Looking dumbfounded, Hastings joined him there.
Poirot beamed. ‘It intrigues you what I do there, yes? Tell me, Hastings, what is it that I have here in this vase?’
‘Why, spills, of course,’ Hastings replied in a tone of tremendous irony.
‘No, mon ami, it is cheese.’
‘Cheese?’
‘Precisely, my friend, cheese.’
‘I say, Poirot,’ Hastings enquired sarcastically, ‘you’re all right, aren’t you? I mean, you haven’t got a headache or anything?’
Poirot’s reply ignored his friend’s frivolous question. ‘For what do you use cheese, Hastings? I will tell you, mon ami. You use it to bait a mousetrap. We wait now for one thing only – the mouse.’
‘And the mouse –’
‘The mouse will come, my friend,’ Poirot assured Hastings. ‘Rest assured of that. I have sent him a message. He will not fail to respond.’
Before Hastings had time to react to Poirot’s cryptic announcement, the door opened and Edward Raynor entered the room. ‘Oh, you’re here, Monsieur Poirot,’ the secretary observed. ‘And Captain Hastings also. Inspector Japp would like to speak to you both upstairs.’
Chapter 19
‘We will come at once,’ Poirot replied. Followed by Hastings, he walked to the door, as Raynor entered the library and crossed to the fireplace. At the door, Poirot suddenly wheeled round to look at the secretary. ‘By the way, Mr Raynor,’ the detective asked, as he moved back to the centre of the room, ‘do you by any chance know whether Dr Carelli was here in the library at all this morning?’
‘Yes, he was,’ Raynor told the detective. ‘I found him here.’
‘Ah!’ Poirot seemed pleased at this. ‘And what was he doing?’
‘He was telephoning, I believe.’
‘Was he telephoning when you came in?’
‘No, he was just coming back into the room. He had been in Sir Claud’s study.’
Poirot considered this for a moment, and then asked Raynor, ‘Where exactly were you then? Can you remember?’
Still standing by the fireplace, Raynor replied, ‘Oh, somewhere about here, I think.’
‘Did you hear any of Dr Carelli’s conversation on the phone?’
‘No,’ said the secretary. ‘He made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be alone, so I cleared out.’
‘I see.’ Poirot hesitated, and then took a notebook and pencil from his pocket. Writing a few words on a page, he tore it out. ‘Hastings!’ he called.
Hastings, who had been hovering by the door, came to him, and Poirot gave his friend the folded page. ‘Would you be so kind as to take that up to Inspector Japp?’
Raynor watched Hastings leave the room on his errand, and then asked, ‘What was that all about?’
Putting the notebook and pencil back in his pocket, Poirot replied, ‘I told Japp that I would be with him in a few minutes, and that I might be able to tell him the name of the murderer.’
‘Really? You know who it is?’ asked Raynor in a state of some excitement.
There was a momentary pause. Hercule Poirot seemed to hold the secretary under the spell of his personality. Raynor watched the detective, fascinated, as he slowly began to speak. ‘Yes, I think I know who the murderer is – at last,’ Poirot announced. ‘I am reminded of another case, not so long ago. Never shall I forget the killing of Lord Edgware. I was nearly defeated – yes, I, Hercule Poirot! – by the extremely simple cunning of a vacant brain. You see, Monsieur Raynor, the very simple-minded have often the genius to commit an uncomplicated crime and then leave it alone. Let us hope that the murderer of Sir Claud, on the other hand, is intelligent and superior and thoroughly pleased with himself and unable to resist – how do you say? – painting the lily.’ Poirot’s eyes lit up in vivid animation.
‘I’m not sure that I understand you,’ said Raynor. ‘Do you mean that it’s not Mrs Amory?’
‘No, it is not Mrs Amory,’ Poirot told him. ‘That is why I wrote my little note. That poor lady has suffered enough. She must be spared any further questioning.’
Raynor looked thoughtful, and then exclaimed, ‘Then I’ll bet it’s Carelli. Yes?’
Poirot wagged a finger at him playfully. ‘Monsieur Raynor, you must permit me to keep my little secrets until the last moment.’ Taking out a handkerchief, he mopped his brow. ‘Mon Dieu, how hot it is today!’ he complained.
‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Raynor. ‘I’m forgetting my manners. I should have offered you one earlier.’
Poirot beamed. ‘You are very kind. I will have a whisky, please, if I may.’
‘Certainly. Just a moment.’ Raynor left the room, while Poirot wandered across to the french windows and looked out into the garden for a moment. Then, moving to the settee, he shook the cushions, before drifting across to the mantelpiece to examine the ornaments. In a few moments Raynor returned with two whiskies and sodas on a tray. He watched as Poirot lifted a hand to an ornament on the mantelpiece.
‘This is a valuable antique, I fancy,’ Poirot remarked, picking up a jug.
‘Is it?’ was Raynor’s uninterested comment. ‘I don’t know much about that kind of thing. Come and have a drink,’ he suggested as he set his tray down on the coffee table.
‘Thank you,’ murmured Poirot, joining him there.
‘Well, here’s luck,’ said Raynor, taking a glass and drinking.
With a bow, Poirot raised the other glass to his lips. ‘To you, my friend. And now let me tell you of my suspicions. I first realized that –’
He broke off suddenly, jerking his head over his shoulder as though some sound had caught his ear. Looking first at the door and then at Raynor, he put his finger to his lips, indicating that he thought someone might be eavesdropping.
Raynor nodded in comprehension. The two men crept stealthily up to the door, and Poirot gestured to the secretary to remain in the room. Poirot opened the door sharply and bounced outside, but returned immediately looking extremely crestfallen. ‘Surprising,’ he admitted to Raynor. ‘I could have sworn I heard something. Ah well, I made a mistake. It does not happen very often. A votre santé, my friend.’ He drained the contents of his glass.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Raynor, as he also drank.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Poirot.
‘Nothing. A load off my mind, that is all.’
Poirot moved to the table and put his glass down. ‘Do you know, Monsieur Raynor,’ he confided, ‘to be absolutely honest with you, I have never become quite used to your English national drink, the whisky. The taste, it pleases me not. It is bitter.’ He moved to the arm-chair and sat.
‘Really? I’m so sorry. Mine didn’t taste at all bitter.’ Raynor put his glass down on the coffee table, and continued, ‘I think you were about to tell me something just now, we
re you not?’
Poirot looked surprised. ‘Was I? What can it have been? Can I have forgotten already? I think that perhaps I wanted to explain to you how I proceed in an investigation. Voyons! One fact leads to another, so we continue. Does the next one fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact – no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing – a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that perhaps paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!’ Poirot made an extravagant gesture to his head with his hand. ‘It is significant! It is tremendous!’
‘Y-es, I see,’ Raynor murmured dubiously.
Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely in Raynor’s face that the secretary almost quailed before it. ‘Ah, beware! Peril to the detective who says, “It is so small – it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.” That way lies confusion! Everything matters.’ Poirot suddenly stopped, and tapped his head. ‘Ah! Now I remember what I wanted to talk to you about. It was one of those small, unimportant little facts. I wanted to talk to you, Monsieur Raynor, about dust.’
Raynor smiled politely. ‘Dust?’
‘Precisely. Dust,’ Poirot repeated. ‘My friend Hastings, he reminded me just now that I am a detective and not a housemaid. He thought himself very clever to make such a remark, but I am not so sure. The housemaid and the detective, after all, have something in common. The housemaid, what does she do? She explores all the dark corners with her broom. She brings into the light of day all the hidden things that have rolled conveniently out of sight. Does not the detective do much the same?’
Raynor looked bored, but murmured, ‘Very interesting, Monsieur Poirot.’ He moved to the chair by the table and sat, before asking, ‘But – is that all you were intending to say?’