“Well, he certainly sent you away with a flea in the ear.”
“He gave me the reply he would give to a reporter—yes.” Poirot chuckled. “But I know! I know exactly how the case stands.”
“How do you know? By his manner?”
“Not at all. You saw he was writing a letter?”
“Yes.”
“Eh bien, in my early days in the police force in Belgium I learned that it was very useful to read handwriting upside down. Shall I tell you what he was saying in that letter? ‘My dearest Jane, my adored, my beautiful angel, how can I tell you what you are to me? You who have suffered so much! Your beautiful nature—’”
“Poirot!” I cried, scandalized, stopping him.
“That was as far as he had got. ‘Your beautiful nature—only I know it.’”
I felt very upset. He was so naively pleased with his performance.
“Poirot,” I cried. “You can’t do a thing like that. Overlook a private letter.”
“You say the imbecilities, Hastings. Absurd to say I ‘cannot do’ a thing which I have just done!”
“It’s not—not playing the game.”
“I do not play games. You know that. Murder is not a game. It is serious. And anyway, Hastings, you should not use that phrase—playing the game. It is not said anymore. I have discovered that. It is dead. Young people laugh when they hear it. Mais oui, young beautiful girls will laugh at you if you say ‘playing the game’ and ‘not cricket.’”
I was silent. I could not bear this thing that Poirot had done so lightheartedly.
“It was so unnecessary,” I said. “If you had only told him that you had gone to Lord Edgware at Jane Wilkinson’s request, then he would have treated you very differently.”
“Ah! but I couldn’t do that. Jane Wilkinson was my client. I cannot speak of my client’s affairs to another. I undertake a mission in confidence. To speak of it would not be honourable.”
“Honourable!”
“Precisely.”
“But she’s going to marry him?”
“That does not mean that she has no secrets from him. Your ideas about marriage are very old-fashioned. No, what you suggest, I couldn’t possibly have done. I have my honour as a detective to think of. The honour, it is a very serious thing.”
“Well, I suppose it takes all kinds of honour to make a world.”
Nineteen
A GREAT LADY
The visit that we received on the following morning was to my mind one of the most surprising things about the whole affair.
I was in my sitting room when Poirot slipped in with his eyes shining.
“Mon ami, we have a visitor.”
“Who is it?”
“The Dowager Duchess of Merton.”
“How extraordinary! What does she want?”
“If you accompany me downstairs, mon ami, you will know.”
I hastened to comply. We entered the room together.
The Duchess was a small woman with a high-bridged nose and autocratic eyes. Although she was short one would not have dared to call her dumpy. Dressed though she was in unfashionable black, she was yet every inch a grande dame. She also impressed me as having an almost ruthless personality. Where her son was negative, she was positive. Her willpower was terrific. I could almost feel waves of force emanating from her. No wonder this woman had always dominated all those with whom she came in contact!
She put up a lorgnette and studied first me and then my companion. Then she spoke to him. Her voice was clear and compelling, a voice accustomed to command and to be obeyed.
“You are M. Hercule Poirot?”
My friend bowed.
“At your service, Madame la Duchesse.”
She looked at me.
“This is my friend, Captain Hastings. He assists me in my cases.”
Her eyes looked momentarily doubtful. Then she bent her head in acquiescence.
She took the chair that Poirot offered.
“I have come to consult you on a very delicate matter, M. Poirot, and I must ask that what I tell you shall be understood to be entirely confidential.”
“That goes without saying, Madame.”
“It was Lady Yardly who told me about you. From the way in which she spoke of you and the gratitude she expressed, I felt that you were the only person likely to help me.”
“Rest assured, I will do my best, Madame.”
Still she hesitated. Then, at last, with an effort, she came to the point, came to it with a simplicity that reminded me in an odd way of Jane Wilkinson on that memorable night at the Savoy.
“M. Poirot, I want you to ensure that my son does not marry the actress, Jane Wilkinson.”
If Poirot felt astonishment, he refrained from showing it. He regarded her thoughtfully and took his time about replying.
“Can you be a little more definite, Madame, as to what you want me to do?”
“That is not easy. I feel that such a marriage would be a great disaster. It would ruin my son’s life.”
“Do you think so, Madame?”
“I am sure of it. My son has very high ideals. He knows really very little of the world. He has never cared for the young girls of his own class. They have struck him as empty-headed and frivolous. But as regards this woman—well, she is very beautiful, I admit that. And she has the power of enslaving men. She has bewitched my son. I have hoped that the infatuation would run its course. Mercifully she was not free. But now that her husband is dead—”
She broke off.
“They intend to be married in a few months’ time. The whole happiness of my son’s life is at stake.” She spoke more peremptorily. “It must be stopped, M. Poirot.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“I do not say that you are not right, Madame. I agree that the marriage is not a suitable one. But what can one do?”
“It is for you to do something.”
Poirot slowly shook his head.
“Yes, yes, you must help me.”
“I doubt if anything would avail, Madame. Your son, I should say, would refuse to listen to anything against the lady! And also, I do not think there is very much against her to say! I doubt if there are any discreditable incidents to be raked up in her past. She has been—shall we say—careful?”
“I know,” said the Duchess grimly.
“Ah! So you have already made the inquiries in that direction.”
She flushed a little under his keen glance.
“There is nothing I would not do, M. Poirot, to save my son from this marriage.” She reiterated that word emphatically, “Nothing!”
She paused, then went on:
“Money is nothing in this matter. Name any fee you like. But the marriage must be stopped. You are the man to do it.”
Poirot slowly shook his head.
“It is not a question of money. I can do nothing—for a reason which I will explain to you presently. But also, I may say, I do not see there is anything to be done. I cannot give you help, Madame la Duchesse. Will you think me impertinent if I give you advice?”
“What advice?”
“Do not antagonize your son! He is of an age to choose for himself. Because his choice is not your choice, do not assume that you must be right. If it is a misfortune—then accept misfortune. Be at hand to aid him when he needs aid. But do not turn him against you.”
“You hardly understand.”
She rose to her feet. Her lips were trembling.
“But yes, Madame la Duchesse, I understand very well. I comprehend the mother’s heart. No one comprehends it better than I, Hercule Poirot. And I say to you with authority—be patient. Be patient and calm, and disguise your feelings. There is yet a chance that the matter may break itself. Opposition will merely increase your son’s obstinacy.”
“Good-bye, M. Poirot,” she said coldly. “I am disappointed.”
“I regret infinitely, Madame, that I cannot be of service to you. I am in a difficult position. Lad
y Edgware, you see, has already done me the honour to consult me herself.”
“Oh! I see.” Her voice cut like a knife. “You are in the opposite camp. That explains, no doubt, why Lady Edgware has not yet been arrested for her husband’s murder.”
“Comment, Madame la Duchesse?”
“I think you heard what I said. Why is she not arrested? She was there that evening. She was seen to enter the house—to enter his study. No one else went near him and he was found dead? And yet she is not arrested! Our police force must be corrupt through and through.”
With shaking hands she arranged the scarf round her neck, then with the slightest of bows, she swept out of the room.
“Whew!” I said. “What a tartar! I admire her, though, don’t you?”
“Because she wishes to arrange the universe to her manner of thinking?”
“Well, she’s only got her son’s welfare at heart.”
Poirot nodded his head.
“That is true enough, and yet, Hastings, will it really be such a bad thing for M. le Duc to marry Jane Wilkinson?”
“Why, you don’t think she is really in love with him?”
“Probably not. Almost certainly not. But she is very much in love with his position. She will play her part carefully. She is an extremely beautiful woman and very ambitious. It is not such a catastrophe. The Duke might very easily have married a young girl of his own class who would have accepted him for the same reasons—but no one would have made the song and the dance about that.”
“That is quite true, but—”
“And suppose he marries a girl who loves him passionately, is there such a great advantage in that? Often I have observed that it is a great misfortune for a man to have a wife who loves him. She creates the scenes of jealousy, she makes him look ridiculous, she insists on having all his time and attention. Ah! non, it is not the bed of roses.”
“Poirot,” I said. “You’re an incurable old cynic.”
“Mais non, mais non, I only make the reflections. See you, really, I am on the side of the good mamma.”
I could not refrain from laughing at hearing the haughty Duchess described in this way.
Poirot remained quite serious.
“You should not laugh. It is of great importance—all this. I must reflect. I must reflect a great deal.”
“I don’t see what you can do in the matter,” I said.
Poirot paid no attention.
“You observed, Hastings, how well-informed the Duchess was? And how vindictive. She knew all the evidence there was against Jane Wilkinson.”
“The case for the prosecution, but not the case for the defence,” I said, smiling.
“How did she come to know of it?”
“Jane told the Duke. The Duke told her,” I suggested.
“Yes, that is possible. Yet I have—”
The telephone rang sharply. I answered it.
My part consisted of saying “Yes” at varying intervals. Finally I put down the receiver and turned excitedly to Poirot.
“That was Japp. Firstly, you’re ‘the goods’ as usual. Secondly, he’s had a cable from America. Thirdly, he’s got the taxi driver. Fourthly, would you like to come round and hear what the taxi driver says. Fifthly, you’re ‘the goods’ again, and all along he’s been convinced that you’d hit the nail on the head when you suggested that there was some man behind all this! I omitted to tell him that we’d just had a visitor here who says the police force is corrupt.”
“So Japp is convinced at last,” murmured Poirot. “Curious that the Man-in-the-Background theory should be proved just at the moment when I was inclining to another possible theory.”
“What theory?”
“The theory that the motive for the murder might have nothing to do with Lord Edgware himself. Imagine someone who hated Jane Wilkinson, hated her so much that they would have even had her hanged for murder. C’est une idée, ça!”
He sighed—then rousing himself:
“Come, Hastings, let us hear what Japp has to say.”
Twenty
THE TAXI DRIVER
We found Japp interrogating an old man with a ragged moustache and spectacles. He had a hoarse self-pitying voice.
“Ah! there you are,” said Japp. “Well, things are all plain sailing, I think. This man—his name’s Jobson—picked up two people in Long Acre on the night of June 29th.”
“That’s right,” assented Jobson hoarsely. “Lovely night it were. Moon and all. The young lady and gentleman were by the tube station and hailed me.”
“They were in evening dress?”
“Yes, gent in white waistcoat and the young lady all in white with birds embroidered on it. Come out of the Royal Opera, I guess.”
“What time was this?”
“Some time afore eleven.”
“Well, what next?”
“Told me to go to Regent Gate—they’d tell me which house when they got there. And told me to be quick, too. People always says that. As though you wanted to loiter. Sooner you get there and get another fare the better for you. You never think of that. And, mind you, if there’s an accident you’ll get the blame for dangerous driving!”
“Cut it out,” said Japp impatiently. “There wasn’t an accident this time, was there?”
“N-no,” agreed the man as though unwilling to abandon his claim to such an occurrence. “No, as a matter of fact there weren’t. Well, I got to Regent Gate—not above seven minutes it didn’t take me, and there the gentleman rapped on the glass, and I stopped. About at No. 8 that were. Well, the gentleman and lady got out. The gentleman stopped where he was and told me to do the same. The lady crossed the road, and began walking back along the houses the other side. The gentleman stayed by the cab—standing on the sidewalk with his back to me, looking after her. Had his hands in his pockets. It was about five minutes when I heard him say something—kind of exclamation under his breath and then off he goes too. I looks after him because I wasn’t going to be bilked. It’s been done afore to me, so I kept my eye on him. He went up the steps of one of the houses on the other side and went in.”
“Did he push the door open?”
“No, he had a latchkey.”
“What number was the house?”
“It would be 17 or 19, I fancy. Well, it seemed odd to me my being told to stay where I was. So I kept watching. About five minutes later him and the young lady came out together. They got back into the cab and told me to drive back to Covent Garden Opera House. They stopped me just before I got there and paid me. Paid me handsome, I will say. Though I expect I’ve got into trouble over it—seems there’s nothing but trouble.”
“You’re all right,” said Japp. “Just run your eye over these, will you, and tell me if the young lady is among them.”
There were half a dozen photographs all fairly alike as to type. I looked with some interest over his shoulder.
“That were her,” said Jobson. He pointed a decisive finger at one of Geraldine Marsh in evening dress.
“Sure?”
“Quite sure. Pale she was and dark.”
“Now the man.”
Another sheaf of photographs was handed to him.
He looked at them attentively and then shook his head.
“Well, I couldn’t say—not for sure. Either of these two might be him.”
The photographs included one of Ronald Marsh, but Jobson had not selected it. Instead he indicated two other men not unlike Marsh in type.
Jobson then departed and Japp flung the photographs on the table.
“Good enough. Wish I could have got a clearer identification of his lordship. Of course it’s an old photograph, taken seven or eight years ago. The only one I could get hold of. Yes, I’d like a clearer identification, although the case is clear enough. Bang go a couple of alibis. Clever of you to think of it, M. Poirot.”
Poirot looked modest.
“When I found that she and her cousin were both at the opera it seemed to me p
ossible that they might have been together during one of the intervals. Naturally the parties they were with would assume that they had not left the Opera House. But a half hour interval gives plenty of time to get to Regent Gate and back. The moment the new Lord Edgware laid such stress upon his alibi, I was sure something was wrong with it.”
“You’re a nice suspicious sort of fellow, aren’t you?” said Japp affectionately. “Well, you’re about right. Can’t be too suspicious in a world like this. His lordship is our man all right. Look at this.”
He produced a paper.
“Cable from New York. They got in touch with Miss Lucie Adams. The letter was in the mail delivered to her this morning. She was not willing to give up the original unless absolutely necessary, but she willingly allowed the officer to take a copy of it and cable it to us. Here it is, and it’s as damning as you could hope for.”
Poirot took the cable with great interest. I read it over his shoulder.
Following is text to Lucie Adams, dated June 29th, 8 Rosedew Mansions, London, S.W.3. Begins, Dearest little Sister, I’m sorry I wrote such a scrappy bit last week but things were rather busy and there was a lot to see to. Well, darling, it’s been ever such a success! Notices splendid, box office good, and everybody most kind. I’ve got some real good friends over here and next year I’m thinking of taking a theatre for two months. The Russian dancer sketch went very well and the American woman in Paris too, but the Scenes at a Foreign Hotel are still the favourites, I think. I’m so excited that I hardly know what I’m writing, and you’ll see why in a minute, but first I must tell you what people have said. Mr. Hergsheimer was ever so kind and he’s going to ask me to lunch to meet Sir Montagu Corner, who might do great things for me. The other night I met Jane Wilkinson and she was ever so sweet about my show and my take off of her, which brings me round to what I am going to tell you. I don’t really like her very much because I’ve been hearing a lot about her lately from someone I know and she’s behaved cruelly, I think, and in a very underhand way—but I won’t go into that now. You know that she really is Lady Edgware? I’ve heard a lot about him too lately, and he’s no beauty, I can tell you. He treated his nephew, the Captain Marsh I have mentioned to you, in the most shameful way—literally turned him out of the house and discontinued his allowance. He told me all about it and I felt awfully sorry for him. He enjoyed my show very much, he said. “I believe it would take in Lord Edgware himself. Look here, will you take something on for a bet?” I laughed and said, “How much?” Lucie darling, the answer fairly took my breath away. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars, think of it—just to help someone win a silly bet. “Why,” I said, “I’d play a joke on the King in Buckingham Palace and risk lèse majesté? for that.” Well, then, we laid our heads together and got down to details.