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  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.

  Chapter 9

  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 enquired.

  Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers 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.

  ‘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 box 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 table and placed the tin box 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,’ Barb
ara explained. ‘Fuss, fuss, fuss! I mean, Aunt Caroline for instance is like a clucky 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 box. ‘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 over-wrought. 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 down. ‘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 box 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 Richard. ‘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.