Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“No fresh facts have come to light?”

“Yes, one or two. It’s hard to say whether they mean anything or not. For one thing, Lord Edgware’s key’s missing.”

“The key to the front door?”

“Yes.”

“That is interesting, certainly.”

“As I say, it may mean a good deal or nothing at all. Depends. What is a bit more significant to my mind is this. Lord Edgware cashed a cheque yesterday—not a particularly large one—a hundred pounds as a matter of fact. He took the money in French notes—that’s why he cashed the cheque, because of his journey to Paris today. Well, that money has disappeared.”

“Who told you of this?”

“Miss Carroll. She cashed the cheque and obtained the money. She mentioned it to me, and then I found that it had gone.”

“Where was it yesterday evening?”

“Miss Carroll doesn’t know. She gave it to Lord Edgware about half past three. It was in a bank envelope. He was in the library at the time. He took it and laid it down beside him on a table.”

“That certainly gives one to think. It is a complication.”

“Or a simplification. By the way—the wound.”

“Yes?”

“The doctor says it wasn’t made by an ordinary penknife. Something of that kind but a different shaped blade. And it was amazingly sharp.”

“Not a razor?”

“No, no. Much smaller.”

Poirot frowned thoughtfully.

“The new Lord Edgware seems to be fond of his joke,” remarked Japp. “He seems to think it amusing to be suspected of murder. He made sure we did suspect him of murder, too. Looks a bit queer, that.”

“It might be merely intelligence.”

“More likely guilty conscience. His uncle’s death came very pat for him. He’s moved into the house, by the way.”

“Where was he living before?”

“Martin Street, St. George’s Road. Not a very swell neighbourhood.”

“You might make a note of that, Hastings.”

I did so, though I wondered a little. If Ronald had moved to Regent Gate, his former address was hardly likely to be needed.

“I think the Adams girl did it,” said Japp, rising. “A fine bit of work on your part, M. Poirot, to tumble to that. But there, of course, you go about to theatres and amusing yourself. Things strike you that don’t get the chance of striking me. Pity there’s no apparent motive, but a little spade work will soon bring it to light, I expect.”

“There is one person with a motive to whom you have given no attention,” remarked Poirot.

“Who’s that, sir?”

“The gentleman who is reputed to have wanted to marry Lord Edgware’s wife. I mean the Duke of Merton.”

“Yes. I suppose there is a motive.” Japp laughed. “But a gentleman in his position isn’t likely to do murder. And anyway, he’s over in Paris.”

“You do not regard him as a serious suspect, then?”

“Well, M. Poirot, do you?”

And laughing at the absurdity of the idea, Japp left us.

Seventeen

THE BUTLER

The following day was one of inactivity for us, and activity for Japp. He came round to see us about teatime.

He was red and wrathful.

“I’ve made a bloomer.”

“Impossible, my friend,” said Poirot soothingly.

“Yes, I have. I’ve let that (here he gave way to profanity)—of a butler slip through my fingers.”

“He has disappeared?”

“Yes. Hooked it. What makes me kick myself for a double-dyed idiot is that I didn’t particularly suspect him.”

“Calm yourself—but calm yourself then.”

“All very well to talk. You wouldn’t be calm if you’d been hauled over the coals at headquarters. Oh! he’s a slippery customer. It isn’t the first time he’s given anyone the slip. He’s an old hand.”

Japp wiped his forehead and looked the picture of misery. Poirot made sympathetic noises—somewhat suggestive of a hen laying an egg. With more insight into the English character, I poured out a stiff whisky and soda and placed it in front of the gloomy inspector. He brightened a little.

“Well,” he said. “I don’t mind if I do.”

Presently he began to talk more cheerfully.

“I’m not so sure even now that he’s the murderer! Of course it looks bad his bolting this way, but there might be other reasons for that. I’d begun to get on to him, you see. Seems he’s mixed up with a couple of disreputable night clubs. Not the usual thing. Something a great deal more recherché and nasty. In fact, he’s a real bad hat.”

“Tout de même, that does not necessarily mean that he is a murderer.”

“Exactly! He may have been up to some funny business or other, but not necessarily murder. No, I’m more than ever convinced it was the Adams girl. I’ve got nothing to prove it as yet, though. I’ve had men going all through her flat today, but we’ve found nothing that’s helpful. She was a canny one. Kept no letters except a few business ones about financial contracts. They’re all neatly docketed and labelled. Couple of letters from her sister in Washington. Quite straight and aboveboard. One or two pieces of good old-fashioned jewellery—nothing new or expensive. She didn’t keep a diary. Her passbook and chequebook don’t show anything helpful. Dash it all, the girl doesn’t seem to have had any private life at all!”

“She was of a reserved character,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “From our point of view that is a pity.”

“I’ve talked to the woman who did for her. Nothing there. I’ve been and seen that girl who keeps a hat shop and who, it seems, was a friend of hers.”

“Ah! and what do you think of Miss Driver?”

“She seemed a smart wide-awake bit of goods. She couldn’t help me, though. Not that that surprises me. The amount of missing girls I’ve had to trace and their family and their friends always say the same things. ‘She was of a bright and affectionate disposition and had no men friends.’ That’s never true. It’s unnatural. Girls ought to have men friends. If not there’s something wrong with them. It’s the muddle-headed loyalty of friends and relations that makes a detective’s life so difficult.”

He paused for want of breath, and I replenished his glass.

“Thank you, Captain Hastings, I don’t mind if I do. Well, there you are. You’ve got to hunt and hunt about. There’s about a dozen young men she went out to supper and danced with, but nothing to show that one of them meant more than another. There’s the present Lord Edgware, there’s Mr. Bryan Martin, the film star, there’s half a dozen others—but nothing special and particular. Your man behind idea is all wrong. I think you’ll find that she played a lone hand, M. Poirot. I’m looking now for the connection between her and the murdered man. That must exist. I think I’ll have to go over to Paris. There was Paris written in that little gold box, and the late Lord Edgware ran over to Paris several times last Autumn, so Miss Carroll tells me, attending sales and buying curios. Yes, I think I must go over to Paris. Inquest’s tomorrow. It’ll be adjourned, of course. After that I’ll take the afternoon boat.”

“You have a furious energy, Japp. It amazes me.”

“Yes, you’re getting lazy. You just sit here and think! What you call employing the little grey cells. No good, you’ve got to go out to things. They won’t come to you.”

The little maidse

rvant opened the door.

“Mr. Bryan Martin, sir. Are you busy or will you see him?”

“I’m off, M. Poirot.” Japp hoisted himself up. “All the stars of the theatrical world seem to consult you.”

Poirot shrugged a modest shoulder, and Japp laughed.

“You must be a millionaire by now, M. Poirot. What do you do with the money? Save it?”

“Assuredly I practise the thrift. And talking of the disposal of money, how did Lord Edgware dispose of his?”

“Such property as wasn’t entailed he left to his daughter. Five hundred to Miss Carroll. No other bequests. Very simple will.”

“And it was made—when?”

“After his wife left him—just over two years ago. He expressly excludes her from participation, by the way.”

“A vindictive man,” murmured Poirot to himself.

With a cheerful “So long,” Japp departed.

Bryan Martin entered. He was faultlessly attired and looked extremely handsome. Yet I thought that he looked haggard and not too happy.

“I am afraid I have been a long time coming, M. Poirot,” he said apologetically. “And, after all, I have been guilty of taking up your time for nothing.”

“En verité?”

“Yes. I have seen the lady in question. I’ve argued with her, pleaded with her, but all to no purpose. She won’t hear of my interesting you in the matter. So I’m afraid we’ll have to let the thing drop. I’m very sorry—very sorry to have bothered you—”

“Du tout—du tout,” said Poirot genially. “I expected this.”

“Eh?” The young man seemed taken aback.

“You expected this?” he asked in a puzzled way.

“Mais oui. When you spoke of consulting your friend—I could have predicted that all would have arrived as it has done.”

“You have a theory, then?”

“A detective, M. Martin, always has a theory. It is expected of him. I do not call it a theory myself. I say that I have a little idea. That is the first stage.”