Black Coffee

  Richard sprang to his feet. ‘Surely you don’t think –’ he began, but then broke off.

  ‘It seems highly unlikely,’ Graham told him, ‘that the poison could have been administered at dinner. The most likely explanation is that the hyoscine was added to Sir Claud’s coffee.’

  ‘I – I –’ Richard tried to utter as he rose and took a step towards the doctor, but then broke off with a despairing gesture, and left the room abruptly through the french windows into the garden.

  Dr Graham took a small cardboard box of cotton wool from his bag, and carefully packed the cup in it, talking to Poirot as he did so. ‘A nasty business,’ he confided. ‘I’m not at all surprised that Richard Amory is upset. The newspapers will make the most of this Italian doctor’s friendship with his wife. And mud tends to stick, Monsieur Poirot. Mud tends to stick. Poor lady! She was probably wholly innocent. The man obviously made her acquaintance in some plausible way. They’re astonishingly clever, these foreigners. Of course, I suppose I shouldn’t be talking this way, as though the thing were a foregone conclusion, but what else is one to imagine?’

  ‘You think it leaps to the eye, yes?’ Poirot asked him, exchanging glances with Hastings.

  ‘Well, after all,’ Dr Graham explained, ‘Sir Claud’s invention was valuable. This foreigner comes along, of whom nobody knows anything. An Italian. Sir Claud is mysteriously poisoned –’

  ‘Ah, yes! The Borgias,’ exclaimed Poirot.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Nothing, nothing.’

  Dr Graham picked up his bag and prepared to leave, holding out his hand to Poirot. ‘Well, I’d best be off.’

  ‘Goodbye – for the present, Monsieur le docteur,’ said Poirot as they shook hands.

  At the door, Graham paused and looked back. ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Poirot. You will see that nobody disturbs anything in this room until the police arrive, won’t you? That’s extremely important.’

  ‘Most certainly, I shall make myself responsible for it,’ Poirot assured him.

  As Graham left, closing the door behind him, Hastings observed dryly, ‘You know, Poirot, I shouldn’t like to be ill in this house. For one thing, there appears to be a poisoner at loose in the place – and, for another, I’m not at all sure I trust that young doctor.’

  Poirot gave Hastings a quizzical look. ‘Let us hope that we will not be in this house long enough to become ill,’ he said, moving to the fireplace and pressing the bell. ‘And now, my dear Hastings, to work,’ he announced as he rejoined his colleague who was contemplating the coffee table with a puzzled expression.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Hastings asked.

  ‘You and I, my friend,’ replied Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, ‘are going to interview Cesare Borgia.’

  Tredwell entered in response to Poirot’s call. ‘You rang, sir?’ the butler asked.

  ‘Yes, Tredwell. Will you please ask the Italian gentleman, Dr Carelli, if he would be kind enough to come here?’

  ‘Certainly, sir,’ Tredwell replied. He left the room, and Poirot went to the table to pick up the case of drugs. ‘It would be well, I think,’ he confided to Hastings, ‘if we were to put this box of so very dangerous drugs back in its proper place. Let us, above all things, be neat and orderly.’

  Handing the tin box to Hastings, Poirot took a chair to the bookcase and climbed onto it. ‘The old cry for neatness and symmetry, eh?’ Hastings exclaimed. ‘But there’s more to it than that, I imagine.’

  ‘What do you mean, my friend?’ asked Poirot.

  ‘I know what it is. You don’t want to scare Carelli. After all, who handled those drugs last night? Amongst others, he did. If he saw them down on the table, it might put him on his guard, eh, Poirot?’

  Poirot tapped Hastings on the head. ‘How astute is my friend Hastings,’ he declared, taking the case from him.

  ‘I know you too well,’ Hastings insisted. ‘You can’t throw dust in my eyes.’

  As Hastings spoke, Poirot drew a finger along the top of the bookshelf, sweeping dust down into his friend’s upturned face. ‘It seems to me, my dear Hastings, that that is precisely what I have done,’ Poirot exclaimed as he gingerly drew a finger along the shelf again, making a grimace as he did so. ‘It appears that I have praised the domestics too soon. This shelf is thick with dust. I wish I had a good wet duster in my hand to clean it up!’

  ‘My dear Poirot,’ Hastings laughed, ‘you’re not a housemaid.’

  ‘Alas, no,’ observed Poirot sadly. ‘I am only a detective!’

  ‘Well, there’s nothing to detect up there,’ Hastings declared, ‘so get down.’

  ‘As you say, there is nothing –’ Poirot began, and then stopped dead, standing quite still on the chair as though turned to stone.

  ‘What is it?’ Hastings asked him impatiently, adding, ‘Do get down, Poirot. Dr Carelli will be here at any minute. You don’t want him to find you up there, do you?’

  ‘You are right, my friend,’ Poirot agreed as he got down slowly from the chair. His face wore a solemn expression.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’ asked Hastings.

  ‘It is that I am thinking of something,’ Poirot replied with a faraway look in his eyes.

  ‘What are you thinking of ?’

  ‘Dust, Hastings. Dust,’ said Poirot in an odd voice.

  The door opened, and Dr Carelli entered the room. He and Poirot greeted each other with the greatest of ceremony, each politely speaking the other’s native tongue. ‘Ah, Monsieur Poirot,’ Carelli began. ‘Vous voulez me questionner?’

  ‘Si, signor dottore, si lei permette,’ Poirot replied.

  ‘Ah, lei parla Italiano?’

  ‘Si, ma preferisco parlare in Francese.’

  ‘Alors,’ said Carelli, ‘qu’est-ce que vous voulez me demander? ’

  ‘I say,’ Hastings interjected with a certain irritation in his voice. ‘What the devil is all this?’

  ‘Ah, the poor Hastings is not a linguist. I had forgotten,’ Poirot smiled. ‘We had better speak English.’

  ‘I beg your pardon. Of course,’ Carelli agreed. He addressed Poirot with an air of great frankness. ‘I am glad that you have sent for me, Monsieur Poirot,’ he declared. ‘Had you not done so, I should myself have requested an interview.’

  ‘Indeed?’ remarked Poirot, indicating a chair by the table.

  Carelli sat, while Poirot seated himself in the armchair, and Hastings made himself comfortable on the settee. ‘Yes,’ the Italian doctor continued. ‘As it happens, I have business in London of an urgent nature.’

  ‘Pray, continue,’ Poirot encouraged him.

  ‘Yes. Of course, I quite appreciated the position last night. A valuable document had been stolen. I was the only stranger present. Naturally, I was only too willing to remain, to permit myself to be searched, in fact to insist on being searched. As a man of honour, I could do nothing else.’

  ‘Quite so,’ Poirot agreed. ‘But today?’

  ‘Today is different,’ replied Carelli. ‘I have, as I say, urgent business in London.’

  ‘And you wish to take your departure?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘It seems most reasonable,’ Poirot declared. ‘Do you not think so, Hastings?’

  Hastings made no reply, but looked as though he did not think it at all reasonable.

  ‘Perhaps a word from you, Monsieur Poirot, to Mr Amory, would be in order,’ Carelli suggested. ‘I should like to avoid any unpleasantness.’

  ‘My good offices are at your disposal, Monsieur le docteur,’ Poirot assured him. ‘And now, perhaps you can assist me with one or two details.’

  ‘I should be only too happy to do so,’ Carelli replied.

  Poirot considered for a moment, before asking, ‘Is Madame Richard Amory an old friend of yours?’

  ‘A very old friend,’ said Carelli. He sighed. ‘It was a delightful surprise, running across her so unexpectedly in this out-of-the-way spo
t.’

  ‘Unexpectedly, you say?’ Poirot asked.

  ‘Quite unexpectedly,’ Carelli replied, with a quick glance at the detective.

  ‘Quite unexpectedly,’ Poirot repeated. ‘Fancy that!’

  A certain tension had crept into the atmosphere. Carelli looked at Poirot sharply, but said nothing.

  ‘You are interested in the latest discoveries of science?’ Poirot asked him.

  ‘Certainly. I am a doctor.’

  ‘Ah! But that does not quite follow, surely,’ Poirot observed. ‘A new vaccine, a new ray, a new germ – all this, yes. But a new explosive, surely that is not quite the province of a doctor of medicine?’

  ‘Science should be of interest to all of us,’ Carelli insisted. ‘It represents the triumph of man over nature. Man wrings secrets from nature in spite of her bitter opposition.’

  Poirot nodded his head in agreement. ‘It is indeed admirable, what you say there. It is poetic! But, as my friend Hastings reminded me just now, I am only a detective. I appreciate things from a more practical standpoint. This discovery of Sir Claud’s – it was worth a great amount of money, eh?’

  ‘Possibly,’ Carelli’s tone was dismissive. ‘I have not given that side of the matter much thought.’

  ‘You are evidently a man of lofty principles,’ observed Poirot, ‘and also, no doubt, a man of means. Travelling, for instance, is an expensive hobby.’

  ‘One should see the world one lives in,’ said Carelli dryly.

  ‘Indeed,’ Poirot agreed. ‘And the people who live in it. Curious people, some of them. The thief, for instance – what a curious mentality he must have!’

  ‘As you say,’ Carelli agreed, ‘most curious.’

  ‘And the blackmailer,’ Poirot continued.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Carelli asked sharply.

  ‘I said, the blackmailer,’ Poirot repeated. There was an awkward pause, before he continued, ‘but we are wandering from our subject – the death of Sir Claud Amory.’

  ‘The death of Sir Claud Amory? Why is that our subject?’

  ‘Ah, of course,’ Poirot recalled. ‘You do not yet know. I am afraid that Sir Claud did not die as the result of a heart attack. He was poisoned.’ He watched the Italian closely for his reaction.

  ‘Ah!’ murmured Carelli, with a nod of the head.

  ‘That does not surprise you?’ asked Poirot.

  ‘Frankly, no,’ Carelli replied. ‘I suspected as much last night.’

  ‘You see, then,’ Poirot continued, ‘that the matter has become much more serious.’ His tone changed. ‘You will not be able to leave the house today, Dr Carelli.’

  Leaning forward to Poirot, Carelli asked, ‘Do you connect Sir Claud’s death with the stealing of the formula?’

  ‘Certainly,’ Poirot replied. ‘Do not you?’

  Carelli spoke quickly and urgently. ‘Is there no one in this house, no member of his family, who desired the death of Sir Claud, quite apart from any question of the formula? What does his death mean to most of the people in this house? I will tell you. It means freedom, Monsieur Poirot. Freedom, and what you mentioned just now – money. That old man was a tyrant, and apart from his beloved work he was a miser.’

  ‘Did you observe all this last night, Monsieur le docteur?’ asked Poirot, innocently.

  ‘What if I did?’ replied Carelli. ‘I have eyes. I can see. At least three of the people in this house wanted Sir Claud out of the way.’ He rose, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘But that does not concern me now.’

  Hastings leaned forward, looking very interested, as Carelli continued, ‘I am vexed that I cannot keep my appointment in London.’

  ‘I am desolated, Monsieur le docteur,’ said Poirot. ‘But what can I do?’

  ‘Well, then, you have no further need of me?’ asked Carelli.

  ‘For the moment, no,’ Poirot told him.

  Dr Carelli moved to the door. ‘I will tell you one thing more, Monsieur Poirot,’ he announced, opening the door and turning back to face the detective. ‘There are some women whom it is dangerous to drive too far.’

  Poirot bowed to him politely, and Carelli returned his bow somewhat more ironically before making his exit.

  Chapter 12

  When Carelli had left the room, Hastings stared after him for a few moments. ‘I say, Poirot,’ he asked finally, ‘what do you think he meant by that?’

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘It was a remark of no consequence,’ he declared.

  ‘But Poirot,’ Hastings persisted, ‘I’m sure Carelli was trying to tell you something.’

  ‘Ring the bell once more, Hastings,’ was the little detective’s only response. Hastings did as he was bidden, but could not refrain from a further enquiry. ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Poirot’s reply was in his most enigmatic vein. ‘You will see, my dear Hastings. Patience is a great virtue.’

  Tredwell entered the room again with his usual respectful enquiry of ‘Yes, sir?’ Poirot beamed at him genially. ‘Ah, Tredwell. Will you present my compliments to Miss Caroline Amory, and ask her if she will be good enough to allow me a few minutes of her time?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’

  ‘I thank you, Tredwell.’

  When the butler had left, Hastings exclaimed, ‘But the old soul’s in bed. Surely you’re not going to make her get up, if she isn’t feeling well.’

  ‘My friend Hastings knows everything! So she is in bed, yes?’

  ‘Well, isn’t she?’

  Poirot patted his friend’s shoulder affectionately. ‘That is just what I want to find out.’

  ‘But, surely –’ Hastings elaborated. ‘Don’t you remember? Richard Amory said so.’

  The detective regarded his friend steadily. ‘Hastings,’ he declared, ‘here is a man killed. And how does his family react? With lies, lies, lies everywhere! Why does Madame Amory want me to go? Why does Monsieur Amory want me to go? Why does he wish to prevent me from seeing his aunt? What can she tell me that he does not want me to hear? I tell you, Hastings, what we have here is drama! Not a simple, sordid crime, but drama. Poignant, human drama!’

  He looked as though he would have expanded on this theme had not Miss Amory entered at that moment. ‘Monsieur Poirot,’ she addressed him as she closed the door, ‘Tredwell tells me you wanted to see me.’

  ‘Ah yes, mademoiselle,’ Poirot declared as he went to her. ‘It is just that I would like to ask you a few questions. Will you not sit down?’ He led her to a chair by the table, and she sat, looking at him nervously. ‘But I understood that you were prostrated, ill?’ Poirot continued as he sat on the other side of the table, and regarded her with an expression of anxious solicitude.

  ‘It’s all been a terrible shock, of course,’ Caroline Amory sighed. ‘Really terrible! But what I always say is, somebody must keep their head. The servants, you know, are in a turmoil. Well,’ she continued, speaking more quickly, ‘you know what servants are, Monsieur Poirot. They positively delight in funerals! They prefer a death to a wedding, I do believe. Now, dear Dr Graham! He is so kind – such a comfort. A really clever doctor, and of course he’s so fond of Barbara. I think it’s a pity that Richard doesn’t seem to care for him, but – what was I saying? Oh yes, Dr Graham. So young. And he quite cured my neuritis last year. Not that I am often ill. Now, this rising generation doesn’t seem to me to be at all strong. There was poor Lucia last night, having to come out from dinner feeling faint. Of course, poor child, she’s a mass of nerves, and what else can you expect with Italian blood in her veins? Though she was not so bad, I remember, when her diamond necklace was stolen –’

  Miss Amory paused for breath. Poirot, while she was speaking, had taken out his cigarette-case and was about to light a cigarette, but he paused and took the opportunity to ask her, ‘Madame Amory’s diamond necklace was stolen? When was this, mademoiselle?’

  Miss Amory assumed a thoughtful expression. ‘Let me see, it must have been – yes
, it was two months ago – just about the same time that Richard had such a quarrel with his father.’

  Poirot looked at the cigarette in his hand. ‘You permit that I smoke, mademoiselle?’ he asked, and on receiving a smile and a gracious nod of assent, he took a box of matches from his pocket, lit his cigarette, and looked at Miss Amory encouragingly. When that lady made no effort to resume speaking, Poirot prompted her. ‘I think you were saying that Monsieur Amory quarrelled with his father,’ he suggested.

  ‘Oh, it was nothing serious,’ Miss Amory told him. ‘It was only over Richard’s debts. Of course, all young men have debts! Although, indeed, Claud himself was never like that. He was always so studious, even when he was a lad. Later, of course, his experiments always used up a lot of money. I used to tell him he was keeping Richard too short of money, you know. But, yes, about two months ago they had quite a scene, and what with that, and Lucia’s necklace missing, and her refusing to call in the police, it was a very upsetting time. And so absurd, too! Nerves, all nerves!’

  ‘You are sure that my smoke is not deranging you, mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot, holding up his cigarette.

  ‘Oh, no, not at all,’ Miss Amory assured him. ‘I think gentlemen ought to smoke.’

  Only now noticing that his cigarette had failed to light properly, Poirot retrieved his box of matches from the table in front of him. ‘Surely, it is a very unusual thing for a young and beautiful woman to take the loss of her jewels so calmly?’ he asked, as he lit his cigarette again, carefully replacing two dead matches in the box which he then returned to his pocket.

  ‘Yes, it is odd. That’s what I call it,’ Miss Amory agreed. ‘Distinctly odd! But there, she didn’t seem to care a bit. Oh dear, here I am gossiping on about things which can’t possibly interest you, Monsieur Poirot.’

  ‘But you interest me enormously, mademoiselle,’ Poirot assured her. ‘Tell me, when Madame Amory came out from dinner last night, feeling faint, did she go upstairs?’