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  "You mean that -"

  "I mean," Poirot explained patiently to his colleague, "that sooner or later the thief will try to recapture his booty. One or the other of us, therefore, must constantly remain on guard -" Hearing the door being opened slowly and cautiously, he broke off and beckoned Hastings to join him by the gramophone, out of the immediate sight of anyone entering the room.

  Chapter 10

  The door opened, and Barbara Amory entered the room cautiously. Taking a chair from near the wall, she placed it in front of the bookcase, climbed on it, and reached for the tin case containing the drugs. At that moment, Hastings suddenly sneezed, and Barbara, with a start, dropped the box.

  "Oh!" she exclaimed in some confusion. "I didn't know there was anyone here."

  Hastings rushed forward and retrieved the box, which Poirot then took from him.

  "Permit me, mademoiselle," said the detective. "I am sure that is too heavy for you."

  He moved to the center table and placed the tin case upon it. "It is a little collection of yours?" he asked. "The birds' eggs? The sea shells, perhaps?"

  "I'm afraid it's much more prosaic, Monsieur Poirot," replied Barbara, with a nervous laugh. "Nothing but pills and powders!"

  "But surely," said Poirot, "one so young, so full of health and vigour, has no need of these bagatelles?"

  "Oh, it's not for me," Barbara assured him. "It's for Lucia. She's got such an awful headache this morning."

  "La pauvre dame," murmured Poirot, his voice dripping with sympathy. "She sent you for these pills, then?"

  "Yes," replied Barbara. "I gave her a couple of aspirin, but she wanted some real dope. I said I'd bring up the whole outfit – that is, if no one were here."

  Poirot, leaning his hands on the box, spoke thoughtfully.

  "If no one were here. Why would that matter, mademoiselle?"

  "Well, you know what it is in a place like this," Barbara explained. "Fuss, fuss, fuss! I mean, Aunt Caroline, for instance, is like a ducky old hen! And Richard's a damned nuisance and completely useless into the bargain, as men always are when you're ill."

  Poirot nodded in comprehension. "I understand, I understand," he told Barbara, bowing his head as a sign that he accepted her explanation. He rubbed his fingers along the lid of the case containing the drugs, and then looked quickly at his hands. Pausing for a moment, he cleared his throat with a slightly affected sound, and then went on, "Do you know, mademoiselle, that you are very fortunate in your domestic servants?"

  "What do you mean?" asked Barbara.

  Poirot showed her the tin case.

  "See -" he pointed out, "on this box there is no speck of dust. To mount on a chair and bother to dust so high up there – not all domestics would be so conscientious."

  "Yes," Barbara agreed. "I thought it odd last night that it wasn't dusty."

  "You had this case of drugs down last night?" Poirot asked her.

  "Yes, after dinner. It's full of old hospital stuff, you know."

  "Let us have a look at these hospital drugs," suggested Poirot as he opened the box. Taking out some phials and holding them up, he raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

  "Strychnine – atropine – a very pretty little collection! Ah! Here is a tube of hyoscine, nearly empty!"

  "What?" exclaimed Barbara. "Why, they were all full last night. I'm sure they were."

  "Voilà!" Poirot held out a tube to her, and then replaced it in the box. "This is very curious. You say that all these little – what do you call them – phials – were full? Where exactly was this case of drugs last night, mademoiselle?"

  "Well, when we took it down, we placed it on this table," Barbara informed him. "And Dr Carelli was looking through the drugs, commenting on them and -"

  She broke off as Lucia entered the room. Richard Amory's wife looked surprised to see the two men. Her pale, proud face seemed careworn in the daylight, and there was something wistful in the curve of her mouth.

  Barbara hastened to her. "Oh, darling, you shouldn't have got up," she told Lucia. "I was just coming up to you."

  "My headache is much better, Barbara dear," Lucia replied, her eyes fixed on Poirot. "I came down because I want to speak to Monsieur Poirot."

  "But, my pet, don't you think you should -"

  "Please, Barbara."

  "Oh, very well, you know best," said Barbara as she moved to the door, which Hastings rushed to open for her. When she had gone, Lucia moved to a chair and sat down.

  "Monsieur Poirot -" she began.

  "I am at your service, madame," Poirot responded politely.

  Lucia spoke hesitantly, and her voice trembled a little.

  "Monsieur Poirot," she began again, "last night I made a request to you. I asked you to stay on here. I – I begged you to do so. This morning I see that I made a mistake."

  "Are you sure, madame?" Poirot asked her quietly.

  "Quite sure. I was nervous last night, and overwrought. I am most grateful to you for doing what I asked, but now it is better that you should go."

  "Ah, c'est comme ça," Poirot murmured beneath his breath. Aloud, his response was merely a noncommittal "I see, madame."

  Rising, Lucia glanced at him nervously as she asked, "That is settled, then?"

  "Not quite, madame," replied Poirot, taking a step towards her. "If you remember, you expressed a doubt that your father-in-law had died a natural death."

  "I was hysterical last night," Lucia insisted. "I did not know what I was saying."

  "Then you are now convinced," Poirot persisted, "that his death was, after all, natural?"

  "Absolutely," Lucia declared.

  Poirot's eyebrows rose a trifle. He looked at her in silence.

  "Why do you look at me like that?" Lucia asked with alarm in her voice.

  "Because, madame, it is sometimes difficult to set a dog on the scent. But once he has found it, nothing on earth will make him leave it. Not if he is a good dog. And I, madame, I, Hercule Poirot, am a very good dog!"

  In great agitation, Lucia declared, "Oh! But you must, you really must go. I beg you, I implore you. You don't know what harm you may do by remaining!"

  "Harm?" asked Poirot. "To you, madame?"

  "To all of us, Monsieur Poirot. I can't explain further, but I beg you to accept my word that it is so. From the first moment I saw you, I trusted you. Please -"

  She broke off as the door opened, and Richard, looking shocked, entered with Dr Graham. "Lucia!" her husband exclaimed as he caught sight of her.

  "Richard, what is it?" asked Lucia anxiously as she rushed to his side. "What has happened? Something new has happened, I can see it in your face. What is it?"

  "Nothing, my dear," replied Richard with an attempt at reassurance in his tone. "Do you mind leaving us for a moment?"

  Lucia's eyes searched his face. "Can't I -" she began, but hesitated as Richard moved to the door and opened it.

  "Please," he repeated.

  With a final backward glance in which there was a distinct element of fear, Lucia left the room.

  Chapter 11

  Putting his Gladstone bag on the coffee-table, Dr Graham crossed to the settee and sat. "I'm afraid this is a bad business, Monsieur Poirot," he announced to the detective.

  "A bad business, you say? Yes? You have discovered what caused the death of Sir Claud?" asked Poirot.

  "His death was due to poisoning by a powerful vegetable alkaloid," Graham declared.

  "Such as hyoscine, perhaps?" Poirot suggested, picking up the tin case of drugs from the table.

  "Why, yes, exactly." Dr Graham sounded surprised at the detective's accurate surmise. Poirot took the case to the other side of the room, placing it on the gramophone table, and Hastings followed him there. Meanwhile, Richard Amory joined the doctor on the settee.

  "What does this mean, actually?" Richard asked Dr Graham.

  "For one thing, it means the involvement of the police," was Graham's prompt reply.

  "My God!" exclaimed Ric
hard. "This is terrible. Can't you possibly hush it up?"

  Dr Graham looked at Richard Amory steadily before he spoke, slowly and deliberately. "My dear Richard," he said. "Believe me, nobody could be more pained and grieved at this horrible calamity than I am. Especially since, under the circumstances, it does not seem likely that the poison could have been self-administered."

  Richard paused for several seconds before he spoke. "Are you saying it was murder?" he asked in an unsteady voice.

  Dr Graham did not speak, but nodded solemnly.

  "Murder!" exclaimed Richard. "What on earth are we going to do?"

  Adopting a brisker, more business-like manner, Graham explained the procedure to be followed. "I have notified the coroner. The inquest will be held tomorrow at the King's Arms."

  "And – you mean – the police will have to be involved? There's no way out of it?"

  "There is not. Surely you must realize that, Richard?" said Dr Graham.

  Richard's tone was frantic as he began to exclaim, "But why didn't you warn me that -"

  "Come on, Richard. Take a hold of yourself. I'm sure you understand that I have only taken such steps as I thought absolutely necessary," Graham interrupted him. "After all, no time should be lost in matters of this kind."

  "My God!" exclaimed Richard.

  Dr Graham addressed Amory in a kindlier tone. "Richard, I know. I do understand. This has been a terrible shock to you. But there are things I must ask you about. Do you feel equal to answering a few questions?"

  Richard made a visible effort to pull himself together. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

  "First of all," said Graham, "what food and drink did your father have at dinner last night?"

  "Let's see, we all had the same. Soup, fried sole, cutlets, and we finished off with a fruit salad."

  "Now, what about drink?" continued Dr Graham. Richard considered for a moment before replying. "My father and my aunt drank burgundy. So did Raynor, I think. I stuck with whisky and soda, and Dr Carelli – yes, Dr Carelli drank white wine throughout the meal."

  "Ah, yes, the mysterious Dr Carelli," Graham murmured. "You'll excuse me, Richard, but how much precisely do you know about this man?"

  Interested to hear Richard Amory's reply to this, Hastings moved closer to the two men. In answer to Dr Graham, Richard declared, "I know nothing about him. I'd never met him, or even heard of him, until yesterday."

  "But he is a friend of your wife?" asked the doctor.

  "Apparently he is."

  "Does she know him intimately?"

  "Oh, no, he is a mere acquaintance, I gather."

  Graham made a little clicking sound with his tongue, and shook his head. "You've not allowed him to leave the house, I hope?" he asked.

  "No, no," Richard assured him. "I pointed out to him last night that, until this matter was cleared up – the business of the formula being stolen, I mean – it would be best for him to remain here at the house. In fact, I sent down to the inn where he had a room, and had his things brought up here."

  "Didn't he make any protest at all?" Graham asked in some surprise.

  "Oh, no, in fact he agreed quite eagerly."

  "H'm," was Graham's only response to this. Then, looking about him, he asked, "Well now, what about this room?"

  Poirot approached the two men. "The doors were locked last night by Tredwell, the butler," he assured Dr Graham, "and the keys were given to me. Everything is exactly as it was, except that we have moved the chairs, as you see."

  Dr Graham looked at the coffee-cup on the table.

  Pointing to it, he asked, "Is that the cup?" He went across to the table, picked up the cup and sniffed at it. "Richard," he asked, "is this the cup your father drank from? I'd better take it. It will have to be analysed." Carrying the cup over to the coffee-table, he opened his bag.

  Richard sprang to his feet. "Surely you don't think -" he began, but then broke off.

  "It seems highly unlikely," Graham told him, "that the poison could have been administered at dinner. The most likely explanation is that the hyoscine was added to Sir Claud's coffee."

  "I – I -" Richard tried to utter as he rose and took a step towards the doctor, but then broke off with a despairing gesture and left the room abruptly through the French windows into the garden.

  Dr Graham took a small cardboard box of cotton wool from his bag and carefully packed the cup in it, talking to Poirot as he did so. "A nasty business," he confided. "I'm not at all surprised that Richard Amory is upset. The newspapers will make the most of this Italian doctor's friendship with his wife. And mud tends to stick, Monsieur Poirot. Mud tends to stick. Poor lady! She was probably wholly innocent. The man obviously made her acquaintance in some plausible way. They're astonishingly clever, these foreigners. Of course, I suppose I shouldn't be talking this way, as though the thing were a foregone conclusion, but what else is one to imagine?"

  "You think it leaps to the eye, yes?" Poirot asked him, exchanging glances with Hastings.

  "Well, after all," Dr Graham explained, "Sir Claud's invention was valuable. This foreigner comes along, of whom nobody knows anything. An Italian. Sir Claud is mysteriously poisoned -"

  "Ah, yes! The Borgias," exclaimed Poirot.

  "I beg your pardon?" asked the doctor.

  "Nothing, nothing."

  Dr Graham picked up his bag and prepared to leave, holding out his hand to Poirot. "Well, I'd best be off."

  "Goodbye – for the present, Monsieur le Docteur," said Poirot as they shook hands.

  At the door, Graham paused and looked back. "Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot. You will see that nobody disturbs anything in this room until the police arrive, won't you? That's extremely important."

  "Most certainly, I shall make myself responsible for it," Poirot assured him.

  As Graham left, closing the door behind him, Hastings observed drily, "You know, Poirot, I shouldn't like to be ill in this house. For one thing, there appears to be a poisoner at loose in the place – and, for another, I'm not at all sure I trust that young doctor."

  Poirot gave Hastings a quizzical look. "Let us hope that we will not be in this house long enough to become ill," he said, moving to the fireplace and pressing the bell. "And now, my dear Hastings, to work," he announced as he rejoined his colleague, who was contemplating the coffee-table with a puzzled expression.

  "What are you going to do?" Hastings asked.

  "You and I, my friend," replied Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, "are going to interview Cesare Borgia."

  Tredwell entered in response to Poirot's call. "You rang, sir?" the butler asked.

  "Yes, Tredwell. Will you please ask the Italian gentleman, Dr Carelli, if he would be kind enough to come here?"

  "Certainly, sir," Tredwell replied. He left the room, and Poirot went to the table to pick up the case of drugs.

  "It would be well, I think," he confided to Hastings, "if we were to put this box of so very dangerous drugs back in its proper place. Let us, above all things, be neat and orderly."

  Handing the tin case to Hastings, Poirot took a chair to the bookcase and climbed onto it.

  "The old cry for neatness and symmetry, eh?" Hastings exclaimed. "But there's more to it than that, I imagine."

  "What do you mean, my friend?" asked Poirot.

  "I know what it is. You don't want to scare Carelli. After all, who handled those drugs last night? Amongst others, he did. If he saw them down on the table, it might put him on his guard, eh, Poirot?"

  Poirot tapped Hastings on the head. "How astute is my friend Hastings," he declared, taking the case from him.

  "I know you too well," Hastings insisted. "You can't throw dust in my eyes."

  As Hastings spoke, Poirot drew a finger along the top of the bookshelf, sweeping dust down into his friend's upturned face. "It seems to me, my dear Hastings, that that is precisely what I have done," Poirot exclaimed as he gingerly drew a finger along the shelf again, making a grimace as he did so. "It appears
that I have praised the domestics too soon. This shelf is thick with dust. I wish I had a good wet duster in my hand to clean it up!"

  "My dear Poirot," Hastings laughed, "you're not a housemaid."

  "Alas, no," observed Poirot sadly. "I am only a detective!"

  "Well, there's nothing to detect up there," Hastings declared, "so get down."

  "As you say, there is nothing -" Poirot began, and then stopped dead, standing quite still on the chair as though turned to stone.

  "What is it?" Hastings asked him impatiently, adding, "Do get down, Poirot. Dr Carelli will be here at any minute. You don't want him to find you up there, do you?"

  "You are right, my friend," Poirot agreed as he got down slowly from the chair. His face wore a solemn expression.

  "What on earth is the matter?" asked Hastings.

  "It is that I am thinking of something," Poirot replied with a faraway look in his eyes.

  "What are you thinking of?"

  "Dust, Hastings. Dust," said Poirot in an odd voice.

  The door opened, and Dr Carelli entered the room. He and Poirot greeted each other with the greatest of ceremony, each politely speaking the other's native tongue.

  "Ah, Monsieur Poirot," Carelli began. "Vous voulez me questionner?"

  "Si, Signer Dottore, se lei permette," Poirot replied.

  "Ah, lei parla italiano?"

  "Si, ma preferisco parlare in francese."

  "Alors," said Carelli, "qu'est'ce que vous voulez me demander?"

  "I say," Hastings interjected with a certain irritation in his voice. "What the devil is all this?"

  "Ah, the poor Hastings is not a linguist. I had forgotten." Poirot smiled. "We had better speak English."

  "I beg your pardon. Of course," Carelli agreed. He addressed Poirot with an air of great frankness. "I am glad that you have sent for me, Monsieur Poirot," he declared. "Had you not done so, I should myself have requested an interview."

  "Indeed?" remarked Poirot, indicating a chair by the table.

  Carelli sat, while Poirot seated himself in the armchair, and Hastings made himself comfortable on the settee.