Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“She’s what they call amoral. Right and wrong don’t exist for her.”

“Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening.”

“We were talking of crime just now—”

“Yes, my friend?”

“Well, it would never surprise me if Jane committed a crime.”

“And you should know her well,” murmured Poirot thoughtfully. “You have acted much with her, have you not?”

“Yes. I suppose I know her through and through and up and down. I can see her killing, and quite easily.”

“Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?”

“No, no, not at all. Cool as a cucumber. I mean if anyone were in her way she’d just remove them—without a thought. And one couldn’t really blame her—morally, I mean. She’d just think that anyone who interfered with Jane Wilkinson had got to go.”

There was a bitterness in his last words that had been lacking heretofore. I wondered what memory he was recalling.

“You think she would do—murder?”

Poirot watched him intently.

Bryan drew a deep breath.

“Upon my soul, I do. Perhaps one of these days, you’ll remember my words…know her, you see. She’d kill as easily as she’d drink her morning tea. I mean it, M. Poirot.”

He had risen to his feet.

“Yes,” said Poirot quietly. “I can see you mean it.”

“I know her,” said Bryan Martin again, “through and through.”

He stood frowning for a minute, then with a change of tone, he said:

“As to this business we’ve been talking about, I’ll let you know, M. Poirot, in a few days. You will undertake it, won’t you?”

Poirot looked at him for a moment or two without replying.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I will undertake it. I find it—interesting.”

There was something queer in the way he said the last word. I went downstairs with Bryan Martin. At the door he said to me:

“Did you get the hang of what he meant about that fellow’s age? I mean, why was it interesting that he should be about thirty? I didn’t get the hang of that at all.”

“No more did I,” I admitted.

“It doesn’t seem to make sense. Perhaps he was just having a game with me.”

“No,” I said. “Poirot is not like that. Depend upon it, the point has significance since he says so.”

“Well, blessed if I can see it. Glad you can’t either. I’d hate to feel I was a complete nut.”

He strode away. I rejoined my friend.

“Poirot,” I said. “What was the point about the age of the shadower?”

“You do not see? My poor Hastings!” He smiled and shook his head. Then he asked: “What did you think of our interview on the whole?”

“There’s so little to go upon. It seems difficult to say. If we knew more—”

“Even without knowing more, do not certain ideas suggest themselves to you, mon ami?”

The telephone ringing at that moment saved me from the ignominy of admitting that no ideas whatever suggested themselves to me. I took up the receiver.

A woman’s voice spoke, a crisp, clear efficient voice.

“This is Lord Edgware’s secretary speaking. Lord Edgware regrets that he must cancel the appointment with M. Poirot for tomorrow morning. He has to go over to Paris tomorrow unexpectedly. He could see M. Poirot for a few minutes at a quarter past twelve this morning if that would be convenient.”

I consulted Poirot.

“Certainly, my friend, we will go there this morning.”

I repeated this into the mouthpiece.

“Very good,” said the crisp businesslike voice. “A quarter past twelve this morning.”

She rang off.

Four

AN INTERVIEW

I arrived with Poirot at Lord Edgware’s house in Regent Gate in a very pleasant state of anticipation. Though I had not Poirot’s devotion to “the psychology,” yet the few words in which Lady Edgware had referred to her husband had aroused my curiosity. I was anxious to see what my own judgment would be.

The house was an imposing one—well-built, handsome and slightly gloomy. There were no window boxes or such frivolities.

The door was opened to us promptly, and by no aged white-haired butler such as would have been in keeping with the exterior of the house. On the contrary, it was opened by one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. Tall, fair, he might have posed to a sculptor for Hermes or Apollo. Despite his good looks there was something vaguely effeminate that I disliked about the softness of his voice. Also, in a curious way, he reminded me of someone—someone, too, whom I had met quite lately—but who it was I could not for the life of me remember.

We asked for Lord Edgware.

“This way, sir.”

He led us along the hall, past the staircase, to a door at the rear of the hall.

Opening it, he announced us in that same soft voice which I instinctively distrusted.

The room into which we were shown was a kind of library. The walls were lined with books, the furnishings were dark and sombre but handsome, the chairs were formal and not too comfortable.

Lord Edgware, who rose to receive us, was a tall man of about fifty. He had dark hair streaked with grey, a thin face and a sneering mouth. He looked bad-tempered and bitter. His eyes had a queer secretive look about them. There was something, I thought, distinctly odd about those eyes.

His manner was stiff and formal.

“M. Hercule Poirot? Captain Hastings? Please be seated.”

We sat down. The room felt chilly. There was little light coming in from the one window and the dimness contributed to the cold atmosphere.

Lord Edgware had taken up a letter which I saw to be in my friend’s handwriting.

“I am familiar, of course, with your name, M. Poirot. Who is not?” Poirot bowed at the compliment. “But I cannot quite understand your position in this matter. You say that you wish to see me on behalf of”—he paused—“my wife.”

He said the last two words in a peculiar way—as though it were an effort to get them out.

“That is so,” said my friend.

“I understood that you were an investigator of—crime, M. Poirot?”

“Of problems, Lord Edgware. There are problems of crime, certainly. There are other problems.”

“Indeed. And what may this one be?”

The sneer in his words was palpable by now. Poirot took no notice of it.

“I have the honour to approach you on behalf of Lady Edgware,” he said. “Lady Edgware, as you may know, desires—a divorce.”

“I am quite aware of that,” said Lord Edgware coldly.

“Her suggestion was that you and I should dis

cuss the matter.”

“There is nothing to discuss.”

“You refuse, then?”

“Refuse? Certainly not.”

Whatever else Poirot had expected, he had not expected this. It is seldom that I have seen my friend utterly taken aback, but I did on this occasion. His appearance was ludicrous. His mouth fell open, his hands flew out, his eyebrows rose. He looked like a cartoon in a comic paper.

“Comment?” he cried. “What is this? You do not refuse?”

“I am at a loss to understand your astonishment, M. Poirot.”

“Ecoutez, you are willing to divorce your wife?”

“Certainly I am willing. She knows that perfectly well. I wrote and told her so.”

“You wrote and told her so?”

“Yes. Six months ago.”

“But I do not understand. I do not understand at all.”

Lord Edgware said nothing.

“I understood that you were opposed to the principle of divorce.”

“I do not see that my principles are your business, M. Poirot. It is true that I did not divorce my first wife. My conscience would not allow me to do so. My second marriage, I will admit frankly, was a mistake. When my wife suggested a divorce, I refused point blank. Six months ago she wrote to me again urging the point. I have an idea she wanted to marry again—some film actor or fellow of that kind. My views had, by this time, undergone modification. I wrote to her at Hollywood telling her so. Why she has sent you to me I cannot imagine. I suppose it is a question of money.”

His lips sneered again as he said the last words.

“Extremely curious,” muttered Poirot. “Extremely curious. There is something here I do not understand at all.”

“As regards money,” went on Lord Edgware. “My wife deserted me of her own accord. If she wishes to marry another man, I can set her free to do so, but there is no reason why she should receive a penny from me and she will not do so.”

“There is no question of any financial arrangement.”

Lord Edgware raised his eyebrows.

“Jane must be marrying a rich man,” he murmured cynically.

“There is something here that I do not understand,” said Poirot. His face was perplexed and wrinkled with the effort of thought. “I understood from Lady Edgware that she had approached you repeatedly through lawyers?”