Putting his Gladstone bag on the coffee table, Dr Graham crossed to the settee and sat down. ‘I’m afraid this is a bad business, Monsieur Poirot,’ he announced to the detective.
‘A bad business, you say? Yes? You have discovered what caused the death of Sir Claud?’ asked Poirot.
‘His death was due to poisoning by a powerful vegetable alkaloid,’ Graham declared.
‘Such as hyoscine, perhaps?’ Poirot suggested, picking up the tin box of drugs from the table.
‘Why, yes, exactly.’ Dr Graham sounded surprised at the detective’s accurate surmise. Poirot took the case to the other side of the room, placing it on the gramophone table, and Hastings followed him there. Meanwhile, Richard Amory joined the doctor on the settee. ‘What does this mean, actually?’ Richard asked Dr Graham.
‘For one thing, it means the involvement of the police,’ was Graham’s prompt reply.
‘My God!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘This is terrible. Can’t you possibly hush it up?’
Dr Graham looked at Richard Amory steadily before he spoke, slowly and deliberately. ‘My dear Richard,’ he said. ‘Believe me, nobody could be more pained and grieved at this horrible calamity than I am. Especially since, under the circumstances, it does not seem likely that the poison could have been self-administered.’
Richard paused for several seconds before he spoke. ‘Are you saying it was murder?’ he asked in an unsteady voice.
Dr Graham did not speak, but nodded solemnly.
‘Murder!’ exclaimed Richard. ‘What on earth are we going to do?’
Adopting a brisker, more business-like manner, Graham explained the procedure to be followed. ‘I have notified the coroner. The inquest will be held tomorrow at the King’s Arms.’
‘And – you mean – the police will have to be involved? There’s no way out of it?’
‘There is not. Surely you must realize that, Richard?’ said Dr Graham.
Richard’s tone was frantic as he began to exclaim, ‘But why didn’t you warn me that –’
‘Come on, Richard. Take a hold of yourself. I’m sure you understand that I have only taken such steps as I thought absolutely necessary,’ Graham interrupted him. ‘After all, no time should be lost in matters of this kind.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Richard.
Dr Graham addressed Amory in a kindlier tone. ‘Richard, I know. I do understand. This has been a terrible shock to you. But there are things I must ask you about. Do you feel equal to answering a few questions?’
Richard made a visible effort to pull himself together. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked.
‘First of all,’ said Graham, ‘what food and drink did your father have at dinner last night?’
‘Let’s see, we all had the same. Soup, fried sole, cutlets, and we finished off with a fruit salad.’
‘Now, what about drink?’ continued Dr Graham.
Richard considered for a moment before replying. ‘My father and my aunt drank burgundy. So did Raynor, I think. I stuck with whisky and soda, and Dr Carelli – yes, Dr Carelli drank white wine throughout the meal.’
‘Ah, yes, the mysterious Dr Carelli,’ Graham murmured. ‘You’ll excuse me, Richard, but how much precisely do you know about this man?’
Interested to hear Richard Amory’s reply to this, Hastings moved closer to the two men. In answer to Dr Graham, Richard declared, ‘I know nothing about him. I’d never met him, or even heard of him, until yesterday.’
‘But he is a friend of your wife?’ asked the doctor.
‘Apparently he is.’
‘Does she know him intimately?’
‘Oh, no, he is a mere acquaintance, I gather.’
Graham made a little clicking sound with his tongue, and shook his head. ‘You’ve not allowed him to leave the house, I hope?’ he asked.
‘No, no,’ Richard assured him. ‘I pointed out to him last night that, until this matter was cleared up – the business of the formula being stolen, I mean – it would be best for him to remain here at the house. In fact, I sent down to the inn where he had a room, and had his things brought up here.’
‘Didn’t he make any protest at all?’ Graham asked in some surprise.
‘Oh, no, in fact he agreed quite eagerly.’
‘H’m,’ was Graham’s only response to this. Then, looking about him, he asked, ‘Well now, what about this room?’
Poirot approached the two men. ‘The doors were locked last night by Tredwell, the butler,’ he assured Dr Graham, ‘and the keys were given to me. Everything is exactly as it was, except that we have moved the chairs, as you see.’
Dr Graham looked at the coffee cup on the table. Pointing to it, he asked, ‘Is that the cup?’ He went across to the table, picked up the cup and sniffed at it. ‘Richard,’ he asked, ‘is this the cup your father drank from? I’d better take it. It will have to be analysed.’ Carrying the cup over to the coffee table, he opened his bag.
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 spot.’
‘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.
[Black Coffee -Agatha Christie] Chapter 11