Lord Edgware Dies Page 9

  “Looks like a doctor,” said Jenny thoughtfully.

  “Did Miss Adams know any doctors? I mean, was any particular doctor a friend of hers?”

  Jenny shook her head.

  “Never heard of one. Not over here, anyway.”

  “Another question. Did Miss Adams wear pince-nez?”

  “Glasses? Never.”

  “Ah!” Poirot frowned.

  A vision rose in my mind. A doctor, smelling of carbolic, with shortsighted eyes magnified by powerful lenses. Absurd!

  “By the way, did Miss Adams know Bryan Martin, the film actor?”

  “Why, yes. She used to know him as a child, she told me. I don’t think she saw much of him, though. Just once in a while. She told me she thought he’d got very swollen-headed.”

  She looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.

  “Goodness, I must fly. Have I helped you at all, M. Poirot?”

  “You have. I shall ask you for further help by and by.”

  “It’s yours. Someone staged this devilry. We’ve got to find out who it is.”

  She gave us a quick shake of the hand, flashed her white teeth in a sudden smile and left us with characteristic abruptness.

  “An interesting personality,” said Poirot as he paid the bill.

  “I like her,” I said.

  “It is always a pleasure to meet a quick mind.”

  “A little hard, perhaps,” I reflected. “The shock of her friend’s death did not upset her as much as I should have thought it would have done.”

  “She is not the sort that weeps, certainly,” agreed Poirot dryly.

  “Did you get what you hoped from the interview?”

  He shook his head.

  “No—I hoped—very much I hoped—to get a clue to the personality of D, the person who gave her the little gold box. There I have failed. Unfortunately Carlotta Adams was a reserved girl. She was not one to gossip about her friends or her possible love affairs. On the other hand, the person who suggested the hoax may not have been a friend at all. It may have been a mere acquaintance who proposed it—doubtless for some ‘sporting’ reason—on a money basis. This person may have seen the gold box she carried about with her and made some opportunity to discover what it contained.”

  “But how on earth did they get her to take it? And when?”

  “Well, there was the time during which the flat door was open—when the maid was out posting a letter. Not that that satisfies me. It leaves too much to chance. But now—to work. We have still two possible clues.”

  “Which are?”

  “The first is the telephone call to a Victoria number. It seems to me quite a probability that Carlotta Adams would ring up on her return to announce her success. On the other hand, where was she between five minutes past ten and midnight? She may have had an appointment with the instigator of the hoax. In that case the telephone call may have been merely one to a friend.”

  “What is the second clue?”

  “Ah! that I do have hopes of. The letter, Hastings. The letter to her sister. It is possible—I only say possible—that in that she may have described the whole business. She would not regard it as a breach of faith, since the letter would not be read till a week later and in another country at that.”

  “Amazing, if that is so!”

  “We must not build too much upon it, Hastings. It is a chance, that is all. No, we must work now from the other end.”

  “What do you call the other end?”

  “A careful study of those who profit in any degree by Lord Edgware’s death.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Apart from his nephew and his wife—”

  “And the man the wife wanted to marry,” added Poirot.

  “The Duke? He is in Paris.”

  “Quite so. But you cannot deny that he is an interested party. Then there are the people in the house—the butler—the servants. Who knows what grudges they may have had? But I think myself our first point of attack should be a further interview with Mademoiselle Jane Wilkinson. She is shrewd. She may be able to suggest something.”

  Once more we made our way to the Savoy. We found the lady surrounded by boxes and tissue paper, whilst exquisite black draperies were strewn over the back of every chair. Jane had a rapt and serious expression and was just trying on yet another small black hat before the glass.

  “Why, M. Poirot. Sit down. That is, if there’s anything to sit on. Ellis, clear something, will you?”

  “Madame. You look charming.”

  Jane looked serious.

  “I don’t want exactly to play the hypocrite, M. Poirot. But one must observe appearances, don’t you think? I mean, I think I ought to be careful. Oh! by the way, I’ve had the sweetest telegram from the Duke.”

  “From Paris?”

  “Yes, from Paris. Guarded, of course, and supposed to be condolences, but put so that I can read between the lines.”

  “My felicitations, Madame.”

  “M. Poirot.” She clasped her hands, her husky voice dropped. She looked like an angel about to give vent to thoughts of exquisite holiness. “I’ve been thinking. It all seems so miraculous, if you know what I mean. Here I am—all my troubles over. No tiresome business of divorce. No bothers. Just my path cleared and all plain sailing. It makes me feel almost religious—if you know what I mean.”

  I held my breath. Poirot looked at her, his head a little on one side. She was quite serious.

  “That is how it strikes you, Madame, eh?”

  “Things happen right for me,” said Jane in a sort of awed whisper. “I’ve thought and I’ve thought lately—if Edgware was to die. And there—he’s dead! It’s—it’s almost like an answer to prayer.”

  Poirot cleared his throat.

  “I cannot say I look at it quite like that, Madame. Somebody killed your husband.”

  She nodded.

  “Why, of course.”

  “Has it not occurred to you to wonder who that someone was?”

  She stared at him. “Does it matter? I mean—what’s that to do with it? The Duke and I can be married in about four or five months….”

  With difficulty Poirot controlled himself.

  “Yes, Madame, I know that. But apart from that has it not occurred to you to ask yourself who killed your husband?”

  “No.” She seemed quite surprised by the idea. We could see her thinking about it.

  “Does it not interest you to know?” asked Poirot.

  “Not very much, I’m afraid,” she admitted. “I suppose the police will find out. They’re very clever, aren’t they?”

  “So it is said. I, too, am going to make it my business to find out.”

  “Are you? How funny.”

  “Why funny?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Her eyes strayed back to the clothes. She slipped on a satin coat and studied herself in the glass.

  “You do not object, eh?” said Poirot, his eyes twinkling.

  “Why, of course not, M. Poirot. I should just love you to be clever about it all. I wish you every success.”

  “Madame—I want more than your wishes. I want your opinion.”

  “Opinion?” said Jane absently, as she twisted her head over her shoulder. “What on?”

  “Who do you think likely to have killed Lord Edgware?”

  Jane shook her head. “I haven’t any idea!”

  She wriggled her shoulders experimentally and took up the hand glass.

  “Madame!” said Poirot in a loud, emphatic voice. “Who DO you THINK KILLED YOUR HUSBAND?”

  This time it got through. Jane threw him a startled glance. “Geraldine, I expect,” she said.

  “Who is Geraldine?”

  But Jane’s attention was gone again.

  “Ellis, take this up a little on the right shoulder. So. What, M. Poirot? Geraldine’s his daughter. No Ellis, the right shoulder. That’s better. Oh! must you go, M. Poirot? I’m terribly grateful for everything. I mean, for the
divorce, even though it isn’t necessary after all. I shall always think you were wonderful.”

  I only saw Jane Wilkinson twice again. Once on the stage, once when I sat opposite her at a luncheon party. I always think of her as I saw her then, absorbed heart and soul in clothes, her lips carelessly throwing out the words that were to influence Poirot’s further actions, her mind concentrated firmly and beautifully on herself.

  “Epatant,” said Poirot with reverence as we emerged into the Strand.

  Twelve

  THE DAUGHTER

  There was a letter sent by hand lying on the table when we got back to our rooms. Poirot picked it up, slit it open with his usual neatness, and then laughed.

  “What is it you say—‘Talk of the devil?’ See here, Hastings.”

  I took the note from him.

  The paper was stamped 17 Regent Gate and was written in very upright characteristic handwriting which looked easy to read and, curiously enough, was not.

  “Dear Sir (it ran),

  I hear you were at the house this morning with the inspector. I am sorry not to have had the opportunity of speaking to you. If convenient to yourself I should be much obliged if you could spare me a few minutes anytime this afternoon.

  Yours truly,

  Geraldine Marsh.”

  “Curious,” I said. “I wonder why she wants to see you?”

  “Is it curious that she should want to see me? You are not polite, my friend.”

  Poirot has the most irritating habit of joking at the wrong moment.

  “We will go round at once, my friend,” he said, and lovingly brushing an imagined speck of dust from his hat, he put it on his head.

  Jane Wilkinson’s careless suggestion that Geraldine might have killed her father seemed to me particularly absurd. Only a particularly brainless person could have suggested it. I said as much to Poirot.

  “Brains. Brains. What do we really mean by the term? In your idiom you would say that Jane Wilkinson has the brains of a rabbit. That is a term of disparagement. But consider the rabbit for a moment. He exists and multiplies, does he not? That, in Nature, is a sign of mental superiority. The lovely Lady Edgware she does not know history, or geography, nor the classics sans doute. The name of Lao Tse would suggest to her a prize Pekingese dog, the name of Molière a maison de couture. But when it comes to choosing clothes, to making rich and advantageous marriages, and to getting her own way—her success is phenomenal. The opinion of a philosopher as to who murdered Lord Edgware would be no good to me—the motive for murder from a philosopher’s point of view would be the greatest good of the greatest number, and as that is difficult to decide, few philosophers are murderers. But a careless opinion from Lady Edgware might be useful to me because her point of view would be materialistic and based on a knowledge of the worst side of human nature.”

  “Perhaps there’s something in that,” I conceded.

  “Nous voici,” said Poirot. “I am curious to know why the young lady wishes so urgently to see me.”

  “It is a natural desire,” I said, getting my own back. “You said so a quarter of an hour ago. The natural desire to see something unique at close quarters.”

  “Perhaps it is you, my friend, who make an impression on her heart the other day,” replied Poirot as he rang the bell.

  I recalled the startled face of the girl who had stood in the doorway. I could still see those burning dark eyes in the white face. That momentary glimpse had made a great impression on me.

  We were shown upstairs to a big drawing room and in a minute or two Geraldine Marsh came to us there.

  The impression of intensity which I had noticed before was heightened on this occasion. This tall, thin, white-faced girl with her big haunting black eyes was a striking figure.

  She was extremely composed—in view of her youth, remarkably so.

  “It is very good of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot,” she said. “I am sorry to have missed you this morning.”

  “You were lying down?”

  “Yes. Miss Carroll—my father’s secretary, you know—insisted. She has been very kind.”

  There was a queer grudging note in the girl’s voice that puzzled me.

  “In what way can I be of service to you, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot.

  She hesitated a minute and then said:

  “On the day before my father was killed you came to see him?”

  “Yes, Mademoiselle.”

  “Why? Did he—send for you?”

  Poirot did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating. I believe, now, that it was a cleverly calculated move on his part. He wanted to goad her into further speech. She was, he realized, of the impatient type. She wanted things in a hurry.

  “Was he afraid of something? Tell me. Tell me. I must know. Who was he afraid of? Why? What did he say to you? Oh! why can’t you speak?”

  I had thought that that forced composure was not natural. It had soon broken down. She was leaning forward now, her hands twisting themselves nervously on her lap.

  “What passed between Lord Edgware and myself was in confidence,” said Poirot slowly.

  His eyes never left her face.

  “Then it was about—I mean, it must have been something to do with—the family. Oh! you sit there and torture me. Why won’t you tell me? It’s necessary for me to know. It’s necessary. I tell you.”

  Again, very slowly, Poirot shook his head, apparently a prey to deep perplexity.

  “M. Poirot.” She drew herself up. “I’m his daughter. It is my right to know—what my father dreaded on the last day but one of his life. It isn’t fair to leave me in the dark. It isn’t fair to him—not to tell me.”

  “Were you so devoted to your father, then, Mademoiselle?” asked Poirot gently.

  She drew back as though stung.

  “Fond of him?” she whispered. “Fond of him. I—I—”

  And suddenly her self-control snapped. Peals of laughter broke from her. She lay back in her chair and laughed and laughed.

  “It’s so funny,” she gasped. “It’s so funny—to be asked that.”

  That hysterical laughter had not passed unheard. The door opened and Miss Carroll came in. She was firm and efficient.

  “Now, now, Geraldine, my dear, that won’t do. No, no. Hush, now. I insist. No. Stop it. I mean it. Stop it at once.”

  Her determined manner had its effect. Geraldine’s laughter grew fainter. She wiped her eyes and sat up.

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a low voice. “I’ve never done that before.”

  Miss Carroll was still looking at her anxiously.

  “I’m all right now, Miss Carroll. It was idiotic.”

  She smiled suddenly. A queer bitter smile that twisted her lips. She sat up very straight in her chair and looked at no one.

  “He asked me,” she said in a cold clear voice, “if I had been very fond of my father.”

  Miss Carroll made a sort of indeterminate cluck. It denoted irresolution on her part. Geraldine went on, her voice high and scornful.

  “I wonder if it is better to tell lies or the truth? The truth, I think. I wasn’t fond of my father. I hated him!”

  “Geraldine dear.”

  “Why pretend? You didn’t hate him because he couldn’t touch you! You were one of the few people in the world that he couldn’t get at. You saw him as the employer who paid you so much a year. His rages and his queerness didn’t interest you—you ignored them. I know what you’d say, ‘Everyone has got to put up with something.’ You were cheerful and uninterested. You’re a very strong woman. You’re not really human. But then you could have walked out of the house any minute. I couldn’t. I belonged.”

  “Really, Geraldine, I don’t think it’s necessary going into all this. Fathers and daughters often don’t get on. But the less said in life the better, I’ve found.”

  Geraldine turned her back on her. She addressed herself to Poirot.

  “M. Poirot, I hated my father! I am
glad he is dead! It means freedom for me—freedom and independence. I am not in the least anxious to find his murderer. For all we know the person who killed him may have had reasons—ample reasons—justifying that action.”

  Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

  “That is a dangerous principle to adopt, Mademoiselle.”

  “Will hanging someone else bring father back to life?”

  “No,” said Poirot dryly. “But it may save other innocent people from being murdered.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “A person who has once killed, Mademoiselle, nearly always kills again—sometimes again and again.”

  “I don’t believe it. Not—not a real person.”

  “You mean—not a homicidal maniac? But yes, it is true. One life is removed—perhaps after a terrific struggle with the murderer’s conscience. Then—danger threatens—the second murder is morally easier. At the slightest threatening of suspicion a third follows. And little by little an artistic pride arises—it is a métier—to kill. It is done at last almost for pleasure.”

  The girl had hidden her face in her hands.

  “Horrible. Horrible. It isn’t true.”

  “And supposing I told you that it had already happened? That already—to save himself—the murderer has killed a second time?”

  “What’s that, M. Poirot?” cried Miss Carroll. “Another murder? Where? Who?”

  Poirot gently shook his head.

  “It was an illustration only. I ask pardon.”

  “Oh! I see. For a moment I really thought—Now, Geraldine, if you’ve finished talking arrant nonsense.”

  “You are on my side, I see,” said Poirot with a little bow.

  “I don’t believe in capital punishment,” said Miss Carroll briskly. “Otherwise I am certainly on your side. Society must be protected.”

  Geraldine got up. She smoothed back her hair.

  “I am sorry,” she said. “I am afraid I have been making rather a fool of myself. You still refuse to tell me why my father called you in?”

  “Called him?” said Miss Carroll in lively astonishment.

  “You misunderstand, Miss Marsh. I have not refused to tell you.”

  Poirot was forced to come out into the open.

  “I was only considering how far that interview might have been said to be confidential. Your father did not call me in. I sought an interview with him on behalf of a client. That client was Lady Edgware.”