Black Coffee (Hercule Poirot 7)

When the two men had departed, Hastings rose from the settee and approached Poirot, bursting with suppressed excitement. ‘I say!’ he exclaimed. ‘Poison, eh?’

‘What, my dear Hastings?’ asked Poirot.

‘Poison, surely!’ Hastings repeated, nodding his head vigorously.

Chapter 9

Poirot surveyed his friend with an amused twinkle in his eye. ‘How dramatic you are, my dear Hastings!’ he exclaimed. ‘With what swiftness and brilliance you leap to conclusions!’

‘Now then, Poirot,’ Hastings protested, ‘you can’t put me off that way. You’re not going to pretend that you think the old fellow died of heart disease. What happened last night positively leaps to the eye. But I must say Richard Amory can’t be a very bright sort of chap. The possibility of poison doesn’t seem to have occurred to him.’

‘You think not, my friend?’ asked Poirot.

‘I spotted it last night, when Dr Graham announced that he couldn’t issue a death certificate and said that there would have to be an autopsy.’

Poirot gave a slight sigh. ‘Yes, yes,’ he murmured placatingly. ‘It is the result of the autopsy that Dr Graham comes to announce this morning. We shall know whether you are right or not in a very few minutes.’ Poirot seemed to be about to say something further, but then checked himself. He moved to the mantelpiece, and began to adjust the vase containing the spills used for lighting the fire.

Hastings watched him affectionately. ‘I say, Poirot,’ he laughed, ‘what a fellow you are for neatness.’

‘Is not the effect more pleasing now?’ asked Poirot, as he surveyed the mantelpiece with his head on one side.

Hastings snorted. ‘I can’t say it worried me greatly before.’

‘Beware!’ said Poirot, shaking an admonishing finger at him. ‘The symmetry, it is everything. Everywhere there should be neatness and order, especially in the little grey cells of the brain.’ He tapped his head as he spoke.

‘Oh, come on, don’t leap onto your hobby horse,’ Hastings begged him. ‘Just tell me what your precious little grey cells make of this business.’

Poirot moved to the settee, and sat before replying. He regarded Hastings steadily, his eyes narrowing like a cat’s until they showed only a gleam of green. ‘If you would use your grey cells, and attempt to see the whole case clearly – as I attempt to do – you would perhaps perceive the truth, my friend,’ he announced smugly. ‘However,’ he continued, in a tone which suggested that he considered he was behaving with great magnanimity, ‘before Dr Graham arrives, let us first hear the ideas of my friend Hastings.’

‘Well,’ Hastings began, eagerly, ‘the key being found under the secretary’s chair is suspicious.’

‘You think so, do you, Hastings?’

‘Of course,’ his friend replied. ‘Highly suspicious. But, on the whole, I plump for the Italian.’

‘Ah!’ Poirot murmured. ‘The mysterious Dr Carelli.’

‘Mysterious, exactly,’ Hastings continued. ‘That’s precisely the right word for him. What is he doing, down here in the country? I’ll tell you. He was after Sir Claud Amory’s formula. He’s almost certainly the emissary of a foreign government. You know the kind of thing I mean.’

‘I do, indeed, Hastings,’ Poirot responded with a smile. ‘After all, I do occasionally go to the cinema, you know.’

‘And if it turns out that Sir Claud was indeed poisoned’ – Hastings was now well into his stride – ‘it makes Dr Carelli more than ever the prime suspect. Remember the Borgias? Poison is a very Italian sort of crime. But what I’m afraid of is that Carelli will get away with the formula in his possession.’

‘He will not do that, my friend,’ said Poirot, shaking his head.

‘How on earth can you be so sure?’ Hastings enquired.

Poirot leaned back in his chair, and brought the tips of his fingers together in his familiar manner. ‘I do not exactly know, Hastings,’ he admitted. ‘I cannot be sure, of course. But I have a little idea.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Where do you think that formula is now, my clever collaborator?’ Poirot asked.

‘How should I know?’

Poirot looked at Hastings for a moment, as though giving his friend a chance to consider the question. Then, ‘Think, my friend,’ he said encouragingly. ‘Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. That is the secret of success.’ When Hastings merely shook his head with a perplexed air, the detective attempted to give his colleague a clue. ‘There is only one place where it can be,’ Poirot told him.

‘And where is that, for heaven’s sake?’ Hastings asked, with a distinct note of irritation in his voice.

‘In this room, of course,’ Poirot announced, a triumphant Cheshire cat-like grin appearing on his face.

‘What on earth do you mean?’

‘But yes, Hastings. Just consider the facts. We know from the good Tredwell that Sir Claud took certain precautions to prevent the formula from being removed from this room. When he sprang his little surprise and announced our imminent arrival, it is quite certain, therefore, that the thief still had the formula on his person. What must he do? He dare not risk having it found on him when I arrived. He can do only two things. He can return it, in the manner suggested by Sir Claud, or else he can hide it somewhere, under cover of that one minute of total darkness. Since he did not do the first, he must have done the second. Voilà! It is obvious to me that the formula is hidden in this room.’

‘By God, Poirot,’ Hastings exclaimed in great excitement, ‘I believe you’re right! Let’s look for it.’ He rose quickly, and moved to the desk.

‘By all means, if it amuses you,’ Poirot responded. ‘But there is someone who will be able to find it more easily than you can.’

‘Oh, and who is that?’ asked Hastings.

Poirot twirled his moustache with enormous energy. ‘Why, the person who hid it, parbleu!’ he exclaimed, accompanying his words with the kind of gesture more suitably employed by a magician pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

‘You mean that –’

‘I mean,’ Poirot explained patiently to his colleague, ‘that sooner or later the thief will try to recapture his booty. One or the other of us, therefore, must constantly remain on guard –’ Hearing the door being opened slowly and cautiously, he broke off, and beckoned Hastings to join him by the gramophone, out of the immediate sight of anyone entering the room.

Chapter 10

The door opened, and Barbara Amory entered the room cautiously. Taking a chair from near the wall, she placed it in front of the bookcase, climbed on it, and reached for the tin box containing the drugs. At that moment, Hastings suddenly sneezed, and Barbara, with a start, dropped the box. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed in some confusion. ‘I didn’t know there was anyone here.’

Hastings rushed forward and retrieved the box, which Poirot then took from him. ‘Permit me, mademoiselle,’ said the detective. ‘I am sure that is too heavy for you.’ He moved to the table and placed the tin box upon it. ‘It is a little collection of yours?’ he asked. ‘The birds’ eggs? The sea shells, perhaps?’

‘I’m afraid it’s much more prosaic, Monsieur Poirot,’ replied Barbara, with a nervous laugh. ‘Nothing but pills and powders!’

‘But surely,’ said Poirot, ‘one so young, so full of health and vigour, has no need of these bagatelles?’

‘Oh, it’s not for me,’ Barbara assured him. ‘It’s for Lucia. She’s got such an awful headache this morning.’

‘La pauvre dame,’ murmured Poirot, his voice dripping with sympathy. ‘She sent you for these pills, then?’

‘Yes,’ replied Barbara. ‘I gave her a couple of aspirin, but she wanted some real dope. I said I’d bring up the whole outfit – that is, if no one were here.’

Poirot, leaning his hands on the box, spoke thoughtfully. ‘If no one were here. Why would that matter, mademoiselle?’

‘Well, you know what it is in a place like this,’ Barb

ara explained. ‘Fuss, fuss, fuss! I mean, Aunt Caroline for instance is like a clucky old hen! And Richard’s a damned nuisance and completely useless into the bargain, as men always are when you’re ill.’

Poirot nodded in comprehension. ‘I understand, I understand,’ he told Barbara, bowing his head as a sign that he accepted her explanation. He rubbed his fingers along the lid of the case containing the drugs, and then looked quickly at his hands. Pausing for a moment, he cleared his throat with a slightly affected sound, and then went on, ‘Do you know, mademoiselle, that you are very fortunate in your domestic servants?’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Barbara.

Poirot showed her the tin box. ‘See –’ he pointed out, ‘on this box there is no speck of dust. To mount on a chair and bother to dust so high up there – not all domestics would be so conscientious.’

‘Yes,’ Barbara agreed. ‘I thought it odd last night that it wasn’t dusty.’

‘You had this case of drugs down last night?’ Poirot asked her.

‘Yes, after dinner. It’s full of old hospital stuff, you know.’

‘Let us have a look at these hospital drugs,’ suggested Poirot as he opened the box. Taking out some phials and holding them up, he raised his eyebrows exaggeratedly. ‘Strychnine – atropine – a very pretty little collection! Ah! Here is a tube of hyoscine, nearly empty!’

‘What?’ exclaimed Barbara. ‘Why, they were all full last night. I’m sure they were.’

‘Voilà!’ Poirot held out a tube to her, and then replaced it in the box. ‘This is very curious. You say that all these little – what do you call them – phials – were full? Where exactly was this case of drugs last night, mademoiselle?’

‘Well, when we took it down, we placed it on this table,’ Barbara informed him. ‘And Dr Carelli was looking through the drugs, commenting on them and –’

She broke off as Lucia entered the room. Richard Amory’s wife looked surprised to see the two men. Her pale, proud face seemed careworn in the daylight, and there was something wistful in the curve of her mouth. Barbara hastened to her. ‘Oh, darling, you shouldn’t have got up,’ she told Lucia. ‘I was just coming up to you.’

‘My headache is much better, Barbara dear,’ Lucia replied, her eyes fixed on Poirot. ‘I came down because I want to speak to Monsieur Poirot.’

‘But, my pet, don’t you think you should –’