Lord Edgware Dies (Hercule Poirot 9)

“I see. Tell me, Mademoiselle, you are fond of your cousin?”

“Of Ronald? Of course. He—I haven’t seen much of him the last two years—but before that he used to live in the house. I—I always thought he was wonderful. Always joking and thinking up mad things to do. Oh! in that gloomy house of ours it made all the difference.”

Poirot nodded sympathetically, but he went on to make a remark that shocked me in its crudity.

“You do not want to see him—hanged, then?”

“No, no.” The girl shivered violently. “Not that. Oh! if only it were her—my stepmother. It must be her. The Duchess says it must.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “If only Captain Marsh had stayed in the taxi—eh?”

“Yes—at least, what do you mean?” Her brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand.”

“If he had not followed that man into the house. Did you hear anyone come in, by the way?”

“No, I didn’t hear anything.”

“What did you do when you came into the house?”

“I ran straight upstairs—to fetch the pearls, you know.”

“Of course. It took you some time to fetch them.”

“Yes. I couldn’t find the key to my jewel case all at once.”

“So often is that the case. The more in haste, the less the speed. It was some time before you came down, and then—you found your cousin in the hall?”

“Yes, coming from the library.” She swallowed.

“I comprehend. It gave you quite a turn.”

“Yes, it did.” She looked grateful for his sympathetic tone. “It startled me, you see.”

“Quite, quite.”

“Ronnie just said: ‘Hello, Dina, got them?’ from behind me—and it made me jump.”

“Yes,” said Poirot gently. “As I said before it is a pity he did not stay outside. Then the taxi driver would have been able to swear he never entered the house.”

She nodded. Her tears began to fall, splashing unheeded on her lap. She got up. Poirot took her hand.

“You want me to save him for you—is that it?”

“Yes, yes—oh! please, yes. You don’t know….”

She stood there striving to control herself, clenching her hands.

“Life has not been easy for you, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot gently. “I appreciate that. No, it has not been easy. Hastings, will you get Mademoiselle a taxi?”

I went down with the girl and saw her into the taxi. She had composed herself by now and thanked me very prettily.

I found Poirot walking up and down the room, his brows knitted in thought. He looked unhappy.

I was glad when the telephone bell rang to distract him.

“Who is that? Oh, it is Japp. Bonjour, mon ami.”

“What’s he got to say?” I asked, drawing nearer the telephone.

Finally, after various ejaculations, Poirot spoke.

“Yes, and who called for it? Do they know?”

Whatever the answer, it was not what he expected. His face dropped ludicrously.

“Are you sure?”

“………”

“No, it is a little upsetting, that is all.”

“………”

“Yes, I must rearrange my ideas.”

“………”

“Comment?”

“………”

“All the same, I was right about it. Yes, a detail, as you say.”

“………”

“No, I am still of the same opinion. I would pray of you to make still further inquiries of the restaurants in the neighbourhood of Regent Gate and Euston, Tottenham Court Road and perhaps Oxford Street.”

“………”

“Yes, a woman and a man. And also in the neighbourhood of the Strand just before midnight. Comment?”

“………”

“But, yes, I know that Captain Marsh was with the Dortheimers. But there are other people in the world besides Captain Marsh.”

“………”

“To say I have the head of a pig is not pretty. Tout de même, oblige me in this matter, I pray of you.”

“………”

He replaced the receiver.

“Well?” I asked impatiently.

“Is it well? I wonder. Hastings, that gold box was bought in Paris. It was ordered by letter and it comes from a well-known Paris shop which specializes in such things. The letter was supposedly from a Lady Ackerley—Constance Ackerley the letter was signed. Naturally there is no such person. The letter was received two days before the murder. It ordered the initials of (presumably) the writer in rubies and the inscription inside. It was a rush order—to be called for the following day. That is, the day before the murder.”

“And was it called for?”

“Yes, it was called for and paid for in notes.”

“Who called for it?” I asked excitedly. I felt we were getting near to the truth.

“A woman called for it, Hastings.”

“A woman?” I said, surprised.

“Mais oui. A woman—short, middle-aged, and wearing pince-nez.”

We looked at each other, completely baffled.

Twenty-five

A LUNCHEON PARTY

It was, I think, on the day after that that we went to the Widburns’ luncheon p

arty at Claridge’s.

Neither Poirot nor I were particularly anxious to go. It was, as a matter of fact, about the sixth invitation we had received. Mrs. Widburn was a persistent woman and she liked celebrities. Undaunted by refusals, she finally offered such a choice of dates that capitulation was inevitable. Under those circumstances the sooner we went and got it over the better.

Poirot had been very uncommunicative ever since the news from Paris.

To my remarks on the subject he returned always the same answer.

“There is something here I do not comprehend.”

And once or twice he murmured to himself.

“Pince-nez. Pince-nez in Paris. Pince-nez in Carlotta Adams’ bag.”

I really felt glad of the luncheon party as a means of distraction.

Young Donald Ross was there and came up and greeted me cheerily. There were more men than women and he was put next to me at table.

Jane Wilkinson sat almost opposite us, and next to her, between her and Mrs. Widburn, sat the young Duke of Merton.

I fancied—of course it may have been only my fancy—that he looked slightly ill at ease. The company in which he found himself was, so I should imagine, little to his liking. He was a strictly conservative and somewhat reactionary young man—the kind of character that seemed to have stepped out of the Middle Ages by some regrettable mistake. His infatuation for the extremely modern Jane Wilkinson was one of those anachronistic jokes that Nature so loves to play.

Seeing Jane’s beauty and appreciating the charm that her exquisitely husky voice lent to the most trite utterances, I could hardly wonder at his capitulation. But one can get used to perfect beauty and an intoxicating voice! It crossed my mind that perhaps even now a ray of common sense was dissipating the mists of intoxicated love. It was a chance remark—a rather humiliating gaffe on Jane’s part that gave me that impression.

Somebody—I forgot who—had uttered the phrase “judgement of Paris,” and straight away Jane’s delightful voice was uplifted.

“Paris?” she said. “Why, Paris doesn’t cut any ice nowadays. It’s London and New York that count.”