ask who wanted it opened?"

  "My wife, Lucia," said Richard. "She hadn't been feeling well all the evening."

  Poirot's tone was sympathetic as he replied, "La pauvre dame! I hope she finds herself better this morning? There are one or two things I urgently desire to ask her."

  "I'm afraid that's quite impossible," said Richard. "She's not up to seeing anyone, or answering any questions. In any case, there's nothing she could tell you that I couldn't."

  "Quite so, quite so," Poirot assured him. "But women, Monsieur Amory, have a great capacity for observing things in detail. Still, doubtless your aunt, Miss Amory, will do as well."

  "She's in bed," said Richard hastily. "My father's death was a great shock to her."

  "Yes, I see," murmured Poirot thoughtfully. There was a pause. Richard, looking distinctly uncomfortable, rose and turned to the French windows. "Let's have some air," he announced. "It's very hot in here."

  "Ah, you are like all the English," Poirot declared, smiling. "The good open air, you will not leave it in the open. No! It must be brought inside the house."

  "You don't mind, I hope?" Richard asked.

  "Me?" said Poirot. "No, of course not. I have adopted all the English habits. Everywhere, I am taken for an Englishman."

  On the settee, Hastings could not help but smile to himself. "But, pardon me, Monsieur Amory, is not that window locked by some ingenious device?"

  Richard said, "But the key to it is on my father's bunch of keys, which I have here." Taking the keys from his pocket, he moved to the French windows and undid the catch, flinging the windows open wide; moving away from him, Poirot sat on the stool, well away from the French windows and the fresh air, and shivered, while Richard took a deep breath of air and then stood for a moment looking out at the garden, before coming back to Poirot with the air of someone who has arrived at a decision.

  "Monsieur Poirot," Richard Amory declared, "I won't beat about the bush. I know my wife begged you last night to remain, but she was upset and hysterical, and hardly knew what she was doing. I'm the person concerned, and I tell you frankly that I don't care a damn about the formula. My father was a rich man. This discovery of his was worth a great deal of money, but I don't need more than I've got, and I can't pretend to share his enthusiasm in the matter. There are explosives enough in the world already."

  "I see," murmured Poirot thoughtfully.

  "What I say," continued Richard, "is that we should let the whole thing drop."

  Poirot's eyebrows shot up, as he made his familiar gesture of surprise. "You prefer that I should depart?" he asked. "That I should make no further investigations?"

  "Yes, that's it." Richard Amory sounded uncomfortable as he half turned away from Poirot.

  "But," the detective persisted, "whoever stole the formula would not do so in order to make no use of it."

  "No," Richard admitted. He turned back to Poirot. "But still -"

  Slowly and meaningfully, Poirot continued, "Then you do not object to the – how shall I put it – the stigma?"

  "Stigma?" exclaimed Richard sharply.

  "Five people -" Poirot explained to him, "five people had the opportunity of stealing the formula. Until one is proved guilty, the other four cannot be proved innocent."

  Tredwell had entered the room while Poirot was speaking. As Richard began to stammer irresolutely, "I – that is -" the butler interrupted him.

  "I beg your pardon, sir," he said to his employer, "but Dr Graham is here, and would like to see you."

  Clearly glad of the opportunity to escape further questioning from Poirot, Richard replied, "I'll come at once," moving to the door as he spoke. Turning to Poirot, he asked formally, "Would you excuse me, please?" as he left with Tredwell.

  When the two men had departed, Hastings rose from the settee and approached Poirot, bursting with suppressed excitement.

  "I say!" he exclaimed. "Poison, eh?"

  "What, my dear Hastings?" asked Poirot.

  "Poison, surely!" Hastings repeated, nodding his head vigorously.

  Poirot surveyed his friend with an amused twinkle in his eye. "How dramatic you are, my dear Hastings!" he exclaimed. "With what swiftness and brilliance you leap to conclusions!"

  "Now then, Poirot," Hastings protested, "you can't put me off that way. You're not going to pretend that you think the old fellow died of heart disease. What happened last night positively leaps to the eye. But I must say Richard Amory can't be a very bright sort of chap. The possibility of poison doesn't seem to have occurred to him."

  "You think not, my friend?" asked Poirot.

  "I spotted it last night, when Dr Graham announced that he couldn't issue a death certificate and said that there would have to be an autopsy."

  Poirot gave a slight sigh. "Yes, yes," he murmured placatingly. "It is the result of the autopsy that Dr Graham comes to announce this morning. We shall know whether you are right or not in a very few minutes." Poirot seemed to be about to say something further, but then checked himself. He moved to the mantelpiece and began to adjust the vase containing the spills used for lighting the fire.

  Hastings watched him affectionately. "I say, Poirot," he laughed, "what a fellow you are for neatness."

  "Is not the effect more pleasing now?" asked Poirot, as he surveyed the mantelpiece with his head on one side.

  Hastings snorted. "I can't say it worried me greatly before."

  "Beware!" said Poirot, shaking an admonishing finger at him. "The symmetry, it is everything. Everywhere there should be neatness and order, especially in the little grey cells of the brain." He tapped his head as he spoke.

  "Oh, come on, don't leap onto your hobby-horse," Hastings begged him. "Just tell me what your precious little grey cells make of this business."

  Poirot moved to the settee and sat before replying. He regarded Hastings steadily, his eyes narrowing like a cat's until they showed only a gleam of green. "If you would use your grey cells, and attempt to see the whole case clearly – as I attempt to do – you would perhaps perceive the truth, my friend," he announced smugly. "However," he continued, in a tone which suggested that he considered he was behaving with great magnanimity, "before Dr Graham arrives, let us first hear the ideas of my friend Hastings."

  "Well," Hastings began eagerly, "the key being found under the secretary's chair is suspicious."

  "You think so, do you, Hastings?"

  "Of course," his friend replied. "Highly suspicious. But, on the whole, I plump for the Italian."

  "Ah!" Poirot murmured. "The mysterious Dr Carelli."

  "Mysterious, exactly," Hastings continued. "That's precisely the right word for him. What is he doing down here in the country? I'll tell you. He was after Sir Claud Amory's formula. He's almost certainly the emissary of a foreign government. You know the kind of thing I mean."

  "I do, indeed, Hastings," Poirot responded with a smile. "After all, I do occasionally go to the cinema, you know."

  "And if it turns out that Sir Claud was indeed poisoned -" Hastings was now well into his stride – "it makes Dr Carelli more than ever the prime suspect. Remember the Borgias? Poison is a very Italian sort of crime. But what I'm afraid of is that Carelli will get away with the formula in his possession."

  "He will not do that, my friend," said Poirot, shaking his head.

  "How on earth can you be so sure?" Hastings inquired.

  Poirot leaned back in his chair and brought the tips of his finger
s together in his familiar manner. "I do not exactly know, Hastings," he admitted. "I cannot be sure, of course. But I have a little idea."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Where do you think that formula is now, my clever collaborator?" Poirot asked.

  "How should I know?"

  Poirot looked at Hastings for a moment, as though giving his friend a chance to consider the question. Then, "Think, my friend," he said encouragingly. "Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. That is the secret of success."

  When Hastings merely shook his head with a perplexed air, the detective attempted to give his colleague a clue. "There is only one place where it can be," Poirot told him.

  "And where is that, for heaven's sake?" Hastings asked, with a distinct note of irritation in his voice.

  "In this room, of course," Poirot announced, a triumphant Cheshire cat-like grin appearing on his face.

  "What on earth do you mean?"

  "But yes, Hastings. Just consider the facts. We know from the good Tredwell that Sir Claud took certain precautions to prevent the formula from being removed from this room. When he sprang his little surprise and announced our imminent arrival, it is quite certain, therefore, that the thief still had the formula on his person. What must he do? He dare not risk having it found on him when I arrived. He can do only two things. He can return it, in the manner suggested by Sir Claud, or else he can hide it somewhere, under cover of that one minute of total darkness. Since he did not do the first, he must have done the second. Voilà! It is obvious to me that the formula is hidden in this room."

  "By God, Poirot," Hastings exclaimed in great excitement, "I believe you're right! Let's look for it." He rose quickly, and moved to the desk.

  "By all means, if it amuses you," Poirot responded. "But there is someone who will be able to find it more easily than you can."

  "Oh, and who is that?" asked Hastings.

  Poirot twirled his moustache with enormous energy.

  "Why, the person who hid it, parbleu!" he exclaimed, accompanying his words with the kind of gesture more suitably employed by a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.