“The second question I ask myself is What happened to that letter? To whose interest was it that Lord Edgware and his wife should continue to be tied together?
“Three, What was the meaning of the expression on his face that you saw when you looked back yesterday morning on leaving the library? Have you any answer to that, Hastings?”
I shook my head.
“I can’t understand it.”
“You are sure that you didn’t imagine it? Sometimes, Hastings, you have the imagination un peu vif.”
“No, no.” I shook my head vigorously. “I’m quite sure I wasn’t mistaken.”
“Bien. Then it is a fact to be explained. My fourth question concerns those pince-nez. Neither Jane Wilkinson nor Carlotta Adams wore glasses. What, then, are the glasses doing in Carlotta Adams’ bag?
“And for my fifth question. Why did someone telephone to find out if Jane Wilkinson were at Chiswick and who was it?
“Those, my friend, are the questions with which I am tormenting myself. If I could answer those, I should feel happier in my mind. If I could even evolve a theory that explained them satisfactorily, my amour propre would not suffer so much.”
“There are several other questions,” I said.
“Such as?”
“Who incited Carlotta Adams to this hoax? Where was she that evening before and after ten o’clock? Who is D who gave her the golden box?”
“Those questions are self-evident,” said Poirot. “There is no subtlety about them. They are simply things we do not know. They are questions of fact. We may get to know them any minute. My questions, mon ami, are psychological. The little grey cells of the brain—”
“Poirot,” I said desperately. I felt that I must stop him at all costs. I could not bear to hear it all over again. “You spoke of making a visit tonight?”
Poirot looked at his watch.
“True,” he said. “I will telephone and find out if it is convenient.”
He went away and returned a few minutes later.
“Come,” he said. “All is well.”
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“To the house of Sir Montagu Corner at Chiswick. I would like to know a little more about that telephone call.”
Fifteen
SIR MONTAGU CORNER
It was about ten o’clock when we reached Sir Montagu Corner’s house on the river at Chiswick. It was a big house standing back in its own grounds. We were admitted into a beautifully-panelled hall. On our right, through an open door, we saw the dining room with its long polished table lit with candles.
“Will you come this way, please?”
The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first floor overlooking the river.
“M. Hercule Poirot,” announced the butler.
It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the four rose and came towards us.
“It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot.”
I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged toupee. He was a short man—five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was affected to the last degree.
“Let me introduce you. Mr. and Mrs. Widburn.”
“We’ve met before,” said Mrs. Widburn brightly.
“And Mr. Ross.”
Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.
“I disturb your game. A million apologies,” said Poirot.
“Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only. Some coffee, M. Poirot?”
Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in immense goblets.
As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.
He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the French Impressionists, of modern music and of the theories of Einstein.
Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly enjoyed his performance. In the dim light he looked like some genie of the mediaeval age. All around the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.
“And now, Sir Montagu,” said Poirot, “I will trespass on your kindness no longer but will come to the object of my visit.”
Sir Montagu waved a curious clawlike hand.
“There is no hurry. Time is infinite.”
“One always feels that in this house,” sighed Mrs. Widburn. “So wonderful.”
“I would not live in London for a million pounds,” said Sir Montagu. “Here one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that—alas!—we have put behind us in these jarring days.”
A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down such heretical sentiments.
“What is money, after all?” murmured Mrs. Widburn.
“Ah!” said Mr. Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absentmindedly in his trouser pocket.
“Charles,” said Mrs. Widburn reproachfully.
“Sorry,” said Mr. Widburn and stopped.
“To speak of crime in such an atmosphere, is, I feel, unpardonable,” began Poirot apologetically.
“Not at all.” Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. “A crime can be a work of art. A detective can be an artist. I do not refer, of course, to the police. An inspector has been here today. A curious person. He had never heard of Benvenuto Cellini, for instance.”
“He came about Jane Wilkinson, I suppose,” said Mrs. Widburn with instant curiosity.
“It was fortunate for the lady that she was at your house last night,” said Poirot.
“So it seems,” said Sir Montagu. “I asked her here knowing that she was beautiful and talented and hoping that I might be able to be of use to her. She was thinking of going into management. But it seems that I was fated to be of use to her in a very different way.”
“Jane’s got luck,” said Mrs. Widburn. “She’s been dying to get rid of Edgware and here’s somebody gone and saved her the trouble. She’ll marry the young Duke of Merton now. Everyone says so. His mother’s wild about it.”
“I was favourably impressed by her,” said Sir Montagu graciously. “She made several most intelligent remarks about Greek art.”
I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying “Yes” and “No,” “Really, how wonderful,” in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable attention.
“Edgware was a queer fish, by all accounts,” said Widburn. “I daresay he’s got a good few enemies.”
“Is it true, M. Poirot,” asked Mrs. Widburn, “that somebody ran a penknife into the back of his brain?”
“Perfectly true, Madame. It was very neatly and efficiently done—scientific, in fact.”
“I note your artistic pleasure, M. Poirot,” said Sir Montagu.
“And now,” said Poirot, “let me come to the object of my visit. Lady Edgware was called to the telephone when she was here at dinner. It is about that telephone call that I seek information. Perhaps you will allow me to question your domestics on the subject?”
“Certainly. Certainly. Just press that bell, will you, Ross.”
The butler answered the bell. He was a tall middle-aged man of ecclesiastical appearance.
Sir Montagu explained what was wanted. The butler turned to Poirot with polite attention.
“Who answered the telephone when it rang?” began Poirot.
“I answered it myself, sir. The telephone is in a recess leading out of the hall.”
“Did the person calling ask to speak to Lady Edgware or to Miss Jane Wilkinson?”
“To Lady Edgware, sir.”
“What did they say exactly?”
The butler reflected for a moment.
“As far as I remember, sir, I said ‘Hello.’ A voice then asked if I was Chiswick 43434. I replied that that was so. It then asked me to hold the line. Another voice then asked if that was Chiswick 43434 and on my replying ‘Yes’ it said, ‘Is Lady Edgware dining there?’ I said her ladyship was dining here. The voice said, ‘I would like to speak to her, please.’ I went and informed her ladyship who was at the dinner table. Her ladyship rose, and I showed her where the ’phone was.”