Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“In this case quite natural, I should say,” said Poirot calmly.

“You mean because she’s guilty and knows it.”

“Not at all, I mean because of her temperament. First she gives you her conception of how the part of a wife suddenly learning of her husband’s death should be played. Then, having satisfied her histrionic instinct, her native shrewdness makes her send for a solicitor. That she creates an artificial scene and enjoys it is no proof of her guilt. It merely indicates that she is a born actress.”

“Well, she can’t be innocent. That’s sure.”

“You are very positive,” said Poirot. “I suppose that it must be so. She made no statement, you say? No statement at all?”

Japp grinned.

“Wouldn’t say a word without her solicitor. The maid telephoned for him. I left two of my men there and came along to you. I thought it just as well to get put wise to whatever there was going on before I went on with things.”

“And yet you are sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. But I like as many facts as possible. You see, there’s going to be a big splash made about this. No hole and corner business. All the papers will be full of it. And you know what papers are.”

“Talking of papers,” said Poirot. “How do you account for this, my dear friend. You have not read your morning paper very carefully.”

He leant across the table, his finger on a paragraph in the society news. Japp read the item aloud.

Sir Montagu Corner gave a very successful dinner party last night at his house on the river at Chiswick. Among those present were Sir George and Lady du Fisse, Mr. James Blunt, the well-known dramatic critic, Sir Oscar Hammerfeldt of the Overton Film Studios, Miss Jane Wilkinson (Lady Edgware) and others.

For a moment Japp looked taken aback. Then he rallied.

“What’s that got to do with it? This thing was sent to the Press beforehand. You’ll see. You’ll find that our lady wasn’t there, or that she came in late—eleven o’clock or so. Bless you sir, you mustn’t believe everything you see in the Press to be gospel. You of all people ought to know better than that.”

“Oh! I do, I do. It only struck me as curious, that was all.”

“These coincidences do happen. Now, M. Poirot, close as an oyster I know you to be by bitter experience. But you’ll come across with things, won’t you? You’ll tell me why Lord Edgware sent for you?”

Poirot shook his head.

“Lord Edgware did not send for me. It was I who requested him to give me an appointment.”

“Really? And for what reason?”

Poirot hesitated a minute.

“I will answer your question,” he said slowly. “But I should like to answer it in my own way.”

Japp groaned. I felt a sneaking sympathy with him. Poirot can be intensely irritating at times.

“I will request,” went on Poirot, “that you permit me to ring up a certain person and ask him to come here.”

“What person?”

“Mr. Bryan Martin.”

“The film star? What’s he got to do with it?”

“I think,” said Poirot, “that you may find what he has got to say interesting—and possibly helpful. Hastings, will you be so good?”

I took up the telephone book. The actor had a flat in a big block of buildings near St. James’ Park.

“Victoria 49499.”

The somewhat sleepy voice of Bryan Martin spoke after a few minutes.

“Hello—who’s speaking?”

“What am I to say?” I whispered, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.

“Tell him,” said Poirot, “that Lord Edgware has been murdered, and that I should esteem it a favour if he would come round here and see me immediately.”

I repeated this meticulously. There was a startled exclamation at the other end.

“My God,” said Martin. “So she’s done it then! I’ll come at once.”

“What did he say?” asked Poirot. I told him.

“Ah!” said Poirot. He seemed pleased. “So she’s done it then. That was what he said? Then it is as I thought, it is as I thought.”

Japp looked at him curiously.

“I can’t make you out, M. Poirot. First you sound as though you thought the woman might not have done it after all. And now you make out that you knew it all along.”

Poirot only smiled.

Six

THE WIDOW

Bryan Martin was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes he had joined us. During the time that we waited his arrival, Poirot would only talk of extraneous subjects and refused to satisfy Japp’s curiosity in the smallest degree.

Evidently our news had upset the young actor terribly. His face was white and drawn.

“Good heavens, M. Poirot,” he said as he shook hands. “This is a terrible business. I’m shocked to the core—and yet I can’t say I’m surprised. I’ve always half-suspected that something of this kind might happen. You may remember I was saying so yesterday.”

“Mais oui, mais oui,” said Poirot. “I remember perfectly what you said to me yesterday. Let me introduce you to Inspector Japp who is in charge of the case.”

Bryan Martin shot a glance of reproach at Poirot.

“I had no idea,” he murmured. “You should have warned me.”

He nodded coldly to the inspector.

He sat down, his lips pressed tightly together.

“I don’t see,” he objected, “why you asked me to come round. All this has nothing to do with me.”

“I think it has,” said Poirot gently. “In a case of murder one must put one’s private repugnancies behind one.”

“No, no. I’ve acted with Jane. I know her well. Dash it all, she’s a friend of mine.”

“And yet the moment that you hear Lord Edgware is murdered, you jump to the conclusion that it is she who has murdered him,” remarked Poirot dryly.

The actor started.

“Do you mean to say—?” His eyes seemed starting out of his head. “Do you mean to say that I’m wrong? That she had nothing to do with it?”

Japp broke in.

“No, no, Mr. Martin. She did it right enough.”

The young man sank back again in his chair.

“For a moment,” he murmured, “I thought I’d made the most ghastly mistake.”

“In a matter of this kind friendship must not be allowed to influence you,” said Poirot decisively.

“That’s all very well, but—”

“My friend, do you seriously wish to range yourself on the side of a woman who has murdered? Murder—the most repugnant of human crimes.”

Bryan Martin sighed.

“You don’t understand. Jane is not an ordinary murderess. She—she has no sense of right or wrong. Honestly she’s not responsible.”

“That’ll be a question for the jury,” said Japp.

“Come, come,” said Poirot kindly. “It is not as though you were accusing her. She is already accused. You cannot refuse to tell us what you know. You have a duty to society, young man.”

Bryan Martin sighed.

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. “What do you want me to tell you?”

Poirot looked at Japp.

“Have you ever heard Lady Edgware—or perhaps I’d better call her Miss Wilkinson—utter threats against her husband?” asked Japp.

“Yes, several times.”

“What did she say?”

“She said that if he didn’t give her her freedom she’d have to ‘bump him off.’”

“And that was not a joke, eh?”

“No. I think she meant it seriously. Once she said she’d take a taxi and go round and kill him—you heard that, M. Poirot?”

He appealed pathetically to my friend.

Poirot nodded.

Japp went on with his questions.

“Now, Mr. Martin, we’ve been informed that she wanted her freedom in order to marry another man. Do you know who that man was?”

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Bryan nodded.

“Who?”

“It was—the Duke of Merton.”

“The Duke of Merton! Whew!” The detective whistled. “Flying at high game, eh? Why, he’s said to be one of the richest men in England.”

Bryan nodded more dejectedly than ever.

I could not quite understand Poirot’s attitude. He was lying back in his chair, his fingers pressed together and the rhythmic motion of his head suggested the complete approval of a man who has put a chosen record on the gramophone and is enjoying the result.

“Wouldn’t her husband divorce her?”

“No, he refused absolutely.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“Yes.”

“And now,” said Poirot, suddenly taking part once more in the proceedings, “you see where I come in, my good Japp. I was asked by Lady Edgware to see her husband and try and get him to agree to a divorce. I had an appointment for this morning.”

Bryan Martin shook his head.

“It would have been of no use,” he declared confidently. “Edgware would never have agreed.”

“You think not?” said Poirot, turning an amiable glance on him.

“Sure of it. Jane knew that in her heart of hearts. She’d no real confidence that you’d succeed. She’d given up hope. The man was a monomaniac on the subject of divorce.”

Poirot smiled. His eyes grew suddenly very green.

“You are wrong, my dear young man,” he said gently. “I saw Lord Edgware yesterday, and he agreed to a divorce.”

There was no doubt that Bryan Martin was completely dumbfounded by this piece of news. He stared at Poirot with his eyes almost starting out of his head.