“That’s all right,” said Japp confidently.
“But it is not all right. It is deplorable. It grieves me to the heart.”
“You needn’t be grieved about that young man. He richly deserves all he gets.”
“It is not he I am grieving about—it is you.”
“Me? You needn’t worry about me.”
“But I do. See you, who was it set you on this course? It was Hercule Poirot. Mais oui, I set you on the trail. I direct your attention to Carlotta Adams, I mention to you the matter of the letter to America. Every step of the way it is I who point it!”
“I was bound to get there anyway,” said Japp coldly. “You got a bit ahead of me, that’s all.”
“Cela ce peut. But it does not console me. If harm—if loss of prestige comes to you through listening to my little ideas—I shall blame myself bitterly.”
Japp merely looked amused. I think he credited Poirot with motives that were none too pure. He fancied that Poirot grudged him the credit resulting from the successful elucidation of the affair.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I shan’t forget to let it be known that I owe something to you over this business.”
He winked at me.
“Oh! it is not that at all.” Poirot clicked his tongue with impatience. “I want no credit. And what is more, I tell you there will be no credit. It is a fiasco that you prepare for yourself, and I, Hercule Poirot, am the cause.”
Suddenly, at Poirot’s expression of extreme melancholy, Japp shouted with laughter. Poirot looked affronted.
“Sorry, M. Poirot.” He wiped his eyes. “But you did look for all the world like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Now look here, let’s forget all this. I’m willing to shoulder the credit or the blame of this affair. It will make a big noise—you’re right there. Well, I’m going all out to get a conviction. It may be that a clever Counsel will get his lordship off—you never know with a jury. But even so, it won’t do me any harm. It will be known that we caught the right man even if we couldn’t get a conviction. And if, by any chance, the third housemaid has hysterics and owns up she did it—well, I’ll take my medicine and I won’t complain you led me up the garden. That’s fair enough.”
Poirot gazed at him mildly and sadly.
“You have the confidence—always the confidence! You never stop and say to yourself—can it be so? You never doubt—or wonder. You never think: This is too easy!”
“You bet your life I don’t. And that’s just where, if you’ll excuse me saying so, you go off the rails every time. Why shouldn’t a thing be easy? What’s the harm in a thing being easy?”
Poirot looked at him, sighed, half threw up his arms, then shook his head.
“C’est fini! I will say no more.”
“Splendid,” said Japp heartily. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks. You’d like to hear what I’ve been doing?”
“Assuredly.”
“Well, I saw the Honourable Geraldine, and her story tallied exactly with his lordship’s. They may both be in it together, but I think not. It’s my opinion he bluffed her—she’s three parts sweet on him anyway. Took on terribly when she found he was arrested.”
“Did she now? And the secretary—Miss Carroll?”
“Wasn’t too surprised, I fancy. However, that’s only my idea.”
“What about the pearls?” I asked. “Was that part of the story true?”
“Absolutely. He raised the money on them early the following morning. But I don’t think that touches the main argument. As I see it, the plan came into his head when he came across his cousin at the opera. It came to him in a flash. He was desperate—here was a way out. I fancy he’d been meditating something of the kind—that’s why he had the key with him. I don’t believe that story of suddenly coming across it. Well, as he talks to his cousin, he sees that by involving her he gains additional security for himself. He plays on her feelings, hints at the pearls, she plays up, and off they go. As soon as she’s in the house he follows her in and goes along to the library. Maybe his lordship has dozed off in his chair. Anyway, in two seconds he’s done the trick and he’s out again. I don’t fancy he meant the girl to catch him in the house. He counted on being found pacing up and down near the taxi. And I don’t think the taxi man was meant to see him go in. The impression was to be that he was walking up and down smoking whilst he waited for the girl. The taxi was facing the opposite direction, remember.
“Of course, the next morning, he has to pledge the pearls. He must still seem to be in need of the money. Then, when he hears of the crime, he frightens the girl into concealing their visit to the house. They will say that they spent that interval together at the Opera House.”
“Then why did they not do so?” asked Poirot sharply.
Japp shrugged his shoulders.
“Changed his mind. Or judged that she wouldn’t be able to go through with it. She’s a nervous type.”
“Yes,” said Poirot meditatively. “She is a nervous type.”
After a minute or two, he said:
“It does not strike you that it would have been easier and simpler for Captain Marsh to have left the opera during the interval by himself. To have gone in quietly with his key, killed his uncle, and returned to the opera—instead of having a taxi outside and a nervous girl coming down the stairs any minute who might lose her head and give him away.”
Japp grinned.
“That’s what you and I would have done. But then we’re a shade brighter than Captain Ronald Marsh.”
“I am not so sure. He strikes me as intelligent.”
“But not so intelligent as M. Hercule Poirot! Come now, I’m sure of that!” Japp laughed.
Poirot looked at him coldly.
“If he isn’t guilty why did he persuade the Adams girl to take on that stunt?” went on Japp. “There can be only one reason for that stunt—to protect the real criminal.”
“There I am of accord with you absolutely.”
“Well, I’m glad we agree about something.”
“It might be he who actually spoke to Miss Adams,” mused Poirot. “Whilst really—no, that is an imbecility.”
Then, looking suddenly at Japp, he rapped out a quick question.
“What is your theory as to her death?”
Japp cleared his throat.
“I’m inclined to believe—accident. A convenient accident, I admit. I can’t see that he could have had anything to do with it. His alibi is straight enough after the opera. He was at Sobranis with the Dortheimers till after one o’clock. Long before that she was in bed and asleep. No, I think that was an instance of the infernal luck criminals sometimes have. Otherwise, if that accident hadn’t happened, I think he had his plans for dealing with her. First, he’d put the fear of the Lord into her—tell her she’d be arrested for murder if she confessed the truth. And then he’d square her with a fresh lot of money.”
“Does it strike you—” Poirot stared straight in front of him. “Does it strike you that Miss Adams would let another woman be hanged when she herself held evidence that would acquit her?”
“Jane Wilkinson wouldn’t have been hanged. The Montagu Corner party evidence was too strong for that.”
“But the murderer did not know that. He would have had to count on Jane Wilkinson being hanged and Carlotta Adams keeping silence.”
“You love talking, don’t you, M. Poirot? And you’re positively convinced now that Ronald Marsh is a white-headed boy who can do no wrong. Do you believe that story of his about seeing a man sneak surreptitiously into the house?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you know who he says he thought it was?”
“I could guess, perhaps.”
“He says he thought it was the film star, Bryan Martin. What do you think of that? A man who’d never even met Lord Edgware.”
“Then it would certainly be curious if one saw such a man entering that house with a key.”
“Chah!” s
aid Japp. A rich noise expressive of contempt. “And now I suppose it will surprise you to hear that Mr. Bryan Martin wasn’t in London that night. He took a young lady to dine down at Molesey. They didn’t get back to London till midnight.”
“Ah!” said Poirot mildly. “No, I am not surprised. Was the young lady also a member of the profession?”
“No. Girl who keeps a hat shop. As a matter of fact, it was Miss Adams’ friend, Miss Driver. I think you’ll agree her testimony is past suspicion.”
“I am not disputing it, my friend.”
“In fact, you’re done down and you know it, old boy,” said Japp, laughing. “Cock and bull story trumped up on the moment, that’s what it was. Nobody entered No. 17…and nobody entered either of the houses either side—so what does that show? That his lordship’s a liar.”
Poirot shook his head sadly.
Japp rose to his feet—his spirits restored.
“Come, now, we’re right, you know.”
“Who was D. Paris, November?”
Japp shrugged his shoulders.
“Ancient history, I imagine. Can’t a girl have a souvenir six months ago without its having something to do with this crime? We must have a sense of proportion.”
“Six months ago,” murmured Poirot, a sudden light in his eyes. “Dieu, que je suis bête!”
“What’s he saying?” inquired Japp of me.
“Listen.” Poirot rose and tapped Japp on the chest.
“Why does Miss Adams’ maid not recognize that box? Why does Miss Driver not recognize it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Because the box was new! It had only just been given to her. Paris, November—that is all very well—doubtless that is the date of which the box is to be a souvenir. But it was given to her now, not then. It has just been bought! Only just been bought! Investigate that, I implore you, my good Japp. It is a chance, decidedly a chance. It was bought not here, but abroad. Probably Paris. If it had been bought here, some jeweller would have come forward. It has been photographed and described in the papers. Yes, yes, Paris. Possibly some other foreign town, but I think Paris. Find out, I implore you. Make the inquiries. I want—I so badly want—to know who is this mysterious D.”
“It will do no harm,” said Japp good-naturedly. “Can’t say I’m very excited about it myself. But I’ll do what I can. The more we know the better.”
Nodding cheerfully to us he departed.
Twenty-three
THE LETTER
“And now,” said Poirot, “we will go out to lunch.”
He put his hand through my arm. He was smiling at me.
“I have hope,” he explained.
I was glad to see him restored to his old self, though I was none the less convinced myself of young Ronald’s guilt. I fancied that Poirot himself had perhaps come round to this view, convinced by Japp’s arguments. The search for the purchaser of the box was, perhaps, a last sally to save his face.
We went amicably to lunch together.
Somewhat to my amusement at a table the other side of the room, I saw Bryan Martin and Jenny Driver lunching together. Remembering what Japp had said, I suspected a possible romance.
They saw us and Jenny waved a hand.
When we were sipping coffee, Jenny left her escort and came over to our table. She looked as vivid and dynamic as ever.
“May I sit and talk to you a minute, M. Poirot?”
“Assuredly, Mademoiselle. I am charmed to see you. Will not M. Martin join us also?”
“I told him not to. You see, I wanted to talk to you about Carlotta.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle?”
“You wanted to get a line on to some man friend of hers. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Well, I’ve been thinking and thinking. Sometimes you can’t get at things straightaway. To get them clear you’ve got to think back—remember a lot of little words and phrases that perhaps you didn’t pay attention to at the time. Well, that’s what I’ve been doing. Thinking and thinking—and remembering just what she said. And I’ve come to a certain conclusion.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle?”
“I think the man that she cared about—or was beginning to care about—was Ronald Marsh—you know, the one who has just succeeded to the title.”
“What makes you think it was he, Mademoiselle?”
“Well, for one thing, Carlotta was speaking in a general sort of way one day. About a man having hard luck, and how it might affect character. That a man might be a decent sort really and yet go down the hill. More sinned against then sinning—you know the idea. The first thing a woman kids herself with when she’s getting soft about a man. I’ve heard the old wheeze so often! Carlotta had plenty of sense, yet here she was coming out with this stuff just like a complete ass who knew nothing of life. ‘Hello,’ I said to myself. ‘Something’s up.’ She didn’t mention a name—it was all general. But almost immediately after that she began to speak of Ronald Marsh and that she thought he’d been badly treated. She was very impersonal and offhand about it. I didn’t connect the two things at the time. But now—I wonder. It seems to me that it was Ronald she meant. What do you think, M. Poirot?”
Her face looked earnestly up into his.
“I think, Mademoiselle, that you have perhaps given me some very valuable information.”
“Good.” Jenny clapped her hands.
Poirot looked kindly at her.
“Perhaps you have not heard—the gentleman of whom you speak, Ronald Marsh—Lord Edgware—has just been arrested.”
“Oh!” Her mouth flew open in surprise. “Then my bit of thinking comes rather late in the day.”
“It is never too late,” said Poirot. “Not with me, you understand. Thank you, Mademoiselle.”
She left us to return to Bryan Martin.
“There, Poirot,” I said. “Surely that shakes your belief.”
“No, Hastings. On the contrary—it strengthens it.”
Despite that valiant assertion I believed myself that secretly he had weakened.
During the days that followed he never once mentioned the Edgware case. If I spoke of it, he answered monosyllabically and without interest. In other words, he had washed his hands of it. Whatever he had had lingering in his fantastic brain, he had now been forced to admit that it had not materialized—that his first conception of the case had been the true one and that Ronald Marsh was only too truly accused of the crime. Only, being Poirot, he could not admit openly that such was the case! Therefore he pretended to have lost interest.
Such, as I say, was my interpretation of his attitude. It seemed borne out by the facts. He took no faintest interest in the police court proceedings, which in any case were purely formal. He busied himself with other cases and, as I say, he displayed no interest when the subject was mentioned.
It was nearly a fortnight later than the events mentioned in my last chapter when I came to realize that my interpretation of his attitude was entirely wrong.
It was breakfast time. The usual heavy pile of letters lay by Poirot’s plate. He sorted through them with nimble fingers. Then he uttered a quick exclamation of pleasure and picked up a letter with an American stamp on it.
He opened it with his little letter opener. I looked on with interest since he seemed so moved to pleasure about it. There was a letter and a fairly thick enclosure.
Poirot read the former through twice, then he looked up.
“Would you like to see this, Hastings?”
I took it from him. It ran as follows:
Dear M. Poirot,—I was much touched by your kind—your very kind letter. I have been feeling so bewildered by everything. Apart from my terrible grief, I have been so affronted by the things that seem to have been hinted about Carlotta—the dearest, sweetest sister that a girl ever had. No, M. Poirot, she did not take drugs. I’m sure of it. She had a horror of that kind of thing. I’ve often heard her say so. If she played a part in that poor man’
s death, it was an entirely innocent one—but of course her letter to me proves that. I am sending you the actual letter itself since you ask me to do so. I hate parting with the last letter she ever wrote, but I know you will take care of it and let me have it back, and if it helps you to clear up some of the mystery about her death, as you say it may do—why, then, of course it must go to you.
You ask whether Carlotta mentioned any friend specially in her letters. She mentioned a great many people, of course, but nobody in a very outstanding way. Bryan Martin whom we used to know years ago, a girl called Jenny Driver, and a Captain Ronald Marsh were, I think, the ones she saw most of.
I wish I could think of something to help you. You write so kindly and with such understanding, and you seem to realize what Carlotta and I were to each other.
Gratefully yours,
Lucie Adams
P.S. An officer has just been here for the letter. I told him that I had already mailed it to you. This, of course, was not true, but I felt somehow or other that it was important you should see it first. It seems Scotland Yard need it as evidence, against the murderer. You will take it to them. But, oh! please be sure they let you have it back again some day. You see, it is Carlotta’s last words to me.
“So you wrote yourself to her,” I remarked as I laid the letter down. “Why did you do that, Poirot? And why did you ask for the original of Carlotta Adams’ letter?”
He was bending over the enclosed sheets of the letter I mentioned.
“In verity I could not say, Hastings—unless it is that I hoped against hope that the original letter might in some way explain the inexplicable.”
“I don’t see how you can get away from the text of that letter. Carlotta Adams gave it herself to the maid to post. There was no hocus pocus about it. And certainly it reads as a perfectly genuine ordinary epistle.”
Poirot sighed.
“I know. I know. And that is what makes it so difficult. Because, Hastings, as it stands, that letter is impossible.”
“Nonsense.”
“Si, si, it is so. See you, as I have reasoned it out, certain things must be—they follow each other with method and order in an understandable fashion. But then comes this letter. It does not accord. Who, then, is wrong? Hercule Poirot or the letter?”