Black Coffee (Hercule Poirot 7)

The room remained in darkness. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a loud knock at the door leading to the hall. Lucia screamed again. As though in response, the lights suddenly came on again.

Richard was now standing by the door, apparently unable to decide whether or not to attempt to open it. Edward Raynor was on his feet by his chair, which had overturned. Lucia lay back in her chair, as though about to faint.

Sir Claud sat absolutely still in his arm-chair, with his eyes closed. His secretary suddenly pointed to the table beside his employer. ‘Look,’ he exclaimed. ‘The formula.’

On the table beside Sir Claud was a long envelope, of the type he had earlier described.

‘Thank God!’ cried Lucia. ‘Thank God!’

There was another knock at the door, which now opened slowly. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the doorway, as Tredwell ushered in a stranger, and then withdrew.

The assembled company stared at the stranger. What they saw was an extraordinary-looking little man, hardly more than five feet four inches in height, who carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he carried it at a slight angle, like an enquiring terrier. His moustache was distinctly stiff and military. He was very neatly dressed.

‘Hercule Poirot, at your service,’ said the stranger, and bowed.

Richard Amory held out a hand. ‘Monsieur Poirot,’ he said as they shook hands.

‘Sir Claud?’ asked Poirot. ‘Ah, no, you are too young, of course. You are his son, perhaps?’ He moved past Richard into the centre of the room. Behind him, another man, tall, middle-aged and of military bearing, had unobtrusively entered. As he moved to Poirot’s side, the detective announced, ‘My colleague, Captain Hastings.’

‘What a delightful room,’ Hastings observed as he shook hands with Richard Amory.

Richard turned back to Poirot. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot,’ he said, ‘but I fear we have brought you down here under a misapprehension. The need for your services has passed.’

‘Indeed?’ replied Poirot. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Richard continued. ‘It’s too bad, dragging you all the way down here from London. Of course, your fee – and expenses – I mean – er, that’ll be all right, of course –’

‘I comprehend perfectly,’ said Poirot, ‘but for the moment it is neither my fee nor my expenses which interests me.’

‘No? Then what – er –?’

‘What does interest me, Mr Amory? I will tell you. It is just a little point, of no consequence, of course. But it was your father who sent for me to come. Why is it not he who tells me to go?’

‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry,’ said Richard, turning towards Sir Claud. ‘Father, would you please tell Monsieur Poirot that we no longer have any need of his services?’

Sir Claud did not answer.

‘Father!’ Richard exclaimed, moving quickly to Sir Claud’s arm-chair. He bent over his father, and then turned around wildly. ‘Dr Carelli,’ he called.

Miss Amory rose, white-faced. Carelli swiftly crossed to Sir Claud, and felt his pulse. Frowning, he placed his hand over Sir Claud’s heart, and then shook his head.

Poirot moved slowly to the arm-chair, and stood looking down at the motionless body of the scientist. ‘Ye-es – I fear –,’ he murmured, as though to himself, ‘I very much fear –’

‘What do you fear?’ asked Barbara, moving towards him.

Poirot looked at her. ‘I fear that Sir Claud has sent for me too late, mademoiselle.’

Chapter 6

Stunned silence followed Hercule Poirot’s statement. Dr Carelli continued his examination of Sir Claud for a few moments before straightening himself and turning to the others. Addressing Richard Amory, ‘I am afraid your father is dead,’ he confirmed.

Richard stared at him in disbelief, as though he were unable to take in the Italian doctor’s words. Then, ‘My God – what was it? Heart failure?’ he asked.

‘I – I suppose so,’ replied Carelli somewhat doubtfully.

Barbara moved to her aunt to comfort her, for Miss Amory seemed about to faint. Edward Raynor joined them, helping to support Miss Amory, and whispering to Barbara as he did so, ‘I suppose that fellow is a real doctor?’

‘Yes, but only an Italian one,’ Barbara murmured in reply, as between them they settled Miss Amory into a chair. Overhearing Barbara’s remark, Poirot shook his head energetically. Then, stroking his luxuriant moustache with exquisite care, he smiled as he commented, softly, ‘Me, I am a detective – but only a Belgian one. Nevertheless, mademoiselle, we foreigners do arrive at the correct answer occasionally.’

Barbara had the grace to look at least a trifle embarrassed. She and Raynor remained in conversation for a few moments, but then Lucia approached Poirot, taking his arm and drawing him aside from the others.

‘Monsieur Poirot,’ she urged him breathlessly, ‘you must stay! You must not let them send you away.’

Poirot regarded her steadily. His face remained quite impassive as he asked her, ‘Is it that you wish me to stay, madame?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied Lucia, glancing anxiously towards the body of Sir Claud still seated in its upright position in the arm-chair. ‘There’s something wrong about all this. My father-in-law’s heart was perfectly all right. Perfectly, I tell you. Please, Monsieur Poirot, you must find out what has happened.’

Dr Carelli and Richard Amory continued to hover near the body of Sir Claud. Richard, in an agony of indecision, appeared to be almost petrified into immobility. ‘I would suggest, Mr Amory,’ Dr Carelli urged him, ‘that you send for your father’s own physician. I assume he had one?’

Richard roused himself with an effort. ‘What? Oh yes,’ he responded. ‘Dr Graham. Young Kenneth Graham. He has a practice in the village. In fact, he’s rather keen on my cousin Barbara. I mean – sorry, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?’ Glancing across the room at Barbara, he called to her. ‘What’s Kenneth Graham’s phone number?’

‘Market Cleve five,’ Barbara told him. Richard moved to the phone, lifted the receiver and asked for the number. While he was waiting to be connected, Edward Raynor, recalling his secretarial duties, asked Richard, ‘Do you think I should order the car for Monsieur Poirot?’

Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. He was about to speak when Lucia forestalled him. ‘Monsieur Poirot is remaining – at my request,’ she announced to the company in general.

Still holding the telephone receiver to his ear, Richard turned, startled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked his wife tersely.

‘Yes, yes, Richard, he must stay,’ Lucia insisted. Her voice sounded almost hysterical.

Miss Amory looked up in consternation, Barbara and Edward Raynor exchanged worried glances, Dr Carelli stood looking down thoughtfully at the lifeless body of the great scientist, while Hastings, who had been absent-mindedly examining the books on the library shelves, turned to survey the gathering.

Richard was about to respond to Lucia’s outburst when his attention was claimed by the telephone he was holding. ‘Oh what . . . Is that Dr Graham?’ he asked. ‘Kenneth, it’s Richard Amory speaking. My father has had a heart attack. Can you come up at once? . . . Well, actually, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done . . . Yes, he’s dead . . . No . . . I’m afraid so . . . Thank you.’ Replacing the receiver, he crossed the room to his wife and, in a low, agitated voice, muttered, ‘Lucia, are you mad? What have you done? Don’t you realize we must get rid of this detective?’

Astonished, Lucia rose from her chair. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked Richard.

Their exchange continued quietly but urgently. ‘Didn’t you hear what father said?’ His tone fraught with meaning, he murmured, ‘“The coffee is very bitter.”’

At first, Lucia seemed not to understand. ‘The coffee is very bitter?’ she repeated. She looked at Richard uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then suddenly uttered a cry of horror which she quickly stifled.

‘You see? Do you under

stand now?’ Richard asked. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he added, ‘He’s been poisoned. And obviously by a member of the family. You don’t want a ghastly scandal, do you?’

‘Oh, my God,’ murmured Lucia, staring straight in front of her. ‘Oh, merciful God.’

Turning away from her, Richard approached Poirot. ‘Monsieur Poirot –’ he began, and then hesitated.

‘M’sieur?’ Poirot queried, politely.

Summoning up his determination, Richard continued, ‘Monsieur Poirot, I’m afraid I do not quite understand what it is that my wife has asked you to investigate.’

Poirot considered for a moment before replying. Then, smiling pleasantly, he answered, ‘Shall we say, the theft of a document? That, mademoiselle tells me,’ he continued, gesturing towards Barbara, ‘is what I was called down for.’

Casting a glance of reproach at Barbara, Richard told Poirot, ‘The document in question has been – returned.’

‘Has it?’ asked Poirot, his smile becoming rather enigmatic. The little detective suddenly had the attention of everyone present, as he moved to the table in the centre of the room and looked at the envelope still lying on it, which had been generally forgotten in the excitement and commotion caused by the discovery of Sir Claud’s death.

‘What do you mean?’ Richard Amory asked Hercule Poirot.