Black Coffee (Hercule Poirot 7)

‘What about earlier in the evening, Monsieur Amory?’

‘Earlier in the evening?’

‘Yes,’ Poirot reminded him. ‘After dinner.’

‘Oh, that!’ said Richard. ‘There’s really nothing more to tell. My father and his secretary, Raynor – Edward Raynor – went straight into my father’s study. The rest of us were in here.’

Poirot beamed at Richard encouragingly. ‘And you did – what?’

‘Oh, we just talked. We had the gramophone on for most of the time.’

Poirot thought for a moment. Then, ‘Nothing took place that strikes you as worth recalling?’ he asked.

‘Nothing whatever,’ Richard affirmed very quickly.

Watching him closely, Poirot pressed on. ‘When was the coffee served?’

‘Immediately after dinner,’ was Richard’s reply.

Poirot made a circular motion with his hand. ‘Did the butler hand it around, or did he leave it here to be poured out?’

‘I really can’t remember,’ said Richard.

Poirot gave a slight sigh. He thought for a moment, and then asked, ‘Did you all take coffee?’

‘Yes, I think so. All except Raynor, that is. He doesn’t drink coffee.’

‘And Sir Claud’s coffee was taken to him in the study?’

‘I suppose so,’ replied Richard with some irritation beginning to show in his voice. ‘Are all these details really necessary?’

Poirot lifted his arms in a gesture of apology. ‘I am so sorry,’ he said. ‘It is just that I am very anxious to get the whole picture straight in my mind’s eye. And, after all, we do want to get this precious formula back, do we not?’

‘I suppose so,’ was again Richard’s rather sullen rejoinder, at which Poirot’s eyebrows shot up exaggeratedly and he uttered an exclamation of surprise. ‘No, of course, of course, we do,’ Richard hastened to add.

Poirot, looking away from Richard Amory, asked, ‘Now, when did Sir Claud come from the study into this room?’

‘Just as they were trying to get that door open,’ Amory told him.

‘They?’ queried Poirot, rounding on him.

‘Yes. Raynor and the others.’

‘May I ask who wanted it opened?’

‘My wife, Lucia,’ said Richard. ‘She hadn’t been feeling well all the evening.’

Poirot’s tone was sympathetic as he replied, ‘La pauvre dame! I hope she finds herself better this morning? There are one or two things I urgently desire to ask her.’

‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,’ said Richard. ‘She’s not up to seeing anyone, or answering any questions. In any case, there’s nothing she could tell you that I couldn’t.’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ Poirot assured him. ‘But women, Monsieur Amory, have a great capacity for observing things in detail. Still, doubtless your aunt, Miss Amory, will do as well.’

‘She’s in bed,’ said Richard hastily. ‘My father’s death was a great shock to her.’

‘Yes, I see,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. There was a pause. Richard, looking distinctly uncomfortable, rose and turned to the french windows. ‘Let’s have some air,’ he announced. ‘It’s very hot in here.’

‘Ah, you are like all the English,’ Poirot declared, smiling. ‘The good open air, you will not leave it in the open. No! It must be brought inside the house.’

‘You don’t mind, I hope?’ Richard asked.

‘Me?’ said Poirot. ‘No, of course not. I have adopted all the English habits. Everywhere, I am taken for an Englishman.’ On the settee, Hastings could not help but smile to himself. ‘But, pardon me, Monsieur Amory, is not that window locked by some ingenious device?’

‘Yes, it is,’ replied Richard, ‘but the key to it is on my father’s bunch of keys which I have here.’ Taking a bunch of keys from his pocket, he moved to the french windows and undid the catch, flinging the windows open wide.

Moving away from him, Poirot sat on the stool, well away from the french windows and the fresh air, and shivered, while Richard took a deep breath of air and then s

tood for a moment, looking out at the garden, before coming back to Poirot with the air of someone who has arrived at a decision.

‘Monsieur Poirot,’ Richard Amory declared, ‘I won’t beat about the bush. I know my wife begged you last night to remain, but she was upset and hysterical, and hardly knew what she was doing. I’m the person concerned, and I tell you frankly that I don’t care a damn about the formula. My father was a rich man. This discovery of his was worth a great deal of money, but I don’t need more than I’ve got, and I can’t pretend to share his enthusiasm in the matter. There are explosives enough in the world already.’

‘I see,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully.

‘What I say,’ continued Richard, ‘is that we should let the whole thing drop.’

Poirot’s eyebrows shot up, as he made his familiar gesture of surprise. ‘You prefer that I should depart?’ he asked. ‘That I should make no further investigations?’

‘Yes, that’s it.’ Richard Amory sounded uncomfortable, as he half turned away from Poirot.

‘But,’ the detective persisted, ‘whoever stole the formula would not do so in order to make no use of it.’

‘No,’ Richard admitted. He turned back to Poirot. ‘But still –’

Slowly and meaningfully, Poirot continued, ‘Then you do not object to the – how shall I put it – the stigma?’

‘Stigma?’ exclaimed Richard sharply.

‘Five people –’ Poirot explained to him, ‘five people had the opportunity of stealing the formula. Until one is proved guilty, the other four cannot be proved innocent.’

Tredwell had entered the room while Poirot was speaking. As Richard began to stammer irresolutely, ‘I – that is –’ the butler interrupted him.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said to his employer, ‘but Dr Graham is here, and would like to see you.’

Clearly glad of the opportunity to escape further questioning from Poirot, Richard replied, ‘I’ll come at once,’ moving to the door as he spoke. Turning to Poirot, he asked, formally, ‘Would you excuse me, please?’ as he left with Tredwell.