The Mysterious Affair at Styles (Hercule Poirot 1)

CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS

As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentlepressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for theScotland Yard men.

In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, andaccosted the shorter of the two.

"I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp."

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Poirot!" cried the Inspector. He turned to theother man. "You've heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and Iworked together--the Abercrombie forgery case--you remember, he wasrun down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do youremember 'Baron' Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eludedthe clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him inAntwerp--thanks to Mr. Poirot here."

As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer,and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn,introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.

"I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen," remarked Poirot.

Japp closed one eye knowingly.

"No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say."

But Poirot answered gravely:

"There I differ from you."

"Oh, come!" said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time."Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man's caughtred-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!"

But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.

"Hold your fire, Summerhaye," he remarked jocularly. "Me and Moosierhere have met before--and there's no man's judgment I'd sooner takethan his. If I'm not greatly mistaken, he's got something up his sleeve.Isn't that so, moosier?"

Poirot smiled.

"I have drawn certain conclusions--yes."

Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical, but Japp continued hisscrutiny of Poirot.

"It's this way," he said, "so far, we've only seen the case from theoutside. That's where the Yard's at a disadvantage in a case of thiskind, where the murder's only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lotdepends on being on the spot first thing, and that's where Mr. Poirot'shad the start of us. We shouldn't have been here as soon as this even,if it hadn't been for the fact that there was a smart doctor on thespot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you've been on thespot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. Fromthe evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure asI stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I'd laugh inhis face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn't bring it in WilfulMurder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn't beenfor the Coroner--he seemed to be holding them back."

"Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his arrest in your pocket now,"suggested Poirot.

A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down from Japp's expressivecountenance.

"Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven't," he remarked dryly.

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

"I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not be arrested."

"I dare say," observed Summerhaye sarcastically.

Japp was regarding Poirot with comical perplexity.

"Can't you go a little further, Mr. Poirot? A wink's as good as anod--from you. You've been on the spot--and the Yard doesn't want tomake any mistakes, you know."

Poirot nodded gravely.

"That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use yourwarrant: Arrest Mr. Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos--the caseagainst him will be dismissed at once! _Comme ça!_" And he snapped hisfingers expressively.

Japp's face grew grave, though Summerhaye gave an incredulous snort.

As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only concludethat Poirot was mad.

Japp had taken out a handkerchief, and was gently dabbing his brow.

"I daren't do it, Mr. Poirot. I'd take your word, but there's othersover me who'll be asking what the devil I mean by it. Can't you give mea little more to go on?"

Poirot reflected a moment.

"It can be done," he said at last. "I admit I do not wish it. Itforces my hand. I would have preferred to work in the dark just for thepresent, but what you say is very just--the word of a Belgian policeman,whose day is past, is not enough! And Alfred Inglethorp must not bearrested. That I have sworn, as my friend Hastings here knows. See,then, my good Japp, you go at once to Styles?"

"Well, in about half an hour. We're seeing the Coroner and the doctorfirst."

"Good. Call for me in passing--the last house in the village. I will gowith you. At Styles, Mr. Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses--asis probable--I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that thecase against him could not possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?"

"That's a bargain," said Japp heartily. "And, on behalf of the Yard, I'mmuch obliged to you, though I'm bound to confess I can't at present seethe faintest possible loop-hole in the evidence, but you always were amarvel! So long, then, moosier."

The two detectives strode away, Summerhaye with an incredulous grin onhis face.

"Well, my friend," cried Poirot, before I could get in a word, "what doyou think? _Mon Dieu!_ I had some warm moments in that court; I did notfigure to myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to refuse to sayanything at all. Decidedly, it was the policy of an imbecile."

"H'm! There are other explanations besides that of imbecility," Iremarked. "For, if the case against him is true, how could he defendhimself except by silence?"

"Why, in a thousand ingenious ways," cried Poirot. "See; say that it isI who have committed this murder, I can think of seven most plausiblestories! Far more convincing than Mr. Inglethorp's stony denials!"

I could not help laughing.

"My dear Poirot, I am sure you are capable of thinking of seventy!But, seriously, in spite of what I heard you say to the detectives, yousurely cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred Inglethorp'sinnocence?"

"Why not now as much as before? Nothing has changed."

"But the evidence is so conclusive."

"Yes, too conclusive."

We turned in at the gate of Leastways Cottage, and proceeded up the nowfamiliar stairs.

"Yes, yes, too conclusive," continued Poirot, almost to himself."Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory. It has to beexamined--sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, myfriend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured--so cleverlythat it has defeated its own ends."

"How do you make that out?"

"Because, so long as the evidence against him was vague and intangible,it was very hard to disprove. But, in his anxiety, the criminal hasdrawn the net so closely that one cut will set Inglethorp free."

I was silent. And in a minute or two, Poirot continued:

"Let us look at the matter like this. Here is a man, let us say, whosets out to poison his wife. He has lived by his wits as the sayinggoes. Presumably, therefore, he has some wits. He is not altogethera fool. Well, how does he set about it? He goes boldly to the villagechemist's and purchases strychnine under his own name, with a trumped upstory about a dog which is bound to be proved absurd. He does not employthe poison that night. No, he waits until he has had a violent quarrelwith her, of which the whole household is cognisant, and which naturallydirects their suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence--no shadowof an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's assistant must necessarily comeforward with the facts. Bah! Do not ask me to believe that any man couldbe so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to commit suicide by causinghimself to be hanged, would act so!"

"Still--I do not see--" I began.

"Neither do I see. I tell you, _mon ami_, it puzzles me. _Me_--HerculePoirot!"

"But if you believe him innocent, how do you explain his buying thestrychnine?"

"Very simply. He did _not_ buy it."

"But Mace recognized him!"

"I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black beard

like Mr.Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses like Mr. Inglethorp, and dressed inMr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a manwhom he had probably only seen in the distance, since, you remember, hehimself had only been in the village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorpdealt principally with Coot's in Tadminster."

"Then you think----"

"_Mon ami_, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? Leave thefirst one for the moment, what was the second?"

"The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears peculiar clothes, has ablack beard, and uses glasses," I quoted.

"Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John orLawrence Cavendish. Would it be easy?"

"No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor----"

But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly.

"And why would it not be easy? I will tell you, my friend: Because theyare both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully as one of thesetwo in broad daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a certaininitial facial resemblance. But in the case of Alfred Inglethorp, allthat is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide hiseyes--those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now,what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion fromhimself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing iton someone else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand.Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It wasa foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a surething there must be tangible proof--such as the actual buying ofthe poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr.Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had neveractually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man inhis clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"

"It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if thatwas the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Mondayevening?"

"Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, heprobably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must makehim see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, somethingdiscreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, heis, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal,quite apart from the murder."

"What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment,although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deductionwas the correct one.

"Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling.

"No, can you?"

"Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago--and it has turned out to becorrect."

"You never told me," I said reproachfully.

Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.