was originally published as five separate volumes.
Copyright  1980 by Agatha Christie Ltd.

Thirteen at Dinner copyright MCMXXXIII by Agatha Christie.
Copyright renewed MCMLX by Agatha Christie Mallowan.
(Published in England as Lord Edgware Dies.)
Murder o the Orient Express copyright MCMXXXIII by Agatha Christie.
Copyright renewed MCMLXI by Agatha Christie Mallowan.
(Originally published in the United States as Murder in
the Calais Coach.)
The ABC blurds copyright MCMXXXV, MCMXXXVI by Agatha
Christie Mallowan. Copyright renewed MCMLXIII by Agatha Christie. Cards on the Table copyright MCMXXXVI by Agatha Christie Mallowan.
Copyright renewed MCMLXIII by Agatha Christie.
Death on the Nile copyright MCMXXXVII by Agatha Christie Mallowan.
Copyright renewed MCM LXV by Agatha Christie Mallowan.

All rights reserved.

This edition is published by Avenel BOoks,
distributed by Crown Publishers, Inc.,
225 Park Avenue South,
New York, New York 10003
by arrangement with Dodd, Mead & Company.

AVENEL 1980 EDITION

Manufactured in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Christie, Agatha Miller, Dame, 18911976.
Five Complete Hercule Poirot novels.

CONTENTS: Thirteen at dinner.--Murder on the Orient
express.--The ABC murders.--Cards on the table. [etc. ]
1. Detective and mystery stories, English.
L Title.
PZ3.C4637Fi [PR6005.H66] 823'.912 796344
ISBN: 0-517-30976-9 (jacketed edition)
ISBN: 0-517-30975-0 (library edition)

zywvu


CONTENTS


THIRTEEN AT DINNER


1


MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS


127


THE ABC MURDERS


255


CARDS ON THE TABLE


DEATH ON THE NILE


377


497



THIRTEEN AT DINNER



To

Dr. and Mrs. Campbell Thompson



CONTENTS


Chapter


1 A Theatrical Party


2 A Supper Party


3 The Man with the Gold Tooth


4 An Interview


5 Murder


6 The Widow


7 The Secretary


8 Possibilities


9 The Second Death


10 Jenny Driver


11 The Egoist


12 The Daughter


13 The Nephew


14 Five Questions


15 Sir Montagu Corner


16 Mainly Discussion


17 The Butler


18 The Other Man


19 A Great Lady


20 The Taxi-Driver


21 Ronald's Story


22 Strange Behaviour of Hercule Poirot


23 The Letter


24 News from Paris


1


6


11


16


21


25


30


35


38


42


47


51


55


59


64


67


70


73


78


82


85


88


93


99



25
	A Luncheon Party

26
	Paris?

27
	Concerning PinceNez

28
	Poirot Asks a Few Questions

29
	Poirot Speaks

30
	The Story

31
	A Human Document

102

105

109

113

116

121

124


CHAPTER 1
A Theatrical Party

To
he memory of the public is short. Already the intense interest and
xcitement aroused by the murder of George Alfred St. Vincent Marsh,
urth Baron Edgware, is a thing past and forgotten. Newer sensations have
taken its place.
My friend, Hercule Poirot, was never openly mentioned in connection with
the case. This, I may say, was entirely in accordance with his own wishes. He did
not choose to appear in it. The credit went elsewhere and that is how he wished it
to be. Moreover, from Poirot's own peculiar private point of view, the case was one
of his failures. He always swears that it was the chance remark of a stranger in the
street that put him on the right track.
However that may be, it was his geniusthat discovered the truth of the affair.
But for Hercule Poirot I doubt if the crime would have been brought home to its
perpetrator.
I feel therefore that the time has come for me to set down all I know of the
affair in black and white. I know the ins and outs of the case thoroughly and I may
also mention that I shall be fulfilling the wishes of a very fascinating lady in so
doing.
I have often recalled that day in Poirot's prim neat little sitting-room when,
striding up and down a particular strip of carpet, my little friend gave us his
masterly and astounding resum of the case. I am going to begin my narrative
where he did on that occasion--at a London theatre in June of last year.
Carlotta Adams was quite the rage in London at that moment. The year before
she had given a couple of matinees which had been a wild success. This year she
had a three weeks' season of which this was the last night but one.
Carlotta Adams was an American girl with the most amazing talent for single-handed
sketches unhampered by make-up or scenery. She seemed to speak every
language with ease. Her sketch of an evening in a foreign hotel was really
wonderful. In turn, American tourists, German tourists, middle-class English
families, questionable ladies, impoverished Russian aristocrats and weary discreet
waiters all flitted across the scene.
Her sketches went from grave to gay and back again. Her dying CzechoSlovakian
woman in hospital brought a lump to the throat. A minute later we were
rocking with laughter as a dentist plied his trade and chatted amiably with his
victims.
Her programme closed with what she announced as "Some Imitations."
Here again, she was amazingly clever. Without make-up of any kind, her
features seemed to dissolve suddenly and re-form themselves into those of a
famous politician, or a well-known actress, or a society beauty. In each character
she gave a short typical speech. These speeches, by the way, were remarkably
clever. They seemed to hit off every weakness of the subject selected.


2
	Agatha Christie


One of her last impersonations was Jane Wilkinson--a talented young
American actress well known in London. It was really very clever. Inanities
slipped off her tongue charged with some powerful emotional appeal so that in
spite of yourself you felt that each word was uttered with some potent and
fundamental meaning. Her voice, exquisitely toned, with a deep husky note in it,
was intoxicating. The restrained gestures, each strangely significant, the slightly
swaying body, the impression even, of strong physical beauty--how she did it, I
cannot think!

I had always been an admirer of the beautiful Jane Wilkinson. She had thrilled
me in her emotional parts, and I had always maintained in face of those who
admitted her beauty .but declared she was no actress, that she had considerable
histrionic powers.

It was a little uncanny to hear that well-known, slightly husky voice with the
fatalistic drop in it that had stirred me so often, and to watch that seemingly
poignant gesture of the slowly closing and unclosing hand, and the sudden throw
back of the head with the hair shaken back from the face that I realised she always
gave at the close of a damatic scene.

Jane Wilkinson was one of those actresses who had left the stage on her
marriage only to return to it a couple of years later.

Three years ago she had married the wealthy but slightly eccentric Lord
Edgware. Rumour went that she left him shortly afterwards. At any rate eighteen
months after the marriage, she was acting for the films in America, and had this
season appeared in a successful play in London.
Watching Carlotta Adams' clever but perhaps slightly malicious imitation, it
occurred to me to wonder how such imitations were regarded by the subject
selected. Were they pleased at the notoriety--at the advertisement it afforded? Or
were they annoyed at what was, after all, a deliberate exposing of the tricks of their
trade? Was not Carlotta Adams in the position of the rival conjurer who says: "Oh! this is an old trick! Very simple. I'll show you how this one's done!"

I decided that if I were the subject in question, I should be very much
annoyed. I should, of course, conceal my vexation, but decidedly I should not like
it. One would need great broad-mindedness and a distinct sense of humour to
appreciate such a merciless expose.

I had just arrived at these conclusions when the delightful husky laugh from
the stage was echoed from behind me.

I turned my head sharply. In the seat immediately behind mine, leaning
forward with her lips slightly parted, was the subject of the present imitation--Lady
Edgware, better known as Jane Wilkinson.

I realised immediately that my deductions had been all wrong. She was
leaning forward, her lips parted, with an expression of delight and excitement in her eyes.

As the "imitation" finished, she applauded loudly, laughing and turning to her
companion, a tall extremely good-looking man, of the Greed god type, whose face I
recognised as one better known on the screen than on the stage. It was Bryan
Martin, the hero of the screen most popular at the moment. He and Jane

Wilkinson had been starred together in several screen productions.
"Marvellous, isn't she?" Lady Edgware was saying.
He laughed.

"Janeyou look all excited."

"Well, she really is too wonderful! Heaps better than I thought she'd be."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	3

I did not catch Bryan Martin's amused rejoinder. Carlotta Adams had started
on a fresh improvisation.
What happened later is, I shall always think, a very curious coincidence.
After the theatre, Poirot and I went on to supper at the Savoy.
At the very next table to ours were Lady Edgware, Bryan Martin. and two
other people whom I did not know. I pointed them out to Poirot and, as I was
doing so, another couple came and took their places at the table beyond that again.
The woman's face was familiar and yet strangely enough, for the moment I could
not place it.
Then suddenly I realised that it was Carlotta Adams at whom I was staring!
The man I did not know. He was well-groomed, with a cheerful, somewhat
vacuous face. Not a type that I admire.
Carlotta Adams was dressed very inconspicuously in black. Hers was not a face
to command instant attention or recognition. It was one of those mobile sensitive
faces that pre-eminently lend themselves to the art of mimicry. It could take on an
alien character easily, but it had no very recognisable character of its own.
I imparted these reflections of mine to Poirot. Hb listened attentively, his egg-shaped
head cocked slightly to one side whilst he darted a sharp glance at the two
tables in question.
"So that is Lady Edgware? Yes, I remember--I have seen her act. She is belle
f/lgm ."
"And a fine actress too."
"Possibly."
"You don't seem convinced."
"I think it would depend on the setting, my friend. If she is the centre of the
play, if all revolves round her--yes, then she could play her part. I doubt if she
could play a small part adequately or even what is called a character part. The play
must be written about her and for her. She appears to me of the type of women
who are interested only in themselves." He paused and then added rather
unexpectedly: "Such people go through life in great danger."
"Danger?" I said, surprised.
"I have used a word that surprises you, I see, mon ai. Yes, danger. Because,
you see, a woman like that sees only one thing--herself. Such women see nothing
of the dangers and hazards that surround them--the million conflicting interests
and relationships of life. No, they see only their own forward path. And so--sooner
or laterisaster."
I was interested. I confessed to myself that such a point of view would not
have struck me.
"And the other?" I asked.
"Miss Adams?"
His gaze swept to her table.
"Well?" he said, smiling. "What do you want me to say about her?"
"Only how she strikes you."
"Mon cher, am I to-night the fortune-teller who reads the palm and tells the
character?"
"You could do it better than most," I rejoined.
"It is a very pretty faith that you have in me, Hastings. It touches me. Do you
not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting
passions and desires and aptitudes? Mais oui, c'est vrai. One makes one's little
judgments--but nine times out of ten one is wrong."


	4
	Agatha Christie


	"Not Hercule Poirot," I said smiling.

	"Even Hercule Poirot! Oh! I know very well that you have always a little idea

	that I am conceited, but, indeed, I assure you, I am really a very humble person."

	I laughed.

	"You-humble!"

	"It is so. Except--I confess it--that I am a little proud of my moustaches.

	Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them."

	"You're quite safe," I said dryly. "You won't. So you are not going to risk

	judgment on Carlotta Adams?"

	"Elle est artiste!" said Poirot simply. "That covers nearly all, does it not?"

	"Anyway, you don't consider that she walks through life in peril?"

	"We all do that, my friend," said Poirot gravely. "Misfortune may always be

	waiting to rush out upon us. But as to your question, Miss Adams, I think, will

	succeed. She is shrewd and she is something more. You observed without doubt

	that she is a Jewess?"

	I had not, But now that he mentioned it, I saw the faint traces of Semitic

	ancestry. Poirot nodded.

	"It makes for success--that. Though there is still one avenue of danger--since

	it is of danger we are talking."

	"You mean?"

	"Love of money. Lve of money might lead such a one from the prudent and

	cautious path."

	"It might do that to all of us," I said.

	"That is true, but at any rate you or I would see the danger involved. We

	could weigh the pros and cons. If you care for money too much, it is only the

	money you see, everything else is in shadow."

	I laughed at his serious manner.

	"Esmeralda, the gypsy queen, is in good form," I remarked teasingly.

	"The psychology of character is interesting," returned Poirot, unmoved. "One

	cannot be interested in crime without being interested in psychology. It is not the

	mere act of killing, it is what lies behind it that appeals to the expert. You follow

	me, Hastings?"

	I said that I followed him perfectly.

	"I have noticed that when we work on a case together, you are always urging

	me on to physical action, Hastings. You wish me to measure footprints, to analyse

	cigarette-ash, to prostrate myself on my stomach for the examination of detail. You

	never realise that by lying back in an armchair with the eyes closed one can come

	nearer to the solution of any problem. One sees then with the eyes of the mind."

	"I don't," I said. "When I lie back in an armchair with my eyes closed one

	thing happens to me and one thing only!"

	"I have noticed it!" said Poirot. "It is strange. At such moments the brain

	should be working feverishly, not sinking into sluggish repose. The mental activity,

	it is so interesting, so stimulating! The employment of the little grey cells is a

	mental pleasure. They and they only can be trusted to lead one through fog to the

	truth..."

	I am afraid that I have got into the habit of averting my attention whenever

	Poirot mentions his little grey cells. I have heard it all so often before.

	In this instance my attention wandered to the four people sitting at the next

	table, When Poirot's monologue drew to a close I remarked with a chuckle:

	"You have made a hit, Poirot. The fair Lady Edgware can hardly take her eyes

	off you."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	5


"Doubtless she has been informed of my identity," said Poirot, trying to look
modest and failing.

"I think it is the famous moustaches," I said. "She is carried away by their
beauty."

Poirot caressed them surreptitiously.

"It is true that they are unique," he admitted. "Oh, my friend, the 'toothbrush'
as yot call it, that you wear--it is a horror--an atrocity--a wilful stunting of
the bounties of nature. Abandon it, my friend, I pray of you."

"By Jove," I said, disregarding Poirot's appeal. "The lady's getting up. I
believe she's coming to speak to us. Bryan Martin is protesting, but she won't
listen to him."

Sure enough, Jane Wilkinson swept impetuously from her seat and came over

to our table. Poirot rose to his feet, bowing, and I rose also. "M. Hercule Poirot, isn't it?" said the soft husky voice.
"At your service."

"M. Poirot, I want to talk to you. I must talk to you."

"But certainly, Madame, will you not sit down?"

"No, no, not here. I want to talk to you privately. We'll go right upstairs to my
suite."

Bryan Martin had joined her. He spoke now with a deprecating laugh.

"You must wait a little, Jane. We're in the middle of supper. So is M. Poirot."
But. Jane Wilkinson was not so easily turned from her purpose.

"Why, Bryan, what does that matter? We'll have supper sent up to the suite.
Speak to them about it, will you? And, Bryan--"

She went after him as he was turning away and appeared to urge some course
upon him. He stood out about it, I gathered, shaking his head and frowning. But
she spoke even more emphatically and finally with a shrug of the shoulders he gave
way.

Once or twice during her speech to him she had glanced at the table where
Carlotta Adams sat, and I wondered if what she were suggesting had anything to do
with the American girl.

Her point gained, Jane came back, radiant.

"We'll go right up now," she said, and included me in a dazzling smile.

The question of our agreeing or not agreeing to her plan did not seem to occur
to her mind. She swept us off without a shade of apology.

"It's the greatest luck just seeing you here this evening, M. Poirot," she said
as she led the way to the lift. "It's wonderful how everything seems to turn out
right for me. I'd just been thinking and wondering what on earth I was going to do
and I looked up and there you were at the next table, and I said to myself: 'M.
Poirot will tell me what to do.'"

She broke off to say "Second Floor" to the lift-boy.

"If I can be of aid to you--" began Poirot.

"I'm sure you can. I've heard you're just the most marvellous man that ever
existed. Somebody's got to get me out of the tangle I'm in and I feel you're just the
man to do it."

We got out at the second floor and she led the way along the corridor, paused
at a door ad entered one of the most opulent of the Savoy suites.

Casting her white fur wrap on one chair, and her small jewelled bag on the
table, the actress sank on to a chair and exclaimed:

"M. Poirot, somehow or other I've just got to get rid of my husband!"



6
	Agatha Christie

CHAPTER 2
A Supper Party

After a moment's astonishment Poirot recovered himsel
"But Madame," he said, his eyes twinkling. "Getting rid of husbands is not my
specialty."
"Well, of course, I know that."
"It is a lawyer you require."
"That's just where you're wrong. I'm just about sick and tired of lawyers. I've
had straight lawyers and crooked lawyers, and not one of them's done me any good.
Lawyers just know the law, they don't seem to have any kind of natural sense."
"And you think I have?"
She laughed.
"I've heard that you're the cat's whiskers, M. Poirot." "Comment? The cat's whiskers? I do not understand."
"Well that you're It."
"Madame, I may or may not have brains--as a matter of fact I have--why
pretend? But your little affair, it is not my genre."
"I don't see why not. It's a problem."
"Oh! a problem!"
"And it's difficult," went on Jane Wilkinson. "I should say you weren't the
man to shy at difficulties."
"Let me compliment you on your insight, Madame. But all the same, me, I do not make the investigations for divorce. It is not pretty--ce mitier la.'
"My dear man, I'm not asking you to do spying work. It wouldn't be any good.
But
	I've just got to get rid of the man, and I'm sure you could tell me how to do it."
Poirot paused awhile before replying. When he did, there was a new note in
his voice.
"First tell me, Madame, why you are so anxious to 'get rid' of Lord Edgware?"
There was no delay or hesitation about her answer. It came swift and pat.
"Why, of course. I want to get married again. What other reason could there
be?"
Her great blue eyes opened ingenuously.
"But surely a divorce should be easy to obtain?"
"You don't know my husband, M. Poirot. He'she's--" she shivered. "I don't
know how to explain it. He's a queer man he's not like other people."
She paused and then went on.
"He should never have married anyone. I know what I'm talking about. I
just can't describe him, but he'sueer. His first wife, you know, ran away from
him. Left a baby of three months behind. He never divorced her and she died
miserably abroad somewhere. Then he married me. Well---I couldn't stick it. I was
frightened. I left him and went to the States. I've no grounds for a divorce, and if
I've given him grounds for one he won't take any notice of them. He's he's a kind
of fanatic."
"In certain American states you could obtain a divorce, Madame."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	7

"That's no good to me--not if I'm going to live in England."
"You want to live in England?"
"Yes."
"Who is the man you want to marry?"
"That's just it. The Duke of Merton."
I drew in my breath sharply. The Duke of Merton had so far been the despair
of matchmaking mammas. A young man of monkish tendencies, a violent Anglo-Catholic,
he was reported to be completely under the thumb of his mother, the
redoubtable dowager duchess. His life was austere in the extreme. He collected
Chinese porcelain and was reputed to be of aesthetic tastes. He was supposed to
care nothing for women.
"I'm just crazy about him," said Jane sentimentally. "He's unlike anyone I
ever met, and Merton Castle is too wonderful. The whole thing is the most
romantic business that eYer happened. He's so good-looking toolike a dreamy
kind of monk."
She paused.
"I'm going to give up the stage when I marry. I just don't seem to care about it
any more.
"In the meantime," said Poirot dryly, "Lord Edgware stands in the way of
these romantic dreams."
"Yes--and it's driving me to distraction." She leaned back thoughtfully. "Of course ffwe were only in Chicago I could get him bumped offquite easily, but you
don't seem to run to gunmen over here."
"Over here," said Poirot, smiling, "we consider that eYery human being has
the right to live."
"Well, I don't know about that. I guess you'd be better off without some of
your politicians, and knowing what I do of Edgware I think he'd be no loss--rather
the contrary."
There was a knock at the door, and a waiter entered with supper dishes. Jane
Wilkinson continued to discuss her problems with no appreciation of his presence.
"But I don't want you to kill him for me, M. Poirot."
"Merci, Madame."
"I thought perhaps you might argue with him in some clever way. Get him to
give in to the idea of divorce. I'm sure you could."
"I think you overrate my persuasive powers, Madame."
"Oh! but you can surely think of something, M. Poirot." She leaned forward.
Her blue eyes opened wide again. "You'd like me to be happy, wouldn't you?"
Her voice was soft, low and deliciously seductive.
"I should like everybody to be happy," said Poirot cautiously.
"Yes, but I wasn't thinking of everybody. I was thinking of just me." "I should say you always do that, Madame."
He smiled.
"You think I'm selfish?"
"Oh! I did not say so, Madame."
"I dare say I am. But, you see, I do so hate being unhappy. It affects my
acting, even. And I'm going to be ever so unhappy unless he agrees to a divorce
or dies.
"On the whole," she continued thoughtfully. "It would be much better if he
died. I mean, I'd feel more finally quit of him."
She looked at Poirot for sympathy.
"You will help me, won't you, M. Poirot?" She rose, picking up the white


8
	Agatha Christie


wrap, and stood looking appealingly into his face. I heard the noise of voices

outside in the corridor. The door was ajar. "If you don't--" she went on. "If I don't, Madame?"
She laughed.

"I'll have to call a taxi and go round and bump him off myself."

Laughing, she disappeared through a door to an adjoining room just as Bryan
Martin came in with the American girl, Carlotta Adams, and her escort, and the
two people who had been supping with him and Jane Wilkinson. They were
introduced to me as Mr. and Mrs. Widburn.

"Hello!" said Bryan. "Where's Jane? I want to tell her I've succeeded in the
commission she gave me."

Jane appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. She held a lipstick in one hand.
"Have you got her? How marvellous. Miss Adams, I do admire your
performance so. I felt I just had to know you. Come in here and talk to me while I
fix my face. It's looking too perfectly frightful."

Carlotta Adams accepted the invitation. Bryan Martin flung himself down in a
chair.

"Well, M. Poirot," he said. "You were duly captured. Has our Jane persuaded
you to fight her battles? You might as well give in sooner as later. She doesn't
understand the word 'no.'"

"She has not come across it, perhaps."

"A very interesting character, Jane," said Bryan Martin. He lay back in his
chair and puffed cigarette smoke idly towards the ceiling. "Taboos have no
meaning for her. No morals whatever. I don't mean she's exactly immoral-she
isn't. Amoral is the word, I believe. Just sees one thing only in life--what Jane
wants."

He laughed.

"I believe she'd kill somebody quite cheerfully--and feel injured if they
caught her and wanted to hang her for it. The trouble is that she would be caught.
She hasn't any brains. Her idea of a murder would be to drive up in a taxi, sail in
under her own name and shoot."

"Now, I wonder what makes you say that?" murmured Poirot.

"Eh?"

"You know her well, Monsieur?"

"I should say I did."

He laughed again, and it struck me that his laugh was unusually bitter.
"You agree, don't you?" he flung out to the others.

"Oh! Jane's an egoist," agreed Mrs. Widburn. "An actress has got to be, though. That is, if she wants to express her personality."

Poirot did not speak. His eyes were resting on Bryan Martin's face, dwelling
there with a curious speculative expression that I could not quite understand.

At that moment Jane sailed in from the next room, Carlotta Adams behind
her. I presume that Jane had now "fixed her face," whatever that term denoted, to
her own satisfaction. It looked to me exactly the same as before and quite incapable
of improvement.

The supper party that followed was quite a merry one, yet I sometimes had
the feeling that there were undercurrents which I was incapable of appreciating.

Jane Wilkinson I acquitted of any subtleties. She was obviously a young
woman who saw only one thing at a time. She had desired an interview with Poirot,
and had carried her point and obtained her desire without delay. Now she was
obviously in high good humour. Her desire to include Carlotta Adams in the party



	Thirteen at Dinner
	9

had been, I decided, a mere whim. She had been highly amused, as a child might the amused, by the clever counterfeit of herself.
No, the undercurrents that I sensed were nothing to do with Jane Wilkinson.
In what direction did they lie?
I studied the guests in turn. Bryan Martin? He was certainly not behaving
quite naturally. But that, I told myself, might be merely characteristic of a film
star. The exaggerated self-consciousness of a vain man too accustomed to playing a
part to lay it aside easily.
Carlotta Adams, at any rate, was behaving naturally enough. She was a quiet
girl with a pleasant low voice. I studied her with some attention now that I had a
chance to do so at close quarters. She had, I thought, distinct charm, but charm of
a somewhat negative order. It consisted in an absence of any jarring or strident
note. She was a kind of personified soft agreement. Her very appearance was
negative. Soft dark hair, eyes a rather colourless pale blue, pale face and a mobile
sensitive mouth. A face that you liked but that you would find it hard tO know again
if you were to meet her, say, in different clothes.
She seemed pleased at Jane's graciousness and complimentary sayings. Any
girl would be, I thought--and then--just at that moment--something occurred
that caused me to revise that rather too hasty opinion.
Carlotta Adams looked across the table at her hostess who was at that moment
turning her head to talk to Poirot. There was a curious scrutinising quality in the
girl's gaze--it seemed a deliberate umming up, and at the same time it struck me
that there was a very definite hostility in those pale blue eyes.
Fancy, perhaps. Or possibly professional jealousy. Jane was a successful
actress who had definitely arrived. Carlotta was merely climbing the ladder.
I looked at the three other members of the party. Mr. and Mrs. Widburn,
what about them? He was a tall cadaverous man, she a plump, fair, gushing soul.
They appeared to be wealthy people with a passion for everything connected with
the stage. They were, in fact, unwilling to talk on any other subject. Owing to my
recent absence from England they found me sadly ill-informed, and finally Mrs.
Widburn turned a plump shoulder on me and remembered my existence no more.
The last member of the party was the dark young man with the round cheerful
face who was Carlotta Adams' escort. I had had my suspicions from the first that
the young man was not quite so sober as he might have been. As he drank more
champagne this became even more clearly apparent.
He appeared to be suffering from a profound sense of injury. For the first half
of the meal he sat in gloomy silence. Towards the latter half he unbosomed himself
to me apparently under the impression that I was one of his oldest friends.
"What I mean to say," he said. "It isn't. No, dear old chap, it isn't--"
I omit the slight slurring together of the words.
"I mean to say," he went on, "I ask you? I mean if you take a girl well, I
mean--butting in. Going round upsetting things. Not as though I'd ever said a
word to her I shouldn't have done. She's not the sort. You know--Puritan fathers--
	the Mayflower--all that. Dash it--the girl's straight. What I mean is
	what was I
	saying?"

		"That it was hard lines," I said soothingly.
"Well, dash it all, it is. Dash it, I had to borrow the money for this beano from
my tailor. Very obliging chap, my tailor. I've owed him money for years. Makes a
sort of bond between us. Nothing like a bond, is there, dear old fellow. You and I.
You and I. Who the devil are you, by the way?"
	"My name is Hastings."


10
	Agatha Christie

"You don't say so. Now I could have sworn you were a chap called Spencer
Jones. Dear old Spencer Jones. Met him at the Eton and Harrow and borrowed a river from him. What I say is one face is very like another face--that's what I say. If
we were a lot of Chinks we wouldn't know each other apart."
He shook his head sadly, then cheered up suddenly and drank off some more
champagne.
"Anyway," he said, "I'm not a damned nigger."
This reflection seemed to cause him such elation that he presently made
several remarks of a hopeful character.
"Look on the bright side, my boy," he adjured me. "What I say is, look on the
bright side. One of these days when I'm seventy-five or so, I'm going to be a rich
man. When my uncle dies. Then I can pay my tailor."
He sat smiling happily at the thought.
There was something strangely likeable about the young man. He had a round
face and an absurdly small black moustache that gave one the impression of being
marooned in the middle of a desert.
Carlotta Adams, I noticed, had an eye on him, and it was after a glance in his
direction that she rose and broke up the party.
"It was just sweet of you to come up here," said Jane. "I do so love doing
things on the spur of the moment, don't you?"
"No," said Miss Adams. "I'm afraid I always plan a thing out very carefully
before I do it. It saves--worry."
There was something faintly disagreeable in her manner.
"Well, at any rate the results justify you," laughed Jane. "I don't know when I
enjoyed anything so much as I did your show tonight."
The American girl's face relaxed.
"Well, that's very sweet of you," she said warmly. "And I guess I appreciate
your telling me so. I need encouragement. We all do."
"Carlotta," said the young man with the black moustache. "Shake hands and
say thank you for the party to Aunt Jane and come along."
The way he walked straight through the door was a miracle of concentration.
Carlotta followed him quickly.
"Well," said Jane, "what was that that blew in and called me Aunt Jane? I
hadn't noticed him before."
"My dear," said Mrs. Widburn. "You mustn't take any notice of him. Most
brilliant as a boy in the O. U. D.S. You'd hardly think so now, would you? I hate to
see early promise come to nothing. But Charles and I positively must toddle."
The Widburns duly toddled and Bryan Martin went with them.
"Well, M. Poirot?"
He smiled at her.
"Eh bien, Lady Edgware?"
"For goodness' sake, don't call me that. Let me forget it! If you aren't the
hardest-hearted little man in Europe!"
"But no, but no, I am not hardhearted."
Poirot, I thought, had had quite enough champagne, possibly a glass too
much.
"Then you'll go and see my husband? And make him do what I want?"
"I will go and see him," Poirot promised cautiously.
"And if he turns you down--as he will--you'll think of a clever plan. They say
you're the cleverest man in England, M. Poirot."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	I i


"Madame, when I am hard-hearted, it is Europe you mention. But for
cleverness you say only England."

"If you put this through I'll say the universe."

Poirot raised a deprecating hand.

"Madame, I promise nothing. In the interests of the psychology I will
endeavour to arrange a meeting with your husband."

"Psycho-analyse him as much as you like. Maybe it would do him good. But
you've got to pull it off--for my sake. I've got to have my romance, Mr. Poirot."

She added dreamily: "Just think of the sensation it will make."


CHAPTER 3

The Man with the Gold Tooth


It was a few days later, when we were sitting at breakfast, that Poirot flung across
to me a letter that he had just opened.

"Well, mon ami," he said. "What do you think of that?"

The note was from Lord Edgware and in stiff formal language it made an
appointment for the following day at eleven.

I must say that I was very much surprised. I had taken Poirot's words as
uttered lightly in a convivial moment, and I had had no idea that he had actually
taken steps to carry out his promise.

Poirot, who was very quick-witted, read my mind and his eyes twinkled a
little.

"But yes, rnon ami, it was not solely the champagne."

"I didn't mean that."

"But yes--but yes--you thought to yourself, the poor old one, he has the
spirit of the party, he promises things that he will not perform--that he has no
intention of performing. But, my friend, the promises of Hercule Poirot are
sacred."

He drew himself up in a stately manner as he said the last words. "Of course.

Of course. I knew that," I said hastily. "But I thought that perhaps your judgment
 was slightly--what shall I say--influenced."

"I am not in the habit of letting my judgment be 'influenced' as you call it,
Hastings. The best and driest of champagne, the most golden-haired and seductive
of women--nothing influences the judgment of Hercule Poirot. No, mon ami, I am
interestedthat is all."

"In Jane Wilkinson's love affair?"

"Not exactly that. Her love affair, as you call it, is a very commonplace
business. It is a step in the successful career of a very beautiful woman. If the Duke
of Merton had neither a title nor wealth his romantic likeness to a dreamy monk
would no longer interest the lady. No, Hastings, what intrigues me is the
psychology of the matter. The interplay of character. I welcome the chance of
studying Lord Edgware at close quarters."

"You do not expect to be successful in your mission?"

"Pourquoi pas? Every man has his weak spot. Do not imagine, Hastings, that



12
	Agatha Christie
because I am studying the case from a psychological standpoint, I shall not try my
best to succeed in the commission entrusted to me. I always enjoy exercising my
ingenuity."
I had feared an allusion to the little grey cells and was thankful to be spared it. "So we go to Regent Gate at eleven to-morrow?" I said.
"We?" Poirot raised his eyebrows quizzically.
"Poirot!" I cried. "You are not going to leave me behind. I always go with
you."
"If it were a crime, a mysterious poisoning ease, an assassination--ah! these
are the things your soul delights in. But a mere matter of social adjustment?"
"Not another word," I said determinedly. "I'm coming."
Poirot laughed gently, and at that moment we were told that a gentleman had
called.
To our great surprise our visitor proved to be Bryan Martin.
The actor looked older by daylight. He was still handsome, but it was a kind of
ravaged handsomeness. It flashed across my mind that he might conceivably take
drugs. There was a kind of nervous tension about him that suggested the
possibility.
"Good-morning, M. Poirot," he said in a cheerful manner. "You and Captain
Hastings breakfast at a reasonable hour, I am glad to see. By the way, I suppose
you are very busy just now?"
Poirot smiled at him amiably.
"No," he said. "At the moment I have practically no business of importance on
hand."
"Come now," laughed Bryan. "Not called in by Scotland Yard? No delicate
matters to investigate for Royalty? I can hardly believe it."
"You confound fiction with reality, my friend," said Poirot, smiling. "I am, I assure you, at the moment completely out of work, though not yet on the dole. Dieu merci."
"Well, that's luck for me," said Bryan with another laugh. "Perhaps you'll take
on something for me."
Poirot considered the young man thoughtfully.
"You have a problem for me yes?" he said in a minute or two.
"Well--it's like this. I have and I haven't."
This time his laugh was rather nervous. Still considering him thoughtfully,
Poirot indicated a chair. The young man took it. He sat facing us, for I had taken a
seat by Poirot's side.
"And now," said Poirot, "let us hear all about it."
Bryan Martin still seemed to have a little difficulty in getting under way.
"The trouble is that I can't tell you quite as much as I'd like to." He hesitated.
"It's difficult. You see, the whole business started in America."
"In America? Yes?"
"A mere incident first drew my attention to it. As a matter of fact, I was
travelling by train and I noticed a certain fellow. Ugly little chap, dean-shaven,
glasses, and a gold tooth."
"Ah! a gold tooth."
"Exactly. That's really the crux of the matter."
Poirot nodded his head several times. "I begin to comprehend. Go on."
"Well, as I say. I just noticed the fellow. I was travelling, by the way, to New


	Thirteen at Dinner
	13

York. Six months later I was in Los Angeles, and I noticed the fellow again. Don't
know why I should havbut I did. Still, nothing in that."
"Continue."
"A month afterwards I had occasion to go to Seattle, and shortiy after I got
there who should I see but my friend again, only this time he wore a beard." "Distinctly curious."
"Wasn't it? Of course I didn't fancy it had anything to do with me at that time,
but when I saw the man again in Los Angeles, beardless, in Chicago with a
moustache and different eyebrows and in a mountain village disguised as a hobo
well, I began to wonder."
"Naturally."
	"And at last--well, it seemed odd
	but not a doubt about it. I was being what
you call shadowed."

	"Most remarkable."
"Wasn't it? After that I made sure of it. Wherever I was, there, somewhere
near at hand, was my shadow made up in different disguises. Fortunately, owing to
the gold tooth, I could always spot him."
"Ah! that gold tooth it was a very fortunate occurrence."
"It was."
"Pardon me, M. Martin, but did you never speak to the man? Question him as
to the reason of his persistent shadowing?"
"No, I didn't." The actor hesitated. "I thought of doing so once or twice, but I
always decided against it. It seemed to me that I should merely put the fellow on
his guard and learn nothing. Possibly once they had discovered that I had spotted
him, they would have put someone else on my track--someone whom I might not
recognise."
"En effet--someone without that useful gold tooth."
"Exactly. I may have been wrong--but that's how I figured it out."
"Now, M. Martin, you referred to 'they' just now. Whom did you mean by
'they'?"
"It was a mere figure of speech used for convenience. I assumed-I don't
know why--a nebulous 'they' in the background."
"Have you any reason for that belief?."
"None."
"You mean you have no conception of who could want you shadowed or for
what purpose?"
"Not the slightest. At least--"
"Continuez," said Poirot encouragingly.
"I have an idea," said Bryan Martin slowly. "It's a mere guess on my part,
mind."
"A guess may be very successful sometimes, Monsieur."
"It concerns a certain incident that took place in London about two years ago.
It was a slight incident, but an inexplicable and an' unforgettable one. I've often
wondered and puzzled over it. Just because I could find no explanation of it at the
time, I am inclined to wonder if this shadowing business might not be connected in
some way with it but for the life of me I can't see why or how."
"Perhaps I can."
"Yes, but you see" Bryan Martin's embarrassment returned. "The awkward
thing is that I can't tell you about it--not now, that is. In a day or so I might be able
to."


	14
	Agatha Christie

Stung into further speech by Poirot's inquiring glance he continued desperately.

	"You seea girl was concerned in it."

	"Ah! parfaitement! An English girl?"

	"Yes. At least--why?"
"Very simple. You cannot tell me now, but you hope to do so in a day or two.
That means that you want to obtain the consent of the young lady. Therefore she is
in England. Also, she must have been in England during the time you were
shadowed, for if she had been in America you would have sought her out then and
there. Therefore, since she has been in England for the last eighteen months she is
probably, though not certainly, English. It is good reasoning that, eh?"
"Rather. Now tell me, M. Poirot, if I get her permission, will you look into the
matter for me?"
There was a pause. Poirot seemed to be debating the matter in his mind.
Finally he said:
	"Why have you come to me before going to her?"
"Well, I thought--" he hesitated. "I wanted to persuade her to--to clear
things up---I mean to let things be cleared up by you. What I mean is, if you
investigate the affair, nothing need be made public, need it?"
"That depends," said Poirot calmly.
"What do you mean?"
	"If there is any question of crime--"

	"Oh! there's no crime concerned."

	"You do not know. There may be."
	"But you would do your best for her for us?"
	"That, naturally."
	He was silent for a moment and then said:
	"Tell me, this follower of yours--this shadow--of what age was he?"
	"Oh! quite youngish. About thirty."
"Ah!" said Poirot. "That is indeed remarkable. Yes, that makes the whole
thing very much more interesting.'
I stared at him. So did Bryan Martin. This remark of his was, I am sure,
equally inexplicable to us both. Bryan questioned me with a lift of his eyebrows. I
shook my head.
"Yes," murmured Poirot. "It makes the whole story very interesting." "He may have been older," said Bryan doubtfully, "but I don't think so."
"No, no, I am sure your observation is quite accurate, M. Martin. Very
interesting---extraordinarily interesting."
Rather taken aback by Poirot's enigmatical words, Bryan Martin seemed at a
loss what to say or do next. He started making desultory conversation.
"An amusing party the other night," he said. "Jane Wilkinson is the most highhanded
woman that ever existed."
"She has the single vision," said Poirot, smiling. "One thing at a time."
"She gets away with it, too," said Martin. "How people stand it, I don't
know!"
"One will stand a good deal from a beautiful woman, my friend," said Poirot
with a twinkle. "If she had the pug nose, the sallow skin, the greasy hair, then ahl
then she would not 'get away with it' as you put it."
"I suppose not," conceded Bryan. "But it makes me mad sometimes. All the
same, I'm devoted to Jane, though in some ways, mind you, I don't think she's quite all there."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	15
	"On the contrary, I should say she was very much on the spot."
	"I don't mean that, exactly. She can look after her interests all right. She's got
plenty of business shrewdness. No, I meant morally."
	"Ah! morally."
	"She's what they call amoral. Right and wrong don't exist for her."

	"Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening."

	"We were talking of crime just now--"

	"Yes, my friend?"
	"Well, it would never surprise me fi Jane committed a crime."
"And you should know her well," murmured Poirot thoughtfully. "You have
acted much with her, have you not?"
"Yes. I suppose I know her through and through, and up and down. I can see
her killing anybody quite easily."
"Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?"
"No, no, not at all. Cool as a cucumber. I mean if anyone were in her way
she'd just remove them--without a thought. And one couldn't really blame her--morally,
I mean. She'd just think that anyone who interfered with Jane Wilkinson
had got to go."
There was a bitterness in his last words that had been lacking heretofore. I
wondered what memory he was recalling.
"You think she would do--murder?"
Poirot watched him intently.
Bryan drew a deep breath.
"Upon my soul, I do. Perhaps, one of these days, you'll remember my words  . . I know her, you see. She'd kill as easily as she'd drink her morning tea. I mean
it, M. Poirot."
He had risen to his feet.
"Yes," said Poirot quietly. "I can see you mean it."
"I know her," said Bryan Martin again, "through and through."
He stood frowning fo a minute, then with a change of tone, he said: .
"As to this business we've been talking about, I'll let you know, M. Poirot, in a
few days. You will undertake it, won't you?"
Poirot looked at him for a moment or two without replying. "Yes," he said at last. "I will undertake it. I find it--interesting." There was something queer in the way he said the last word.
I went downstairs with Bryan Martin. At the door he said to me:
"Did you get the hang of what he meant about that fellow's age? I mean, why
was it interesting that he should be about thirty. I didn't get the hang of that at all." "No more did I," I admitted.
"It doesn't seem to make sense. Perhaps he was just having a game with me."
"No," I said. "Poirot is not like that. Depend upon it, the point has
significance since he says so."
"Well, blessed if I can see it. Glad you can't either. I'd hate to feel I was a
complete mutt."
He strode away. I rejoined my friend.
"Poirot," I said. "What was the point about the age of the shadower?"
"You do not see? My poor Hastings!" He smiled and shook his head. Then he
asked: "What did you think of our interview on the whole?" 
"There's so little to go upon. It seems difficult to say. If we knew more--"
"Even without knowing more, do not certain ideas suggest themselves to you, mon ami?"


	16
	Agatha Christie


The telephone ringing at that moment saved me from the ignominy of
admitting that no ideas whatever suggested themselves to me. I took up the
receiver.

A woman's voice spoke, a crisp, clear efficient voice.

"This is Lord Edgware's secretary speaking. Lord Edgware regrets that he
must cancel the appointment with M. Poirot for to-morrow morning. He has to go
over to Paris to-morrow unexpectedly. He could see M. Poirot for a few minutes at

a quarter-past twelve this morning if that would be convenient."

I consulted Poirot.

"Certainly, my friend we will go there this morning."

I repeated this into the mouthpiece.

"Very good," said the crisp business-like voice. "A quarter-past twelve this
morning."

She rang off.


CHAPTER 4
An Interview


I arrived with Poirot at Lord Edgware's house in Regent Gate in a very pleasant
state of anticipation. Though I had not Poirot's devotion to "the psychology," yet
the few words in which Lady Edgware had referred to her husband had aroused
my curiosity. I was anxious to see what my own judgment would be.

The house was an imposing one--well-built, handsome and slightly gloomy.
There were no window-boxes or such frivolities.

The door was opened to us promptly, and by no aged white-haired butler such
as would have been in keeping with the exterior of the house. On the contrary, it
was opened by one of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. Tall, fair, he
might have posed to a sculptor for Hermes or Apollo. Despite his good looks there
was something vaguely effeminate that I disliked about the softness of his voice.
Also, in a curious way, he reminded me of someone--someone, too, whom I had

met quite lately--but who it was I could not for the life of me remember.
We asked for Lord Edgware.
"This way, sir."

He led us along the hall, past the staircase, to a door at the rear of the hall.

Opening it, he announced us in that same soft voice which I instinctively
distrusted.

The room into which we were shown was a kind of library. The walls were
lined with books, the furnishings were dark and sombre but handsome, the chairs
were formal and not too comfortable.

Lord Edgware, who rose to receive us, was a tall man of about fifty. He had
dark hair streaked with grey, a thin face and a sneering mouth. He looked bad-tempered
and bitter. His eyes had a queer secretive look about them. There was

something, I thought, distinctly odd about those eyes.

His manner was stiff and formal.

"M. Hercule Poirot? Captain Hastings? Please be seated."

We sat down. The room felt chilly. There was little light coming in from the
one window and the dimness contributed to the cold atmosphere.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	17

Lord Edgware had taken up a letter which I saw to be in my friend's
handwriting.

"I am familiar, of course, with your name, M. Poirot. Who is not?" Poirot
bowed at the compliment. "But'I cannot quite understand your position in this
matter. You say that you wish to see me on behalf of" he paused "my wife."

He said the last two words in a peculiar way--as though it were an effort to get
them out.

"That is so," said my friend.

"I understood that you were an investigator of--crime, M. Poirot?"

"Of problems, Lord Edgware. There are problems of crime, certainly. There
are other problems."

"Indeed. And what may this one be?"

The sneer in his words was palpable by now. Poirot took no notice of it.

"I have the honour to approach you on behalf of Lady Edgware," he said.
"Lady Edgware, as you may know, desiresa divorce."

"I am quite aware of that," said Lord Edgware coldly.

"Her suggestion was that you and I should discuss the matter."
"There is nothing to discuss."
"You refuse, then?"
"Refuse? Certainly not."

Whatever else Poirot had epected, he had not expected this. It is seldom that
I have seen my friend utterly taken aback, but I did on this occasion. His
appearance was ludicrous. His mouth fell open, his hands flew out, his eyebrows
rose. He looked like g cartoon in a comic paper.

"Comment?" he cried. "What is this? You do not refuse?"

"I am at a loss to understand your astonishment, M. Poirot."

"Ecoutez, you are willing to divorce your wife?"

	,, "Certainly I am willing. She knows that perfectly well, I wrote and told her

SO.

"You wrote and told her so?"

"Yes. Six months ago."

"But I do not understand. I do not understand at all."

Lord Edgware said nothing.

"I understood that you were opposed to the principle of divorcei"

"I do not see that my principles are your business, M. Poirot. It is true that I
did not divorce my first wife. My conscience would not allow me to do so. My
second marriage, I will admit frankly, ,was a mistake. When my wife suggested a
divorce, I refused point blank. Six months ago she wrote to me again urging the
point. I have an idea she wanted to marry again--some film actor or fellow of that
kind. My views had, by this time, undergone modification. I wrote to her at
Hollywood telling her so. Why she has sent you to me I cannot imagine. I suppose
it is a question of money."

His lips sneered as he said the last words.

"Extremely curious," murmured Poirot. "Extremely curious. There is something
here I do not understand at all."

"As regards money," went on Lord Edgware. "I have no intention of making
any financial arrangement. My wife deserted me of her own accord. If she wishes
to marry another man, I can set her free to do so, but there is no reason why she
should receive a penny from me and she will not do so."

"There is no question of any financial arrangement."

Lord Edgware raised his eyebrows.

"Jane must be marrying a rich mhn," he murmured cynically.



	18
	Agatha Christie

"There is something here that I do not understand," said Poirot. His face was
perplexed and wrinkled with the effort of thought. "I understand from Lady
Edgware that she had approached you repeatedly through lawyers?"
"She did," replied Lord Edgware dryly. "English lawyers, American lawyers,
every kind of lawyer, down to the lowest kind of scallywag. Finally, as I say, she
wrote to me herself."
	"You having previously refused?"
	"That is so."
"But on receiving her letter, you changed your mind. Why did you change
your mind, Lord Edgware?"
"Not on account of anything in that letter," he said sharply. "My views
happened to have changed, that is all."
	"The change was somewhat sudden."
	Lord Edgware did not reply.
"What special circumstances brought about your change of mind, Lord
Edgware?"
"That, really, is my own business, M. Poirot. I cannot enter into that subject.
Shall we say that gradually I had perceived the advantages of severing what--you
will forgive my plain speaking--I considered a degrading association. My second
marriage was a mistake."
	"Your wife says the same," said Poirot softly.
	"Does she?"
	There was a queer flicker for a moment in his eyes, but it was gone almost at
Once.
He rose with an air of finality and as we said good-bye his manner became less
unbending.
"You must forgive my altering the appointment. I have to go over to Paris tomorrow.
	"Perfectly--perfectly."
"A sale of works of art as a matter of fact. I have my eye on a little statuette---a
perfect thing in its way--a macabre way, perhaps. But I enjoy the macabre. I always have. My taste is peculiar."
Again that queer smile. I had been looking at the books in the shelves near.
There were the Memoirs of Casanova. also a volume on the Comte de Sade,
another on medieval tortures.
I remembered Iane Wilkinson's little shudder as she spoke of her husband.
That had not been acting. That had been real enough. I wondered exactly what
kind of a man George Alfred St. Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, was.
Very suavely he bid us farewell, touching the bell as he did so. We went out of
the door. The Greek god of a butler was waiting in the hall. As I closed the library
door behind me, I glanced back into the room. I almost uttered an exclamation as I
did so.
That suave smiling face was transformed. The lips were drawn back from the
teeth in a snarl, the eyes were alive with fury and an almost insane rage.
I wondered no longer that two wives had left Lord Edgware. What I did
marvel at was the iron self-control of the man. To have gone through that interview
with such frozen self-control, such aloof politeness!
Just as we reached the front door, a door on the right opened. A girl stood at
the doorway of the room, shrinking back a little as she saw us.
She was a tall slender girl, with dark and hair and a white face. Her eyes, dark
and startled, looked for a moment into mine. Then, like a shadow, she shrank back
into the room again, closing the door.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	19
			A moment later we were out in the street. Poirot hailed a taxi. We got in and

		he told the man to drive to the Savoy.

		"Well, Hastings," he said with a twinkle, "that interview did not go at all as I

		figured to myself it would."

		"No, indeed. What an extraordinary man Lord Edgware is."

		I related to him how I had looked back before closing the door of the study and

		what I had seen. He nodded his head slowly and thoughtfully.

		"I fancy that he is very near the border line of madness, Hastings. I should

		imagine he practises many curious vices, and that beneath his frigid exterior he

		hides a deep-rooted instinct of cruelty."

		"It is no wonder both his wives left him."

		"As you say."

		"Poirot, did you notice a girl as we were coming out? A dark girl with a white

		face."

		"Yes, I noticed her, mon ami. A young lady who was frightened and not

		happy."

		His voice was grave.

		"Who do you think she was?"

		"Probably his daughter. He has one."

		"She did look frightened," I said slowly. "That house must be a gloomy place

	for a young girl."

		"Yes, indeed. Ah! here we are, mon ami. Now to acquaint her ladyship with

	the good news."

		Jane was in, and after telephoning, the clerk informed us that we were to go

	up. A page-boy took us to the door.

		It was opened by a neat middle-aged woman with glasses and primly arranged

	grey hair. From the bedroom Jane's voice, with its husky note, called to her.

		"Is that M. Poirot, Ellis? Make him sit right down. I'll find a rag to put on and

	be there in a moment." 

		Jane Wilkinson's idea of a rag was a gossamer neglig6e which revealed more

	than it hid. She came in eagerly, saying: "Well?"

		Poirot rose and bowed over her hand.

		"Exactly the words, Madame, it is well."

		"Why--how do you mean?"

		"Lord Edgware is perfectly willing to agree to a divorce."

		"What?"

		Either the stupefaction on her face was genuine, or else she was indeed a most

marvellous actress.

		"M. Poirotl You've managed it! At once! Like that Why, you're a genius. How
in mercy's name did you set about it?"
	'
	"Madame, I cannot take compliments where they are not earned. Six months
ago your husband wrote to you withdrawing his opposition."
	"What's that you say? Wrote to me? Where?"
	"It was when you were at Hollywood, I understand."
"I never got it. Must have gone astray, I suppose. And to think I've been
thinking and planning and fretting and going nearly crazy all these months."
"Lord Edgware seemed to be under the impression that you wished to marry
an actor."
"Naturally. That's what I told him." She gave a pleased child's smile.
Suddenly it changed to a look of alarm. "Why, M. Poirot, you didn't go and tell
him about me and the duke?"
"No, no, reassure yourself. I am discreet. That would not h,o A .... u"


20
	Agatha Christie
"Well, you see, he's got a queer mean nature. Marrying Merton, he'd feel,
was perhaps a kind of leg up for me so then naturally he'd queer the pitch. But a
film actor's different. Though, all the same, I'm surprised. Yes, I am. Aren't you
surprised, Ellis?"
I had noticed that the maid had come to and fro from the bedroom tidying
away various outdoor garments which were lying flung over the backs of chairs. It
had been my opinion that she had been listening to the conversation. Now it
seemed that she was completely in Jane's confidence.
"Yes, indeed, m'lady. His lordship must have changed a good deal since we
knew him," said the maid spitefully.
"Yes, he must."
"You cannot understand his attitude. It puzzles you?" suggested Poirot.
"Oh, it does. But anyway, we needn't worry about that. What does it matter
what made him change his mind so long as he has changed it?" "It may not interest you, but it interests me, Madame."
Jane paid no attention to him.
"The thing is that I'm free at last."
"Not yet, Madame."
She looked at him impatiently.
"Well, going to be free. It's the same thing."
Poirot looked as though he did not think it was.
"The duke is in Paris," said Jane. "I must cable him right away. My--won't his
old mother be wild!"
Poirot rose.
"I am glad, Madame, that all is turning out as you wish."
"Good-bye, M. Poirot, and thanks awfully." "I did nothing."
"You brought me the good news, anyway, M. Poirot, and I'm ever so grateful. I really am."
"And that is that," said Poirot to me, as we left the suite. "The single idea--herselfi
She has no speculation, no curiosity as to why that letter never reached
her. You observe, Hastings, she is shrewd beyond belief in the business sense, but 
she has absolutely no intellect. Well, well, the good God cannot give everything."
"Except to Hercule Poirot," I said slyly.
"You mock yourself at me, my friend," he replied serenely. "But come, let us
walk along the Embankment. I wish to arrange my ideas with order and method."
I maintained a discreet silence until such time as the oracle should speak.
"That letter," he resumed when we were pacing along by the river. "It
intrigues me. There are four solutions of that problem, my friend."
"Four?"
"Yes. First, it was lost in the post. That does happen, you know. But not very
often. No, not very often. Incorrectly addressed, it would have been returned to
Lord Edgware long before this. No, I am inclined to rule out that solution--though,
of course, it may be the true one.
"Solution two, our beautiful lady is lying when she says she never received it.
That, of course, is quite possible. That charming lady is capable of telling any lie to
her advantage with the most childlike candour. But I cannot see, Hastings, how it
could be to her advantage. If she knows that he will divorce her, why send me to
ask him to do so? It does not make sense.
"Solution three. Lord Edgware is lying. And if anyone is lying it seems more
likely that it is he than his wife. But I do not see much point in such a lie. Why


	Thirteen at Dinner
	21

invent a fictitious letter sent six months ago? Why not simply agree to my
proposition? No, I am inclined to think that he did send that letter--though what
the motive was for his sudden change of attitude I cannot guess.

"So we come to the fourth solution--that someone suppressed that letter. And
there, Hastings, we enter on a very interesting field of speculation, because that
letter could have been suppressed at either end--in America or England.

"Whoever suppressed it was someone who did not want that marriage
dissolved. Hastings, I would give a great deal to know what is behind this affair.

There is something--I swear there is something."

He paused and then added slowly:

"Something of which as yet I have only been able to get a glimpse."


CHAPTER 5
Murder


The following day was the 30th of June.

It was just half-past nine when we were told that Inspector Japp was below
and anxious to see us.

It was some years since we had seen anything of the Scotland Yard inspector. "Ah.t ce bon Japp,' said Poirot. "What does he want, I wonder?"

Help," I snapped. "He's out of his depth over some case and he's come to

you.

I had not the indulgence for Japp that Poirot had. It was not so much that I
minded his picking Poirot's brains--after all, Poirot enjoyed the process, it was
delicate flattery. What did annoy me was Japp's hypocritical pretence that he was
doing nothing of the kind. I liked people to be straightforward. I said so, and Poirot
laughed.

"You are the dog of the bulldog breed, eh, Hastings? But you must remember
that the poor Japp he has to save his face. So he makes his little pretence. It is very
natural."

I thought it merely foolish and said so. Poirot did not agree.

"The outward form--it is a bagatelle--but it matters to people. It enables
them to keep the amour propre."

Personally I thought a dash of inferiority complex would do Japp no harm, but
there was no point in arguing the matter. Besides, I was anxious to learn what Japp
had come about.

He greeted us both heartily.

"Just going to have breakfast, I see. Not got the hens to lay square eggs for you
yet, M. Poirot?"

This was an allusion to a complaint from Poirot as to the varying sizes of eggs
which had offended his sense of symmetry.

"As yet, no," said Poirot, smiling. "And what brings you to see us so early, my
good Japp?"

"It's not early--not for me. I've been up and at work for a good two hours. As
to what brings me to see you--well, it's murder."

"Murder?"



Agatha Christie

Japp nodded.
"Lord Edgware was killed at his house in Regent Gate last night. Stabbed in

the neck by his wife."
"By his wife?" I cried.
In a flash I remembered Bryan Martin's words on the previous morning. Had
he had a prophetic knowledge of what was going to happen? I remembered, too,
Jane's easy reference to "bumping him off." Amoral, Bryan Martin had called her.
She was the type, yes. Callous, egoistical and stupid. How right he had been in his
judgment.
All this passed through my mind while Japp went on:
"Yes. Actress, you know. Well known. Jane Wilkinson. Married him three
years ago. They didn't get on. She left him."
Poirot was looking puzzled and serious.
"What makes you believe that it was she who killed him?"
"No belief about it. She was recognised. Not much concealment about it,
either, She drove up in a taxi--"
	"A taxi
	"I echoed involuntarily, her words at the Savoy that night coming
	back to me.
"--rang the bell, asked for Lord Edgware. It was ten o'clock. Butler said he'd
see. 'Oh!' she says, cool as a cucumber. 'You needn't. I am Lady Edgware. I
suppose he's in the library.' And with that she walks along and opens the door and
goes in and shuts it behind her.
"Well, the butler thought it was queer, but all right. He went downstairs
again. About ten minutes later he heard the front door shut. So, anyway, she
hadn't stayed long. He locked up for the night about eleven. He opened the library
door, but it was dark, so he thought his master had gone to bed. This morning the
body was discovered by a housemaid. Stabbed in the back of the neck just at the
roots of the hair."
"Was there no cry? Nothing heard?"
"They say not. That library's got pretty well sound-proof doors, you know.
And there's traffic passing, too. Stabbed in that way, death results amazing quick.
Straight through the cistern into the medulla, that's what the doctor said-or
something very like it. If you hit on exactly the right spot it kills a man
instantaneously."
"That implies a knowledge of exactly where to strike. It almost implies
medical .knowledge."
"Yes--that's true. A point in her favor as far as it goes. But ten to one it was a
chance. She just struck lucky. Some people do have amazing luck, you know."
"Not so lucky if it results in her being hanged, mon ami," observed Poirot. "No. Of course she was a fool--sailing in like that and giving her name and
all."
"Indeed, very curious."
"Possibly she didn't intend mischief. They quarrelled and she whipped out a
penknife and jabbed him one."
"Was it a penknife?"
"Something of that kind, the dbctor says. Whatever it was, she took it away
with her. It wasn't left in the wound."
Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
"No, no, my friend, it was not like that. I know the lady. She would be quite
incapable of such a hot-blooded impulsive action. Besides, she would be most
unlikely to have a penknife with her. Few women have--and assuredly not Jane
Wilkinson."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	23
	"You know her, you say, M. Poirot?"

	"Yes. I know her.'

	He said no more for the moment. Japp was looking at him inquisitively.

	"Got something up your sleeve, M. Poirot?" he ventured at last.
		"Ah!" said Poirot. "That reminds me. What has brought you to me? Eh? It is

	not merely to pass the time of day with an old comrade? Assuredly not. You have

	here a nice straightforward murder. You have the criminal. You have the motive--

	what exactly is the motive, by the way?"

	"Wanted to marry another man. She was heard to say so not a week ago. Also

	heard to make threats. Said she meant to call round in a taxi and bump him off."

	"AhI" said Poirot. "You are very well informed--very well informed. Someone

	has been very obliging."

	I thought his eyes looked a question, but if so, Japp did not respond.

	"We get to hear things, M. Poirot,' he said stolidly.

	Poirot nodded. He had reached out for the daily paper. It had been opened by

	Japp, doubtless while he was waiting, and had been cast impatiently aside on our

	entry. In a mechanical manner, Porot folded it back at the middle page, smoothed

	and arranged it. Though his eyes were on the paper, his mind was deep in some

	kind of puzzle.

	"You have not answered,' he said presently. "Since all goes in the swimming

	fashion, why come to me?"

	"Because I heard you were at Regent Gate yesterday morning."

	"I see."

	"Now, as soon as I heard that, I said to myself, 'Something here.' His lordship

	sent for M. Poirot. Why? What did he suspect? What did he fear? Before doing

	anything definite, I'd bitter go round and have a word with him."

	"What do you mean by 'anything definite?' Arresting the lady, I suppose"
"Exactly." 
"You have not seen her yet?"
"Oh! yes, I have. Went round to the Savoy first thing. Wasn't going to risk her
giving us the slip."
"Ah!" said Poirot. "So you--"
He stopped. His eyes, which had been fixed thoughtfully and up to now
unseeingly on the paper in front of him, now took on a different expression. He lifted his head and spoke in a changed tone of voice.
"And what did she say? Eh! my friend. What did she say?"
"I gave her the usual stuff, of course, about wanting a statement and
cautioning her--you can't say the English police aren't fair."
"In my opinion foolishly so. But proceed. What did milady say?"
"Took hysterics--that's what she did. Rolled herself about, threw up her arms
and finally flopped down on the ground. Oh! she did it well--I'll say that for her. A
pretty bit of acting."
"Ah!" said Poirot blandly. "You formed, then, the 'impression that the
hysterics were not genuine?"
Japp winked vulgarly.
"What do you think? I'm not to be taken in with those tricks. She hadn't
fainted--not she! Just trying it on, she was. I'll swear she was enjoying it."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I should say that was perfectly possible. What
next?"
"Oh! well, she came to-pretended to, I mean. And moaned-and groaned
and carried on and that sour-faced maid of hers doped her with smelling salts and at
last she recovered enough to ask for her solicitor. Wasn't going to say anything


	24
	Agatha Christie


without her solicitor. Hysterics one moment, solicitor the next, now I ask you, is
that natural behaviour, sir?"

"In this case quite natural, I should say," said Poirot calmly.

"You mean because she's guilty and knows it."

"Not at all, I mean because of her temperament. First she gives you her
conception of how the part of a wife suddenly learning of her husband's death
should be played. Then, having satisfied her histrionic instinct, her native
shrewdness makes her send for a solicitor. That she creates an artificial scene and

enjoys it is no proof of her guilt. It merely indicates that she is a born actress."
"Well, she can't be innocent. That's sure."

"You are very positive," said Poirot. "I suppose that it must be so. She made

no statement, you say? No statement at all?"

Japp grinned.

"Wouldn't say a word without her solicitor. The maid telephoned for him. I
left two of my men there and came along to you. I thought it just as well to get put

wise to whatever there was going on before I went on with things."

"And yet you are sure?"

"Of course I'm sure. But I like as many facts as possible. You see, there's going
to be a big splash made about this. No hole and corner business. All the papers will
be full of it. And you know what papers are."

"Talking of papers," said Poirot. "How do you account for this, my dear friend.
You have not read your morning paper very carefully."

He leant across the table, his finger on a paragraph in the society news. Japp
read the item aloud.


Sir Montagu Corner gave a very successful dinner-party last night at
his house on the river at Chiswick. Among those present were Sir
George and Lady du Fisse, Mr. James Blunt, the well-known dramatic
critic, Sir Oscar Hammerfelt of the Overton Film Studios, Miss Jane
Wilkinson (Lady Edgware) and others.


For a moment Japp looked taken aback. Then he rallied.

"What's that got to do with it? This thing was sent to the Press beforehand.
You'll see. You'll find that our lady wasn't there, or that she came in late--eleven
o'clock or so. Bless you, sir, you mustn't believe everything you see in the Press to
be gospel. You of all people ought to know better than that."

"Oh! I do, I do. It only struck me as curious, that was all."

"These coincidences do happen. Now, M. Poirot, close as an oyster I know
you to be by bitter experience. But you'll come across with things, won't you?

You'll tell me why Lord Edgware sent for you?"

Poirot shook his head.

"Lord Edgware did not send for me. It was I who requested him to give me an
appointment."

"Really? And for what reason?"

Poirot hesitated a minute.

"I will an,,swer your question," he said slowly. "But I should like to answer it in
my own way.

Japp groaned. I felt a sneaking sympathy with him. Poirot can be intensely
irritating at times.

"I will request," went on Poirot, "that you permit me to ring up a certain
person and ask him to come here."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	25


"What person?"

"Mr. Bryan Martin."

"The film star? What's he got to do with it?"

"I think," said Poirot, "that you may find what he has got to say interesting--and
possibly helpful. Hastings, will you be so good?"

I took up the telephone-book. The actor had a flat in a big block of buildings

near St. James's Park.

"Victoria 49499"

The somewhat sleepy voice of Bryan Martin spoke after a few minutes.
"Hellowho's speaking?"

"What am I to say?" I whispered, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.

"Tell him," said Poirot, "that Lord Edgware has been murdered, and that I
should esteem it a favour if he would come round here and see me immediately."

I repeated this meticulously. There was a startled exclamation at the other

end.

"My God," said Martin. "So she's done it then! I'll come at once."

"What did he say?" asked Poirot. I told him.

"Ah!" said Poirot. He seemed pleased. "So she's done it then. That is what he

said? Then it is as I thought, it is as I thought."

Japp looked at him curiously.

"I can't make you out, M. Poirot. First you sound as though you thought the
woman might not have done it after all. And now you make out that you knew it all
along."

Poirot only smiled.


CHAPTER 6
The Widow


Bryan Martin was as good as his word. In less than ten minutes he had joined us.
During the time that we awaited his arrival, Poirot would only talk of extraneous
subjects and refused to satisfy Japp's curiosity in the smallest degree.

Evidently our news had upset the young actor terribly. His face was white and
drawn.

"Good heavens, M. Poirot," he said as he shook hands. "This is a terrible business. I'm shocked to the core--and yet I can't say I'm surprised. I've always
half-suspected that something of this kind might happen. You may remember I was
saying so yesterday."
"Mais oui, mais oui,' said Poirot. "I remember perfectly what you said to me

yesterday. Let me introduce you to Inspector Japp who is in charge of the case."
Bryan Martin shot a glance of reproach at Poirot.

"i had no idea," he murmured. "You should have warned me.'

He nodded coldly to the inspector.

He sat down, his lips pressed tightly together.

"I don't see," he objected, "why you asked me to come round. All this has
nothing to do with me.'



	26
	Agatha Christie


	"I think it has," said Poirot gently. "In a case of murder one must put one's

private repugnances behind one.

	"No, no. I've acted with Jane. I know her well. Dash it all, she's a friend of

mine."

	"And yet the moment that you hear Lord Edgware is murdered, you jump to

the conclusion that it is 'she who has murdered him," remarked Poirot dryly.

	The actor started.

	"Do you mean to say--?" His eyes seemed starting out of his head. "Do you

mean to say that I'm wrong?That she had nothing to do with it?"

	Japp broke in.

	"No, no, Mr. Martin. She did it right enough."

	The young man sank back again in his chair.

	"For a moment," he murmured. "I thought I'd made the most ghastly

	mistake."

	"In a matter of this kind friendship must not be allowed to influence you," said

	Poirot decisively.

	"That's all very well, but--"

	"My friend, do you seriously wish'to range yourself on the side of a woman

	who has murdered? Murder--the most repugnant of human crimes."

	Bryan Martin sighed.

	"You don't understand. Jane is not an ordinary murderess. She
	she has no

sense of right or wrong. Honestly she's not responsible."

	"That'll be a question for the jury," said Japp.

"Come, come," said Poirot kindly. "It is not as though you were accusing her.
She is already accused. You cannot refuse to tell us what you know. You have a

duty to society, young man."

Bryan Martin sighed.

"I suppose you're right," he said. "What do you want me to tell you?"
Poirot looked at Japp.

"Have you ever heard Lady Edgwarc or perhaps I'd better call her Miss

Wilkinson--utter threats against her husband?" asked Japp.
"Yes, several times."
"What did she say?"

"She said that if he didn't give her her freedom she'd have to 'bump him off.'"
"And that was not a joke, eh?"

"No. I think she meant it seriously. Once she said she'd take a taxi and go

round and kill him--you heard that, M. Poirot?"
He appealed pathetically to my friend.
Poirot nodded.

Japp went on with his questions.

"Now, Mr. Martin, we've been informed that she wanted her freedom in

order to marry another man. Do you know who that man was?"
Bryan nodded.
"Who?"

"It wasa-the Duke of Merton."

"The Duke of Merton! Whew!" The detective whistled. "Flying at high game,

eh? Why, he's said to be one of the richest men in England."

Bryan nodded more dejectedly than ever.

I could not quite understand Poirot's attitude. He was lying back in his chair,
his fingers pressed together and the rhythmic motion of his head suggested the
complete approval of a man who has put a chosen record on the gramophone and is
enjoying the result.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	2 7


"Wouldn't her husband divorce her?" "No, he refused absolutely."
"You know that for a fact?"
"Yes."

"And now," said Poirot, suddenly taking part once more in the proceedings.
"You see where I come in, my good Japp. I was asked by Lady Edgware to see her
husband and try and get him to agree to a divorce. I had an appointment for this
morning."

Bryan Martin shook his head.

"It would have been of no use," he declared confidently. "Edgware would
never have agreed."

"You think not?" said Poirot, turning an amiable glance on him.

"Sure of it. Jane knew that in her heart of hearts. She'd no real confidence that
you'd succeed. She'd given up hope. The man was a monomaniac on the subject of
divorce."

Poirot smiled. His eyes grew suddenly very green.

"You are wrong, my dear young man," he said gently. "I saw Lord Edgware
yesterday, and he agreed to a divorce."

There was no doubt that Bryan Martin was Completely dumbfounded by this

piece of news. He stared at Poirot with his eyes almost starting out of his head.
"You--you saw him yesterday?" he spluttered.

"At a quarter-past twelve," said Poirot in his methodical manner.
"And he agreed to a divorce?"
"He agreed to a divorce."

"You should have told Jane at once," cried the young man reproachfully.

"I did, M. Martin."

"You did?" cried Martin and Japp together.

Poirot smiled.

"It impairs the motive a little, does it not?" he murmured. "And now, M.
Martin, let me call your attention to this."

He showed him the newspaper paragraph.

Bryan read it, but without much interest.

"You mean this makes an alibi?" he said. "I suppose Edgware was shot some
time yesterday evening?"

"He was stabbed, not shot," said Poirot.

Martin laid the paper down slowly.

"I'm afraid this does no good," he said regretfully. "Jane didn't go to that
dinner."

"How do you know?"

"I forget. Somebody told me."

"That is a pity," said Poirot thoughtfully.

Japp looked at him curiously.

"I can't make you out, Monsieur. Seems now as though you don't want the
young woman to be guilty."

"No, no, my good Japp. I am not the partisan you think. But frankly, the case
as you present it, revolts the intelligence."

"What do you mean, revolts the intelligence? It doesn't revolt mine,"

I could see words trembling on Poirot's lips. He restrained them.

"Here is a young woman who wishes, you say, to get rid of her husband. That
point I do not dispute. She told me so frankly. Eh bien, how does she set about it?
She repeats several times in the loud clear voice before witnesses that she is
thinking of killing him. She then goes out one evening, calls at his house, has



	28
	Agatha Chrtie

herself announced, stabs him and goes away. What do you call that, my good
friend? Has it even the commonsense?" "It was a bit foolish, of course." "Foolish? It is the imbecility!"
"Well," said Japp, rising. "It's all to the advantage of the police when criminals
lose their heads. I must go back to the Savoy now."
"You permit that I accompany you?"
Japp made no demur and we set out. Bryan Martin took a reluctant leave of
us. He seemed to be in a great state of nervous excitement. He begged earnestly
that any further development might be reported to him.
"Nervy sort of chap," was Japp's comment on him.
Poirot agreed.
At the Savoy we found an extremely legal-looking gentleman who had just
arrived, and we proceeded all together to Jane's suite. Japp spoke to one of his
men.
"Anything?" he inquired laconically.
"She wanted to use the telephone!"
"Who did she telephone to?" inquired Japp eagerly.
"Jay's. For mourning."
Japp swore under his breath. We entered the suite.
The widowed Lady Edgware was trying on hats in front of the glass. She was
dressed in a filmy creation of black and white. She greeted us with a dazzling smile.
"Why, M. Poirot, how good of you to come along. Mr. Moxon" (this was to the
solicitor) "I'm so glad you've come. Just sit right by me and tell me what questions
I ought to answer. This man here seems to think that I went out and killed George
this morning."
"Last night, madam," said Japp.
"You said this morning. Ten o'clock."
"I said ten p.m."
"Well, I can never tell which is which a.m.'s and p.m.'s."
"It's only just about ten o'clock now," added the inspector severely.
Jane's eyes opened very wide.
"Mercy," she murmured. "It's years since I've been awake as early as this.
Why, it must have been Early Dawn when you came along."
"One moment, Inspector," said Mr. Moxon in his ponderous legal voice.
"When am I to understand that this--er--regrettablemost shocking--occurrence
took place?"
"Round about ten o'clock last night, sir."
"Why, that's all right," said Jane shortly. "I was at a party--Oh!" She covered
her mouth up suddenly. "Perhaps I oughtn't to have said that."
Her eyes sought the solicitor's in timid appeal.
"If, at ten o'clock last night, you were cr--at a party, Lady Edgware, I--er--I
can see no objection to your informing the inspector of the fact--no objection
whatever."
"That's right," said Japp. "I only asked you for a statement of your movements
yesterday evening."
"You didn't. You said ten something m. And anyway you gave me the most
terrible shock. I fainted dead away, Mr. Moxon."
"About this party, Lady Edgware?"
"It was at Sir Montagu Corner's--at Chiswick."
"What time did you go there?"
"The dinner was for eight-thirty."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	29

"You left here--when?"
"I started about eight o'clock. I dropped in at the Piccadilly Palace for a
moment to say good-bye to an American friend who was leaving for the States--
Mrs. Van Dusen. I got to Chiswick at a quarter to nine."
"What time did you leave?"
"About half-past eleven."
"You came straight back here?"
"Yes."
"In a taxi?"
"No. In my own car. I hire it from the Daimler people."
"And whilst you were at the dinner party you didn't leave it."
"Well--I "
"So you did leave it?"
It was like a terrier pouncing on a rat.
"I don't know what you mean. I was called to the telephone when we were at
dinner."
"Who called you?"
"I guess it was some kind of hoax. A voice said 'Is that Lady Edgware?' And I
said 'Yes, that's right,' and then they just laughed and rang off."
"Did you go outside the house to telephone?"
Jane's eyes opened wide in amazement. "Of course not."
"How long were you away from the dinner table?"
"About a minute and a half."
Japp collapsed after that. I was fully convinced that he did not believe a word
she was saying, but having heard her story he could do no more until he had
confirmed or disproved it.
Having thanked her coldly, he withdrew.
We also took our leave but she called Poirot back. "M. Poirot. Will you do something for me?"
"Certainly, Madame."
"Send a cable for me to the Duke in Paris. He's at the Crillon. He ought to
know about this. I don't like to send it myself. I guess I've got to look the bereaved
widow for a week or two."
"It is quite unnecessary to cable, Madame," said Poirot gently. "It will be in
the papers over there."
"Why, what a headpiece you've got! Of course it will. Much better not to
cable. I feel it's up to me to keep up my position now everything's gone right. I
want to act the way a widow should. Sort of dignified, you know. I thought of
sending a wreath of orchids. They're about the most expensive things going. I
suppose I shall have to go to the funeral. What do you think?"
"You will have to go to the inquest first, Madame."
"Why, I suppose that's true." She considered for a moment or two. "I don't
like that Scotland Yard inspector at all. He just scared me to death. M. Poirot?"
"Yes?"
"Seems it's kind of lucky I changed my mind and went to that party after all."
Poirot had been going towards the door. Suddenly, at these words, he
wheeled round.
"What is that you say, Madame? You changed your mind?"
"Yes. I meant to give it a miss. I had a frightful headache yesterday
afternoon."
Poirot swallowed once or twice. He seemed to have a difficulty in speaking.


	30
	Agatha Christie

"Did you--say so to anyone?" he asked at last.
"Certainly I did. There was quite a crowd of us having tea and they wanted me
to go on to a cocktail party and I said 'No.' I said my head was aching fit to split and
that I was going right home and that I was going to cut the dinner too."
"And what made you change your mind, Madame?"
"Ellis went on at me. Said I couldn't afford to turn it down. Old Sir Montagu
pulls a lot of strings, you know, and he's a crochetty creature--takes offence easily.
Well, I didn't care. Once I marry Merton I'm through with all this. But Ellis is
always on the cautious side. She said there's many a slip, etc., and after all I guess
she's right. Anyway, off I went."
"You owe Ellis a debt of gratitude, Madame," said Poirot seriously. "I suppose I do. That inspector had got it all taped out, hadn't he?"
She laughed. Poirot did not. He said in a low voice:
"All the same this gives one furiously to think. Yes, furiously to think."
"Ellis," called Jane.
The maid came in from the next room.
"M. Poirot says it's very lucky you made me go to that party last night."
Ellis barely cast a glance at Poirot. She was looking grim and disapproving.
"It doesn't do to break engagements, m'lady. You're much too fond of doing it.
People don't always forgive it. They turn nasty."
Jane picked up the hat she lad been trying on when we came in. She tried it
again.
"I hate black," she said disconsolately. "I never wear it. But, I suppose, as a
correct widow I've just got to. All those hats are too frightful. Ring up the other hat
place, Ellis. I've got to be fit to be seen."
Poirot and I slipped quietly from the room.

CHAPTER 7
The Secretary

We had not seen the last of Japp. He reappeared about an hour later, flung down
his hat on the table and said he was eternally blasted.
"You have made the inquiries?" asked Poirot sympathetically.
Japp nodded gloomily.
"And unless fourteen people are lying, she didn't do it," he growled.
He went on:
"I don't mind telling you, M. Poirot, that I expected to find a put-up job. On
the face of it, it didn't seem likely that anyone else could have killed Lord
Edgware. She's the only person who's got the ghost of a motive."
"I would not say that. Mais continuez.'
"Well, as I say, I expected to find a put-up job. You know what these theatrical
crowds arc--they'd all hang together to screen a pal. But this is rather a different
proposition. The people there last night were all big guns, they were none of them
close friends of hers and some of them didn't know each other. Their testimony is
independent and reliable. I hoped then to find that she'd slipped away for half an
hour orso. She could easily have done that--powdering her nose or some excuse.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	31


But no, she did leave the dinner table as she told us to answer a telephone call, but
the butler was with her--and, by the way, it was just as she told us. He heard what
she said. 'Yes, quite right. This is Lady Edgware.' And then the other side rang off.
It's curious, that, you know. Not that it's got anything to do with it."

"Perhaps not--but it is interesting. Was it a man or a woman who rang up?" "A woman, I think she said."
"Curious," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"Never mind that," said Japp impatiently. "Let's get back to the important
part. The whole evening went exactly as she said. She got there at a quarter to
nine, left at half-past eleven and got back here at a quarter to twelve. I've seen the
chauffeur who drove her he's one of Daimler's regular people. And the people at

the Savoy saw her come in and confirm the time."

"Eh bien, that seems very conclusive."

"Then what about those two in Regent Gate? It isn't only the butler. Lord
Edgware's secretary saw her too. They both swear by all that's holy that it was

Lady Edgware who came there at ten o'clock."
"How long has the butler been there?"
"Six months. Handsome chap, by the way."

"Yes, indeed. Eh bien, my friend, if he has only been there six months he
cannot have recognised Lady Edgware since he had not seen her before."

"Well, he knew her from her pictures in the papers. And anyway the secretary
knew her. She's been with Lord Edgware five or six years, and she's the only one
who's absolutely positive."

"Ah!" said Poirot. "I should like to see the secretary."

"Well, why not come along with me now?"

"Thank you, mon ami, I should be delighted to do so. You include Hastings in

your invitation, I hope?"

Japp grinned.

"What do you think? Where the master goes, there the dog follows," he added
in what I could not think was the best of taste.

"Reminds me of the Elizabeth Canning Case," said Japp. "You remember?
How at least a score of witnesses on either side swore they had seen the gipsy,
Mary Squires, in two different parts of England. Good reputable witnesses, too.
And she with such a hideous face there couldn't be two like it. That mystery was
never cleared up. It's very much the same here. Here's a separate lot of people
prepared to swear a woman was in two different places at the same time. Which of
em is speaking the truth?"

"That ought not to be difficult to find out?"

"So you say--but this woman--Miss Carroll, really knew Lady Edgware. I
mean she'd lived in the house with her day after day. She wouldn't be likely to
make a mistake."

"We shall soon see."

"Who comes into the title?" I asked.

"A nephew, Captain Ronald Marsh. Bit of a waster, I understand."

"What does the doctor say as to the time of death?" asked Poirot.

"We'll have to wait for the autopsy to be exact, you know. See where the
dinner had got to." Japp's way of putting things was, I'm sorry to say, far from
refined. "But ten o'clock fits in well enough. He was last seen alive at a few
minutes past nine when he left the dinner table and the butler took whiskey and
soda into the library. At eleven o'clock when the butler went up to bed the light
was out--so he must have been dead then. He wouldn't have been sitting in the
dark."



	32
	Agatha Christie
Poirot nodded thoughtfully. A moment or two later we drew up to the house,
the blinds of which were now down.
	The door was opened to us by the handsome butler.
Japp took the lead and went in first. Poirot and I followed. The door opened to
the left, so that the butler stood against the wall on that side. Poirot was on my
right and, being smaller than I was, it was only just as we stepped into the hall that
the butler saw him. Being close to him, I heard the sudden intake of his breath and
looked sharply at the man to find him staring at Poirot with a kind of startled fear
visible on his face. I put the fact away in my mind for what it might be worth.
Japp marched into the dining-room, which lay on our right, and called the
butler in after him.
"Now then, Alton, I want to go into this again very carefully. It was ten o'clock
when this lady came?"
"Her ladyship? Yes, sir."
"How did you recognise her?" asked Poirot.
"She told her name, sir, and besides I've seen her portrait in the papers. I've
seen her act, too."
Poirot nodded.
"How was she dressed?"
"In black sir. Black walking dress, and a small black hat. A string of pearls and
grey gloves."
Poirot looked a question at Japp.
"White taffeta evening dress and ermine wrap," said the latter succinctly.
The butler proceeded. His tale tallied exactly with that which Japp had
already passed on to us.
"Did anybody else come to see your master that evening?" asked Poirot. "No, sir."
"How was the front door fastened?"
"It has a Yale lock, sir. I usually draw the bolts when I go to bed, sir. At
eleven, that is. But last night Miss Geraldine was at the Opera so it was left
unbolted."
"How was it fastened this morning?"
"It was bolted, sir. Miss Geraldine had bolted it when she came in."
"When did she come in? Do you know?"
"I think it was about a quarter to twelve, sir."
"Then during the evening until a quarter to twelve, the door could not be
opened from the outside without a key? From the inside it could be opened by
simply drawing back the handle."
"Yes, sir."
"How many latchkeys were there?"
"His lordship had his, sir, and there was another key in the hall drawer which
Miss Geraldine took last night. I don't know if there were any others."
"Does nobody else in the house have a key?" "No, sir. Miss Carroll always rings."
Poirot intimated that that was all he wished to ask, and we went in search of
the secretary.
We found her busily writing at a large desk.
Miss Carroll was a pleasant efficient-looking woman of about forty-five. Her
fair hair was turning grey and she wore pince-nez through which a pair of shrewd
blue eyes gleamed out on us. When she spoke I recognised the clear businesslike
voice that had spoken to me through the telephone.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	33


"Ah! M. Poirot," she said as she acknowledged Japp's introduction. "Yes. It

was with you I made that appointment for yesterday morning."

"Precisely, Mademoiselle."

I thought that Poirot was favourably impressed by her. Certainly she was
neatness and precision personified.

"Well, Inspector Japp?" said Miss Carroll. "What more can I do for you?"

"Just this. Are you absolutely certain that it was Lady Edgware who came here
last night?"

"That's the third time you've asked me. Of course I'm sure. I saw her."
"Where did you see her, Mademoiselle?"

"In the hall. She spoke to the butler for a minute, then she went along the hall
and in at the library door."

"And where were you?"

"On the first floor looking down."

"And you were positive you were not mistaken?"

"Absolutely. I saw her face distinctly."

"You could not have been misled by a resemblance?"

"Certainly not. Jane Wilkinson's features are quite unique. It was her."
Japp threw a glance at Poirot as much as to say: "You see."
"Had Lord Edgware any enemies?" asked Poirot suddenly.
"Nonsense," said Miss Carroll.

"How do you mean--nonsense, Mademoiselle?"

"Enemies! People in these days don't have enemies. Not English people!"
"Yet Lord Edgware was murdered."
"That was his wife," said Miss Carroll. "A wife is not an enemy--no?"

"I'm sure it was a most extraordinary thing to happen. I've never heard of such
a thing happening--I mean to anyone in our class of life."

It was clearly Miss Carroll's idea that murders were only committed by
drunken members of the lower classes.

"How many keys are there to the front door?"

"Two," replied Miss Carroll promptly. "Lord Edgware always carried one.
The other was kept in the drawer in the hall, so that anybody who was going to be
late in could take it. There was a third one, but Captain Marsh lost it. Very
careless."

"Did Captain Marsh come much to the house?''
"He used to live here until three years ago."
"Why did he leave?" asked Japp.

"I don't know. He couldn't get on with his uncle, I suppose."

"I think you know a little more than that, Mademoiselle," said Poirot gently.
She darted a quick glance at him.

"I am not one to gossip, M. Poirot."

"But you can tell us the truth concerning the rumours of a serious
disagreement between Lord Edgware and his nephew."

"It wasn't so serious as all that. Lord Edgware was a difficult man to get on
with."

"Even you found that?"

"I'm not speaking of myself. I never had any disagreements with Lord

Edgware. He always found me perfectly reliable."

"But as regards Captain Marsh--"

Poirot stuck to it, gently continuing to goad her into further revelations.



	34
	Agatha Christie


	Miss Carroll shrugged her shoulders.

	"He was extravagant. Got into debt. There was some other troubleI don't

know exactly what. They quarrelled. Lord Edgware forbade him the house. That's
all."

	Her mouth closed firmly. Evidently she intended to say no more.

The room we had interviewed her in was on the first floor. As we left it, Poirot
took me by the arm.

"A little minute. Remain here if you will, Hastings. I am going down with
Japp. Watch till we have gone into the library, then join us there."

I have long ago given up asking Poirot questions beginning "Why?" Like the
Light Brigade "Mine not to reason why, mine but to do or die," though fortunately
it has not yet come to dying! I thought that possibly he suspected the butler of
spying on him and wanted to know if such were really the case.

I took up my stand looking over the banister. Poirot and Japp went first to the
front doorut of my sight. Then they reappeared walking slowly along the hall, I
followed their backs with my eye until they had gone into the library. I waited a
minute or two in case the butler appeared, but there was no sign of anyone, so I
ran down the stairs and joined them.

The body had, of course, been removed. The curtains were drawn and the
electric light was on. Poirot and Japp were standing in the middle of the room
looking round them.

	"Nothing here," Japp was saying.

	And Poirot replied with a smile:

"Alas! not the cigarette ash--nor the footprint--nor a lady's glovenor even a
lingering perfume! Nothing that the detective of fiction so conveniently finds."

"The police are always made Out to be as blind as bats in detective stories,"
said Japp with a grin.

"I found a clue once," said Poirot dreamily. "But since it was four feet long
instead of four centimetres no one would believe in it."

I remembered the circumstances and laughed. Then I remembered my
mission.

"It's all right, Poirot," I said. "I watched, but no one was spying upon you as
far as I could see."

"The eyes of my friend Hastings," said Poirot in a kind of gentle mockery.
"Tell me, my friend, did you notice the rose between my lips?"

"The rose between your lips?" I asked in astonishment. Japp turned aside
spluttering with laughter.

"You'll be the death of me, M. Poirot," he said. "The death of me. A rose.
What next?"

"I had the fancy to pretend I was Carmen," said Poirot quite undisturbed.
I wondered if they were going mad or if I was.

"You did not observe it, Hastings?" There was reproach in Poirot's voice. "No," I said, staring. "But then I couldn't see your face." "No matter." He shook his head gently.
Were they making fun of me?

"Well," said Japp. "No more to do here, I fancy. I'd like to see the daughter

again if I could. She was too upset before for me to get anything out of her."
He rang the bell for the butler,

"Ask Miss Marsh if I can see her for a few moment."

The man departed. It was not he, however, but Miss Carroll who entered the
room a few minutes later.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	35

"Geraldine is asleep," she said. "She's had a terrible shock, poor child. After
you left I gave her something to make her sleep and she's fast asleep now. In an
hour or two, perhaps."
Japp agreed.
"In any case, there's nothing she can tell you that I can't," said Miss Carroll
firmly.
"What is your opinion of the butler?" asked Poirot.
"I don't like him much and that's a fact," replied Miss Carroll. "But I can't tell
you why."
We had reached the front door.
"It was up there that you stood, was it not, last night, Mademoiselle?" said
Poirot suddenly, pointing with his hand up the stairs.
"Yes. Why?"
"And you saw Lady Edgware go along the hall into the study?"
"Yes."
"And you saw her face distinctly?"
"Certainly."
"But you could not fiave seen her face, Mademoiselle. You can only have seen
the back of her head from where you were standing."
Miss Carroll flushed angrily. She seemed taken aback.
"Back of her head, her voice, her walk! It's all the same thing. Absolutely
unmistakable! I tell you I know it was Jane Wilkinson--a thoroughly bad woman if
there ever was one."
And turning away she flounced upstairs.

CHAPTER 8
Possibilities

Japp had to leave us. Poirot and I turned into Regent's Park and found a quiet seat.
"I see the point of your rose between the lips now," I said laughing. "At the
moment I thought you had gone mad."
He nodded without smiling.
"You observe, Hastings, that the secretary is a dangerous witness. Dangerous
because inaccurate. You notice that she stated positively that she saw the visitor's face? At the time I thought that impossible. Coming from the study--yes, but not
going to the study. So I made my little experiment which resulted as I thought, and
then sprung my trap upon her. She immediately changed her ground."
"Her belief was quite unaltered, though," I argued. "And after all, a voice and
a walk are jus,! as unmistakable."
"No, no.
"Why, Poirot, I think a voice and the general gait are about the most
6haracteristic things about a person."
"I agree. And therefore they are the most easily counterfeited."
"You think--"
"Cast your mind back a few days. Do you remember one evening as we sat in
the stalls of a theatre--"


	36
	Agatha Chrtie


"Carlotta Adams? Ah! but then she is a genius."

"A well-known person is not so difficult to mimic. But I agree she has unusual
gifts. I believe she could carry a thing through without the aid of footlights and
distance"

A sudden thought flashed into my mind.

"Poirot," I cried. "You don't think that possibly--no, that would be too much
of a coincidence."

"It depends how you look at it, Hastings. Regarded from one angle it would be
no coincidence at all."

"But why should Carlotta Adams wish to kill Lord Poirot? She did not even
know him."

"How do you know she did not know him? Do not assume things, Hastings.
There may have been some link between them of which we know nothing. Not that
that is precisely my theory."

"Then you have a theory?"

"Yes. The possibility of Carlotta Adams being involved struck me from the
beginning."

"But, Poirot--"

"Wait, Hastings. Let me put together few facts for you. Lady Edgware, with a
complete lack of reticence, discusses the relations between her and her husband,
and even goes so far as to talk of killing him. Not only you and I hear this. A waiter
hears it, her maid probably has heard it many times, Bryan Martin hears it, and I
imagine Carlotta Adams herself hears it. And there are the people to whom these
people repeat it. Then, on that same evening, the excellence of Carlotta Adams'
imitation of Jane is commented upon. Who had a motive for killing Lord Edgware?
His wife.

"Now supposing that someone else wishes to do away with Lord Edgware.
Here is a scapegoat ready to his hand. On the day when Jane Wilkinson announces
that she has a headache and is going to have a quiet evening--the plan is put into
operation.

"Lady Edgware must be seen to enter the house in Regent Gate. Well, she is
seen. She even goes so ar as to announce her identity. Ah! c'est un peu trop, ca! It
would awaken suspicion in an oyster.

"And another point--a small point, I admit. The woman who came to the
house last night wore black, lane Wilkinson never wears black. We heard her say
so. Let us assume, then, that the woman who came to the house last night was not Jane Wilkinson--that it was a woman impersonating Jane Wilkinson. Did that
woman kill Lord Edgware?

"Did a third person enter that house and kill Lord Edgware? If so, did the
person enter before or after the supposed visit of Lady Edgware? If after, what did
the woman say to Lord Edgware? How did she explain her presence? She might
deceive the butler who did not know her, and the secretary who did not see her at
close quarters, but she could not hope to deceive a husband. Or was there only a
dead body in the room? Was Lord Edgware killed before she entered the house
sometime between nine and ten?"

"Stop, Poirot!" I cried. "You are making my head spin."

"No, no, my friend. We are only considering possibilities. It is like trying on
the clothes. Does this fit? No, it wrinkles on the shoulder? This one? Yes, that is
better--but not quite large enough. This other one is too small. So on and so on--until
we reach the perfect fit--the truth."

"Who do you suspect of such a fiendish plot?" I asked.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	3 7

"Ah! that is too early to say. One must go into the question of who has a motive
for wishing Lord Edgware dead. There is, of couse, the nephew who inherits. A
little obvious that, perhaps. And then, in spite of Miss Carroll's dogmatic
pronouncement, there is the qustion of enemies. Lord Edgware struck me as a
man who very easily might make enemies."
"Yes," I agreed. "That is so."
"Whoever it was must have fancied himself pretty safe. Remember, Hastings,
but for her change of mind at the last minute, Jane Wilkinson would have had no
alibi. She might have been in her room at the Savoy, and it would have been
difficult to prove it. She would have been arrested, tried--probably hanged."
I shivered.
"But there is one thing puzzles me," went on Poirot. "The desire to
incriminate her is clear but what then of the telephone call? Why did someone
ring her up at Chiswick and, once satisfied of her presence there, immediately ring
off?. It looks, does it not, as if someone wanted to be sure of her presence there
before proceeding to--what? That was at nine-thirty, almost certainly before the
murder. The intention then seems--there is no other word for it--beneficent. It cannot be the murderer who rings up--the murderer has laid all his plans to
incriminate Jane. Who, then, was it? It looks as though we have here two entirely
different sets of circumstances."
I shook my head, utterly fogged.
"It might be just a coincidence," I suggested.
"No, no, everything cannot be a coincidence. Six months ago, a letter was
suppressed. Why? There are too many things here unexplained. There must be
some reason linking them together."
He sighed. Presently he went on:
"That story that Bryan Martin came to tell
"Surely, Poirot, that has got no connection with this business."
"You are blind, Hastings, blind and willfully obtuse. Do you not see that the
whole thing makes a pattern? A pattern confused at present but which will
gradually become clear . . ."
I felt Poirot was being over-optimistic. I did not feel that anything would ever
become clear. My brain was frankly reeling.
"It's no good," I said suddenly. "I can't believe it of Carlotta Adams. She
seemed such a--well, such a thoroughly nice girl."
Yet, even as I spoke, I remembered Poirot's words about love of money. Love
of money--was that at the root of the seemingly incomprehensible? I felt that
Poirot had been inspired that night. He had seen Jane in danger--the result of her
strange egoistical temperament. He had seen Carlotta led astray by avarice.
"I do not think she committed the murder, Hastings. She is too cool and levelheaded
for that. Possibly she was not even told that murder would be done. She
may have been used innocently. But then--"
He broke off, frowning.
"Even so, she's an accessory after the fact now. I mean, she will see the news
to-day. She will realise--"
A hoarse sound broke from Poirot.
"Quick, Hastings. Quick! I have been blind--imbecile. A taxi. At once."
I stared at him.
He waved his arms.
"A taxi--at once."
One was passing. He hailed it and we jumped in.


	38
	Agatha Christie

	"Do you know her address?"

	"Carlotta Adams, do you mean?"

	"Mais oui, mais oui. Quickly, Hastings, quickly. Every minute is of value. Do
you not see?"
	"No," I said. "I don't."
	Poirot swore under his breath.
	"The telephone book? No, she would not be in it. The theatre."
At the theatre they were not disposed to give Carlotta's address, but Poirot
managed it. It was a flat in a block of mansions near Sloane Square. We drove
there, Poirot in a fever of impatience.
	"If I am not too late, Hastings. If I am not too late."
	"What is all this haste? I don't unders'tand. What does it mean?"
"It means that I have been slow. Terribly slow to realise the obvious. Ah! mon Dieu, if only we may be in time."

CHAPTER 9
The Second Death

Though I did not understand the reason for Poirot's agitation, I knew him well
enough to be sure that he had a reason for it.
We arrived at Rosedew Mansions, Poirot sprang out, paid the driver and
hurried into the building. Miss Adams' flat was on the first floor, as a visiting-card
stuck on a board informed us.
Poirot hurried up the stairs, not waiting to summon the lift which was at one of
the upper floors.
He knocked and rang. There was a short delay, then the door was opened by a
neat middle-aged woman with hair drawn tightly back from her face. Her eyelids
were reddened as though with weeping.
"Miss Adams?" demanded Poirot eagerly.
The woman looked at him.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard? Heard what?"
His face had gone deadly pale, and I realised that this, whatever it was, was
what he had feared.
The woman continued slowly to shake her head.
"She's dead. Passed away in her sleep. It's terrible."
Poirot leaned against the doorpost.
"Too late," he murmured.
His agitation was so apparent that the woman looked at him with more
attention.
"Excuse me, sir, but are you a friend of hers? I do not remember seeing you
come here before."
Poirot did not reply to this directly. Instead he said:
"You have had a doctor? What did he say?"


	Thirteen at Dinner
	39

"Took an overdose of a sleeping draught. Oh! the pity of it! Such a nice young
lady. Nasty dangerous things--these drugs. Veronal, he said it was."
Poirot suddenly stood upright. His manner took on a new authority.
"I must come in," he said.
The woman was clearly doubtful and suspicious.
"I don't think---" she began.
But Poirot meant to have his way. He took probably the only course that
would have obtained the desired result.
"You must let me in," he said. "I am a detective and I have got to inquire into
the circumstances of your mistress's death."
The woman gasped. She stood aside and we passed into the flat
From there on Poirot took command of the situation.
"What I have told you," he said authoritatively, "is strictly confidential. It
must not be repeated. Everyone must continue to think that Miss Adams' death was accidental. Please give me the name and address of the doctor you
summoned."
"Dr. Heath, 17 Carlisle Street."
"And your own name?"
"Bennett--Alice Bennett."
"You were attached to Miss Adams, I can see, Miss Bennett."
"Oh! yes, sir. She were a nice young lady. I worked for her last year when she
were over here. It wasn't as though she were one of those actresses. She were a
real young lady. Dainty ways she had and liked everything just so."
Poirot listened with attention and sympathy. He had now no signs of
impatience. I realised that to proceed gently was the best way of extracting the
information he wanted.
"It must have been a great shock to you," he observed gently.
"Oh! it was, sir. I took her in her tea--at half-past nine as usual and there she
'was lying--asleep I thought. And I put the tray down. And I pulled the curtains--one
of the rings caught, sir, and I had to jerk it hard. Such a noise it made. I was surprised when I looked round to see she hadn't woken. And then all of a sudden
something seemed to take hold of me. Something not quite natural about the way
she lay. And I went to the side of the bed, and I touched her hand. Icy cold it was,
sir, and I cried out."
She stopped, tears coming into her eyes.
"Yes, yes," said Poirot sympathetically. "It must have been terrible for you.
Did Miss Adams often take stuff to make her sleep?"
"She'd taken something for a headache now and again, sir. Some little tablets
in a bottle, but it was some other stuff she took last night, or so the doctor said."
"Did anyone come to see her last night? A visitor?" "No, sir. She was out yesterday evening, sir."
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"No, sir. She went out about seven o'clock." "Ah! How was she dressed?"
"She had on a black dress, sir. A black dress and a black hat."
Poirot looked at me.
"Did she wear any jewellery?"
"Just the string of pearls she always wore, sir."
"And gloves--grey gloves?"
"Yes, sir. Her gloves were grey."


	40
	Agatha Christie
"Ah! Now describe to me, if you will, what her manner was. Was she gay?
Excited? Sad? Nervous?"
"It seemed to me she was pleased about something, sir. She kept smiling to
herself. As though there were some kind of joke on."
"What time did she return?"
"A little after twelve o'clock, sir."
"And what was her manner then? The same?"
"She was terribly tired, sir."
"But not upset? Or distressed?"
"Oh! no, sir. I think she was pleased about something, but just done up, ffyou
know what I mean. She started to ring someone up on the telephone, and then she
said she couldn't bother. She'd do it to-morrow morning."
"Ah!" Poirot's eyes gleamed with excitement. He leaned forward and spoke in
a would-be indifferent voice.
"Did you hear the name of the person she rang up?"
"No, sir. She just asked for the number and waited and then the Exchange
must have said: 'I'm trying to get them' as they do, sir, and she said 'All right,' and
then suddenly she yawned and said 'Oh! I can't bother. I'm too tired.' and she put
the receiver back and started undressing."
"And the number she called? Do you recollect that? Think. It may be
important."
"I'm sorry I can't say, sir. It was a Victoria number and that's all I can
remember. I wasn't paying special heed, you see."
"Did she have anything to eat or drink before she went to bed?" "A glass of hot milk, sir, like she always did."
"Who prepared it?" "I did, sir."
"And nobody came to the flat that evening?"
"Nobody, sir."
"And earlier in the day?"
"Nobody came that I can remember, sir. Miss Adams was out to lunch and
tea. She came in at six o'clock."
"When did the milk come? The milk she drank last night?"
"It was the new milk she had, sir. The afternoon delivery. The boy leaves it
outside the door at four o'clock. But, oh! sir, I'm sure there wasn't nothing wrong
with the milk. I had it myself for tea this morning. And the doctor he said positive
as she'd taken the nasty stuff herself."
"It is possible that I am wrong," said Poirot. "Yes, it is possible that I am
entirely wrong. I will see the doctor. But, you see, Miss Adams had enemies.
Things are very different in America--"
He hesitated, but the good Alice leapt at the bait.
"Oh! I know, sir. I've read about Chicago and them gunmen and all that. It
must be a wicked country and what the police can be about, I can't think. Not like
our policemen."
Poirot left it thankfully at that, realising that Alice Bennett's insular proclivities
would save him the trouble of explanations.
His eye fell on a small suitcases-more of an attach case, that was lying on a
chair.
"Did Miss Adams take that with her when she went out last nght?"
"In the morning she took it, sir. She didn't have it when she came back at teatime,
but she brought it bak last thing."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	41

"Ah! You permit that I open it?"
Alice Bennett would have permitted anything. Like most canny and suspicious
women, once she had overcome her distrust she was child's play to manipulate.
She would have assented to anything Poirot suggested.
The case was not locked. Poirot opened it. I came forward and looked over his
shoulder.
"You see, Hastings, you see?" he murmured excitedly.
The contents were certainly suggestive.
There was a box of make-up materials, two objects which I recognised as
elevators to place in shoes and raise the height an inch or so, there was a pair of
grey gloves and, folded in tissue paper, an exquisitely-made wig of golden hair, the
exact shade of gold of Jane Wilkinson's and dressed like hers with a centre parting
and curls in the back of the neck.
"Do you doubt now, Hastings?" asked Poirot.
I believe I had up to that moment. But now I doubted no longer.
Poirot closed the case again and turned to the maid.
"You do not know with whom Miss Adams dined yesterday evening?"
"No, sir."
"Do you know with whom she had lunch or tea?"
"I know nothing about tea, sir. I. believe she lunched with Miss Driver."
"Miss Driver?"
"Yes, her great friend. She has a hat-shop in Moffatt Street, just off Bond
Street. Genevieve, it's called."
Poirot noted the address in his notebook just below that of the doctor.
"One thing more, Madame. Can you remember anything-anything at all-- that Mademoiselle Adams said or did after she came in at six o'clock that strikes
you as at all unusual or significant?"
The maid thought for a moment or two.
"I really can't say that I do, sir," she said at last. "I asked her if she would have
tea and she said she'd had some."
"Oh! she said she had had it," interrupted Poirot.
"Pardon. Continue."
"And after that she was writing letters till just on the time she went out."
"Letters, eh? You do not know to whom?"
"Yes, sir. It was just one letter--to her sister in Washington. She wrote her
sister twice a week regular. She took the letter out with her to post because of
catching the mail. But she forgot it."
"Then it is here still?"
"No, sir. I posted it. She remembered last night just as she was getting into
bed. And I said I'd run out with it. By putting an extra stamp on it and putting it in
the late fee box it would go all right."
"Ah!--and is that far?"
"No, sir, the post office is just round the corner."
"Did you shut the door of the flat behind you?"
Bennett stared.
"No, sir. I just left it toas I always do when I go out to post."
Poirot seemed about to speak-then checked himself.
"Would you like to look at her, sir?" asked the maid tearfully. "Looks beautiful
she does."
We followed her into the bedroom.
Carlotta Adams looked strangely peaceful and much younger than she had


	42
	Agatha Christie

appeared that night at the Savoy. She looked like a tired child asleep.

There was a strange expression on Poirot's face as he stood looking down on
her. I saw him make the sign of the Cross.

"J'ai fait un serment, Hastings," he said as we went down the stairs.
I did not ask him what his vow was. I could guess.
A minute or two later he said:

"There is one thing off my mind at least. I could not have saved her. By the
time I heard of Lord Edgware's death she was already dead. That comforts me.
Yes, that comforts me very much."


CHAPTER 10
Jenny Driver


Our next proceeding was to call upon the doctor whose address the maid had given

tiS.

He turned out to be a fussy elderly man somewhat vague in manner. He knew
Poirot by repute and expressed a lively pleasure at meeting him in the flesh.

"And what can I do for you, M. Poirot?" he asked after this opening preamble.

"You were called this morning, M. le docteur, to the bedside of a Miss
Carlotta Adams."

"Ah! yes, poor girl. Clever actress too. I've been twice to her show. A

thousand pities it's ended this way. Why these girls must have drugs I can't think."
"You think she was addicted to drugs, then?"

"Well, professionally, I should hardly have said so. At all events she didn't
take them hypodermically. No marks of the needle. Evidently always took it by the
mouth. Maid said she slept well naturally, but then maids never know. I don't

suppose she took veronal every night, but she'd evidently taken it for some time."
"What makes you think so?"

"This. Dash it--where did I put the thing?"
He was peering into a small case. "Ah! here it is."

He drew out a small black morocco handbag.

"There's got to be an inquest, of course. I brought this away so that the maid
shouldn't meddle with it."

Opening the pochette he took out a small gold box. On it were the initials
C.A. in rubies. It was a valuable and expensive trinket. The doctor opened it. It
was nearly full of a white powder.

"Veronal," he explained briefly. "Now look what's written inside."

On the inside of the lid of the box was engraved:


C.A. from D. Paris, Nov. 10th.
Sweet Dreams


"November 10th," said Poirot thoughtfully.

"Exactly, and we're now in June. That seems to show that she's been in the



	Thirteen at Dinner
	43

habit of taking the stuff for at least six months, and as the year isn't given, it might
be eighteen months or two years and a half--or any time."
"Paris. D," said Poirot, frowning.
"Yes. Convey anything to you? By the way, I haven't asked you what your
interest is in the case. I'm assuming you've got good grounds. I suppose you want
to know if it's suicide? Well, I can't tell you. Nobody can. According to the maid's
account she was perfectly cheerful yesterday. That looks like accident, and in my
opinion accident it is. Veronal's very uncertain stuff. You can take a devil of a lot
and it won't kill you, and you can take very little and off you go. It's a dangerous
drug for that reason.
"I've no doubt they'll bring it in Accidental Death at the inquest. I'm afraid I
can't be of any more help to you."
"May I examine the little bag of Mademoiselle?"
"Certainly. Certainly."
Poirot turned out the contents of the pochette. There was a fine handkerchief
with C.M.A. in the corner, a powder puff, a lipstick, a pound note and a little
change, and a pair of pincenez.
These last Poirot examined with interest. They were gold-rimmed and rather
severe and academic in type.
"Curious," said Poirot. "I did not know that Miss Adams wore glasses. But
perhaps they are for reading?"
The doctor picked them up.
"No, these are outdoor glasses," he affirmed. "Pretty powerful too. The
person who wore these must have been very shortsighted."
"You do not know if Miss Adams--"
"I never attended her before. I was called in once to see a poisoned finger of
the maid's. Otherwise I have never been in the flat Miss Adams, whom I saw for a
moment on that occasion, was certainly not wearing glasses then."
Poirot thanked the doctor and we took our leave.
Poirot wore a puzzled expression.
"It can be that I am mistaken," he admitted.
"About the impersonation?"
"No, no. That seems to me proved. No, I mean as to her death. ObviouSly she
had veronal in her possession. It is possible that she was tired and strung up last
night and determined to ensure herself a good night's rest."
Then he suddenly stopped dead--to the great surprise of the passers-by and
beat one hand emphatically on the other.
"No, no, no, no!" he declared emphatically. "Why should that accident
happen so conveniently? It was no accident. It was not suicide. No, she played her
part and in doing so she signed her death warrant. Veronal may have been chosen
simply because it was known that she occasionally ook it and that she had that box
in her possession. Butl if so, the murderer must have been someone who knew her
well. Who is D? Hastings? I would give a good deal to know who D. was."
"Poirot," I said, as he remained wrapt in thought. "Hadn't we better go on.
Everyone is staring at us."
"Eh? Well, perhaps you are right. Though it does not incommode me that
people should stare. It does not interfere in the least with my train of thought."
"People were beginning to laugh," I murmured.
"That has no importance."
I did not quite agree. I have a horror of doing anything conspicuous. The only


44 Agatha Christie

thing that affects Poirot is the possibility of the damp or the heat affecting the set of
his famous moustache.

"We will take a taxi," said Poirot, waving his stick.

One drew up by us, and Poirot directed it to go to Genevieve in Moffatt
Street.

Genevieve turned out to be one of those establishments where one nondescript
hat and a scarf display themselves in a glass box downstairs and where the
real centre of operations is one floor up a flight of musty-smelling stairs.

Having climbed the stairs we came to a door with "Genevieve. Please Walk
In" on it, and having obeyed this command we found ourselves in a small room full
of hats while an imposing blonde creature came forward with a suspicious glance at
Poirot.

"Miss Driver?" asked Poirot.

"I do not know if Modom can see you. What is your business, please?"
"please tell Miss Driver that a friend of Miss Adams would like to see her."
The blonde beauty had no need to go on this errand. A black velvet curtain
was violently agitated and a small vivacious creature with flaming red hair
emerged.

"What's that?" she demanded.

"Are you Miss Driver?"

"Yes. What's that about Carlotta?"
"You have heard the sad news?"
"What sad news?"

"Miss Adams died in her sleep last night. An overdose of veronal."

The girl's eyes opened wide.

"How awful!" she exclaimed. "Poor Carlotta. I can hardly believe it. Why, she
was full of life yesterday."

"Nevertheless it is true. Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "Now seeit is just on
one o'clock. I want you to do me the honour of coming out to lunch with me and
my friend. I want to ask you several questions."

e girl looked him up and down. She was a pugilistic little creature. She
reminled me in some ways of a fox terrier.

"Who are you?" she demanded bluntly.

"My name is Hercule Poirot. This is my friend Captain Hastings."

I bowed.

Her glance travelled from one to the other of us.
"I've heard of you," she said abruptly. "I'll come."
She called to the blonde:
"Dorothy?"
"Yes, Jenny."

"Mrs. Lester's coming in about that Rose Descartes model we're making for
her. Try the different feathers. Bydby, shan't be long, I expect."

She picked up a small black hat, affixed it to one ear, powdered her nose

furiously, and then looked at Poirot.

"Ready," she said abruptly.

Five minutes afterwards we were sitting in a small restarant in Dover Street.
Poirot had given an order to the waiter and cocktails were in front of us.

"Now," said Jenny Driver. "I want to know the meaning of all this. What has
Carlotta been getting herself mixed up in?"

"She had been getting herself mixed up in something, then, Mademoiselle?"
"Now then, who is going to ask the questions, you or me?"


	Thirteen at Dinner
	45

"My idea was that I should," said Poirot, smiling. "I have been given to
understand that you and Miss Adams were great friends."
"Right."
"Eh bien, then I ask you, Mademoiselle, to accept my solem assurance that
what I do, I am doing in the interests of your dead friend. I assure you that that is
SO."
There was a moment's silence while Jenny Driver considered this question.
Finally she gave a quick assenting nod of the head.
"I believe you. Carry on. What do you want to know?"
"I understand, Mademoiselle, that your friend lunched with you yesterday."
"She did."
"Did she tell you what her plans were for last night?"
"She didn't exactly mention last night."
"But she said something?"
"Well, she mentioned something that maybe is what you're driving at. Mind
you, she spoke in confidence."
"That is understood."
"Well, let me see now. I think I'd better explain things in my own words." "If you please, Mademoiselle."
"Well, then. Carlotta was excited. She isn't often excited. She's not that kind.
She wouldn't tell The anything definite, said she'd promised not to, but she'd got
something on. Something, I gathered, in the nature of a gigantic h0ax."
"A hoax?"
"That's what she said. She didn't say how or when or where. Only--" She
paused, frowning. "Well-you seeCarlotta's not the kind of person who enjoys
practical jokes or hoaxes or things of that kind. She's one of those serious, nice-minded,
hard-working girls. What I mean is, somebody had obviously put her up
to this stunt. And I thinkshe didn't say so, mind---"
"No, no, I quite understand. What was it that you thought?"
"I thought--I was sure--that in some way money was concerned. Nothing
really ever excited Carlotta except money. She was made that way She'd got one
of the best heads for business I've ever met. She wouldn't have been so excited and
so pleased unless money-quite a lot of money--had been concerned. My
impression was that she'd taken on something for a bet--and that she was pretty
sure of winning. And yet that isn't quite true. I mean, Carlotta didn't bet. I've
never known her to make a bet. But anyway, somehow or other, I'm sure money
was concerned."
"She did not actually say so?"
"N-n2o. Just said that she'd be able to do this, that and the other in the near
future. She was going to get her sister over from America to meet her in Paris. She
was crazy about her little sister. Very delicate, I believe, and musical. Well, that's
all I know. Is that what you want?"
Poirot nodded his head.
"Yes. It confirms my theory. I had hoped, I admit, for more. I ]tad anticipated
that Miss Adams would have been bound to secrecy. But I hoped that, being a
woman, she would not have counted revealing the secret to her best friend."
"I tried to make her tell me," admitted Jenny. "But she only laughed and said
she'd tell me all about it some day.'
Poirot was silent for a moment. Then he said:
"You know the name of Lord Edgware?"
"What? The man who was murdered? On a poster half an hour ago."


	46
	Agatha Christie

	"Yes. Do you know if Miss Adams was acquainted with him?"

	"I don't think so. I'm sure she wasn't. Oh! wait a minute."

	"Yes, Mademoiselle?" said Poirot eagerly.

	"What was it now?" she frowned, knitting her brow as she tried to remember.
"Yes, I've got it now. She mentioned him once. Very bitterly."
	"Bitterly?"
"Yes. She said--what was it?-that men like that shouldn't be allowed to ruin
other people's lives by their cruelty and lack of understanding. She said why, so
she did--that he was the kind of man whose death would probably be a good thing
for everybody."
	"When was it she said this, Mademoiselle?"

	"Oh! about a month ago, I think it was."

	"How did the subject come up?"
Jenny Driver racked her brains for some minutes and finally shook her head. "I can't remember," she confessed. "His name cropped up or something. It
might have been in the newspaper. Anyway, I remember thinking it odd that
Carlotta should be so vehement all of a sudden when she didn't even know the

	"Certainly it is odd," agreed Poirot thoughtfully. Then he asked:

	"Do you know if Miss Adams was in the habit of taking veronal?"

	"Not that I knew. I never saw her take it or mention taking it."
"Did you ever see in her bag a small gold box with the initials C.A. on it in
rubies?"
	"A small gold box--no, I am sure I didn't."
	"Do you happen to know where Miss Adams was last November?"
	"Let me see. She went back to the States in November, I thinktowards the
end of the month. Before that she was in Paris."
	"Alone?"
"Alone, of course! Sorr?-perhaps you didn't mean that! I don't know why any
mention of Paris always suggests the worst. And it's such a nice respectable place
really. But Carlotta wasn't the week-ending sort, if that's what you're driving at."
"Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to ask you a very important question. Was
there any man Miss Adams was specially interested in?"
"The answer to that is 'No,'" said Jenny slowly. "Carlotta, since I've known
her, has been wrapped up in her work and in her delicate sister. She's had the
'head of the family all depends on me' attitude very strongly. So the answer's o
strictly speaking."
"Ah! and not speaking so strictly?"
"I shouldn't wonder iflately--Carlotta hadn't been getting interested in
some man."

"Mind you, that's entirely guesswork on my part. I've gone simply by her
manner. She's beenifferent--not exactly dreamy, but abstracted. And she's
looked different, somehow. Oh! I can't explain. It's the sort of thing that another
woman just feels--and, of course, may be quite wrong about."
Poirot nodded.
"Thank you, Mademoiselle. One thing more. Is there any friend of Miss
Adams whose initial is D?"
"D," said Jenny Driver thoughtfully. "D? No, I'm sorry. I can't think of
anyone.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	47

CHAPTER 11
The Egoist

I do not think Poirot had expected any other answer to his question. All the same,
he shook his head sadly. He remained lost in thought. Jenny Driver leant forward,
her elbows on the table.
"And now," she said, "am I going to be told anything?"
"Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "First of all let me compliment you. Your
answers to my questions have been singularly intelligent. Clearly you have brains,
Mademoiselle. You ask whether I am going to tell you anything. I answer--not
very much. I will tell you just a few bare facts, Mademoiselle."
He paused, and then said quietly:
"Last night Lord Edgware was murdered in his library. At ten o'clock
yesterday evening a lady whom I believe to have been your friend Miss Adams
came to the house, asked to see Lord Edgware, and announced herself as Lady
Edgware. She wore a golden wig and was made up to resemble the real Lady
Edgware who, as you probably know, is Miss Jane Wilkinson, the actress. Miss
Adams (if it were she) only remained a few moments. She left the house at five
minutes past ten but she did not return home till after midnight. She went to bed,
having taken an overdose of veronal. Now, Mademoiselle, you see the point,
perhaps, of some of the questions I have been asking you."
Jenny drew a deep breath.
"Yes," she said. "I see now. I believe you're right, M. Poirot. Right about its
having been Carlotta, I mean. For one thing, she bought a new hat off me
yesterday."
"A new hat?"
"Yes. She said she wanted one to shade the left side of her face."
Here I must insert a few words of explanation as I do not know when these
words will be read. I have seen many fashions of hats in my time--the cloche that
shaded the face so completely that one gave up in despair the task of recognising
one's friends. The tilted forward hat, the hat attached airily to the back of the head,
the beret, and many other styles. In this particular June the hat of the moment was
shaped like an inverted soup plate and was worn attached (as if by suction) over one
ear, leaving the other side of the face and hair open to inspection.
"These hats are usually worn on the right side of the head?" asked Poirot.
The little modiste nodded.
"But we keep a few to be worn on the opposite side," she explained. "Because
there are people who much prefer their profile to the left or who have a habit of
parting hair on one side only. Now, would there be any special reason for Carlotta's
wanting that side of her face to be in shadow?"
I remembered that the door of the house in Regent Gate opened to the left, so
that anyone entering would be in full view of the butler that side. I remember also
that Jane Wilkinson (so I had noticed the other night) had a tiny mole at the corner
of the left eye.


	48
	Agatha Christie
	I said as much excitedly. Poirot agreed, nodding his head vigorously.

	"It is so. It is so. Vous avez parfaitement raison, Hastings. Yes, that explains

	the purchase of the hat."

	"M. Poirot?" Jenny sat suddenly bolt upright. "You don't think--you don't for

	one moment think--that Carlotta did it? Killed him, I mean. You can't think that?

	Not just because she spoke so bitterly about him."

	"I do not think so. But it is curious, all the same--that she should have spoken

	so, I mean. I would like to know the reason for it. What had he done--what did she

	know of him to make her speak in such a fashion?"

	"I don't know but she didn't kill him. She's--oh! she was--well--too

	refined."

	Poirot nodded approvingly.

	"Yes, yes. You put that very well. It is a point psychological. I agree. This was
	a scientific crime
	but not a refined one."
	"Scientific?"
"The murderer knew exactly where to strike so as to reach the vital nerve
centres at the base of the skull where it joins the cord."
"Looks like a doctor," said Jenny thoughtfully.
"Did Miss Adams know any doctors? I mean, was any particular doctor a
friend of hers?"
Jenny shook her head.
"Never heard of one. Not over here, anyway."
"Another question. Did Miss Adams wear pincenez?"
"Glasses? Never."
"Ah!" Poirot frowned.
A vision rose in my mind. A doctor, smelling of carbolic, short-sighted eyes
magnified by powerful lenses. Absurd!
"By the way, did Miss Adams know Bryan Martin, the film actor?"
"Why, yes. She used to krow him as a child, she told me. I don't think she saw
much of him, though. Just once in a while. She told me she thought he'd got very
swollen-headed."
She looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.
"Goodness, I must fly. H ave I helped you at all, M. Poirot?"
"You have. I shall ask you for further help by and by."
"It's yours. Someone staged this devilry. We've got to find out who it is."
She gave us a quick shake of the hand, flashed her white teeth in a sudden
smile and left us with characteristic abruptness.
"An interesting personality," said Poirot as he paid the bill.
"I like her," I said.
"It is always a pleasure t meet a quick mind."
"A little hard, perhaps," I reflected. "The shock of her friend's death did not
upset her as much as I should have thought it would have done."
"She is not the sort that weeps, certainly," agreed Poirot dryly.
"Did you get what you loped from the interview?"
He shook his head.
"No---I hoped--very mtch I hoped--to get a clue to the personality of D, the
person who gave her the little gold box. There I have failed. Unfortunately Carlotta
Adams was a reserved girl. She was not one to gossip about her friends or her
possible love affairs. One the other hand, the person who suggested the hoax may
not have been a friend at all. It may have been a mere acquaintance who proposed


	Thirteen at Dinner
	49

itoubtless for some 'sporting' reason-on a money basis. This person may have
seen the gold box she carried about with her and made some opportunity to discover what it contained."
"But how on earth did they get her to take it? And when?"
"Well, there was the time during which the flat door was open when the
maid was out posting a letter. Not that that satisfies me. It leaves too much to
chance. But now--to work. We have still two possible clues."
"Which are?"
"The first is the telephone call to a Victoria number. It seems to me quite a
probability that Carlotta Adams would ring up on her return to announce her
success. On the other hand, where was she between five minutes past ten and
midnight? She may have had an appointment with the instigator of the hoax. In
that case the telephone call may have been merely one to a friend."
"What is the second clue?"
"Ah! that I do have hopes for. The letter, Hastings. The letter to the sister. It
is possibleI only say possible---that in that she may have described the whole
business. She would not regard it as a breach of faith, since the letter would not be
read till a week later and in another country at that."
"Amazing, if that is so!"
"We must not build too much upon it, Hastings. It is a chance, that is all. No,
we must work now from the other end."
"What do you call the other end?"
"A careful study of those who profit in any degree by Lord Edgware's death."
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Apart from his nephew and his wife--"
"And the man the wife wanted to marry," added Poirot.
"The Duke? He is in Paris."
"Quite so. But you cannot deny that he is an interested party. Then there are
the people in the housethe butler--the servants. Who knows what grudges they
may have had? But I think myself our first point of attack should be a further
interview with Mademoiselle Jane Wilkinson. She is shrewd. She may be able to
suggest something."
Once more we made our way to the Savoy. We found the lady surrounded by
boxes and tissue paper, whilst exquisite black draperies were strewn over the back
of every chair. Jane had a rapt and serious expression and was just trying on yet
another small black hat before the glass.
"Why, M. Poirot. Sit down. That is, if there's anything to sit on. Ellis, clear
something, will you?"
"Madame, you look charming."
Jane looked serious.
"I don't want exactly to play the hypocrite, M. Poirot. But one must observe
appearances, don't you think? I mean, I think I ought to be careful. Oh! by the
way, I've had the sweetest telegram from the Duke."
"From Paris?"
"Yes, from Paris. Guarded, of course, and supposed to be condolences, but
put so that I can read between the lines."
"My felicitations, Madame."
"M. Poirot." She clasped her hands, her husky voice dropped. She looked like
an angel about to give vent to thoughts of exquisite holiness. "I've been thinking. It
all seems so miraculous, if you know what I mean. Here I am--all my troubles


50
	Agatha Chrtie

over. No tiresome business of divorce. No bothers. Just my path cleared and all

plain sailing. It makes me feel almost religious--ff you know what I mean."
I held my breath. Poirot looked at her, his head a little on one side. She was
quite serious.
"That is how it strikes you, Madame, eh?"
"Things happen right for me," said Jane in a sort of awed whisper. "I've
thought and I've thought lately--If Edgware was to die. And there--he's dead!
It's--it's almost like an answer to prayer."
Poirot cleared his throat.
"I cannot say I look at it quite like that, Madame. Somebody killed your
husband."
She nodded.
"Why, of course."
"Has it not occurred to you to wonder who that someone was?"
She stared at him. "Does it matter? I mean what's that to do with it? The
Duke and I can be married in about four or five months . . .'
With difficulty Poirot controlled himself.
"Yes, Madame, I know that. But apart from that has it not occurred to you to
ask yourself who killed your husband?"
"No." She seemed quite surprised by the idea. We could see her thinking
about it.
"Does it not interest you to know?" asked Poirot.
"Not very much, I'm afraid," she admitted. "I suppose the police will find out.
They're very clever, aren't they?"
"So it is said. I, too, am going to make it my business to find out."
"Are you? How funny."
"Why funny?"
"Well, I don't know." Her eyes strayed back to the clothes. She slipped on a
satin coat and studied herself in the glass.
"You do not object, eh?" said Poirot, his eyes twinkling.
"Why, of course not, M. Poirot. I should just love you to be clever about it all.
I wish you every success."
"Madame---I want more than your wishes. I want your opinion."
"Opinion?" said Jane absently, as she twisted her head over her shoulder.
"What on?"
"Who do you think likely to have killed Lord Edgware?"
Jane shook her head. "I haven't any idea!"
She wriggled her shoulders experimentally and took up the hand-glass.
"Madame!" said Poirot in a loud, emphatic voice. "WHo DO you THINK
KILLED YOUR HUSBAND?"
This time it got through. Jane threw him a startled glance. "Geraldine, I
expect," she said.
"Who is Geraldine?"
But Jane's attention was gone again.
"Ellis, take this up a little on the right shoulder. So. What, M. Poirot?
Geraldine's his daughter. No, Ellis, the right shoulder. That's better. Oh! must
you go, M. Poirot? I'm terribly grateful for everything. I mean, for the divorce,
even though it isn't necessary after all. I shall always think you were wonderful."
I only saw Jane Wilkinson twice again. Once on the stage, once when I sat
opposite her at a luncheon party. I always think of her as I saw her then, absorbed


Thirteen at Dinner 51
heart and soul in clothes, her lips carelessly throwing out the words that were to
influence Poirot's further actions, her mind concentrated firmly and beatifically on
herself,
"lpatant," said Poirot with reverence as we emerged into the Strand.

CHAPTER 12
The Daughter

There was a letter sent by hand lying on the table when we got back to our rooms.
Poirot picked it up, slit it open with his usual neatness, and then laughed.
"What is it you say--'Talk of the devil'? See here, Hastings."
I took the note from him.
The paper was stamped 17 Regent Gate and was written in very upright
characteristic handwriting which looked easy to read and, curiously enough, was
not.
"Dv. AR Sin, (it ran)
I hear you were at the house this morning with the
inspector. I am sorry not to have had the opportunity of speaking
to you. If convenient to yourself I should be much obliged if you
could spare me a few minutes any time this afternoon.
Yours truly,
GERALDINE MARSH."

"Curious," I said. "I wonder why she wants to see you?"
"Is it curious that she should want to see me? You are not polite, my friend."
Poirot has the most irritating habit of joking at the wrong moment.
"We will go round at once, my friend," he said, and lovingly brushing an
imagined speck of dust from his hat, he put it on his head.
Jane Wilkinson's careless suggestion that Geraldine might have killed her father seemed to me particularly absurd. Only a particularly brainless person could
have suggested it. I said as much to Poirot.
"Brains. Brains. What do we really mean by the term? In your idiom you
would say that Jane Wilkinson has the brains of a rabbit. That is a term of
disparagement. But consider the rabbit for a moment. He exists and multiplies,
does he not? That, in Nature, is a sign of mental superiority. The lovely Lady
Edgware she does not know history, or geography, nor the classics sans doute. The name ofLao Tse would suggest to her a prize Pekingese dog, the name of Molire a maison de couture. But when it comes to choosing clothes, to making rich and
advantageous marriages, and to getting her own way--her success is phenomenal.
The opinion of a philosopher as to who murdered Lord Edgware would be no good
to me--the motive for murder from a philosopher's point of view would be the
greatest good of the greatest number, and as that is difficult to decide, few philosophers are murderers. But a careless opinion from Lady Edgware might be
useful to me because her point of view would be materialistic and based on a
knowledge of the worst side of human nature."


	52
	Agatha Christie


	"Perhaps there's something in that," I conceded.

	"Nous voici," said Poirot. "I am curious to know why the young lady wishes so

urgently to see me."

"It is a natural desire" I said, getting my own back. "You said so a quarter of
an hour ago. The natural desire to see something unique at close quarters."

"Perhaps it is you, my friend, who made an impression on her heart the other
day," replied Poirot as he rang the bell.

I recalled the startled face of the girl who had stood in the doorway. I could
still see those burning dark eyes in the white face. That momentary glimpse had
made a great impression on me.

We were shown upstairs to a big drawing-room and in a minute or two
Geraldine Marsh came to us there.

The impression ofintensity which I had noticed before was heightened on this
occasion. This tall, thin, white-faced girl with her big haunting black eyes was a
striking figure.

She was extremely composed--in view of her youth, remarkably so.

"It is very good of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot," she said. "I am sorry

to have missed you this morning."

"You were lying down?"

"Yes, Miss Carroll--my father's secretary, you know--insisted. She has been
very kind."

There was a queer grudging note in the girl's voice that puzzled me. "In what way can I be of service to you, Mademoiselle?" asked Poirot.
She hesitated a minute and then said:

"On the day before my father was killed you came to see him?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"Why? Did he--send for you?"

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating. I believe,
now, that it was a cleverly calculated move on his part. He wanted to goad her into
further speech. She was, he realised, of the impatient type. She wanted things in a
hurry.

"Was he afraid of something? Tell me. Tell me. I must know. Who was he
afraid o Why? What did he say to you? Oh! why can't you speak?"

I had thought that that forced composure was not natural. It had soon broken
down. She was leaning forward now, her hands twisting themselves nervously on
her lap.

"What passed between Lord Edgware and myself was {n confidence," said
Poirot slowly.

His eyes never left her face.

"Then it was about--! mean, it must have been something to do with--the
family. Oh! you sit there and torture me. Why won't you tell me? It's necessary for
me to know. It's necessary, I tell you."

Again, very slowly, Poirot shook his head, apparently a prey to deep
perplexity.

"M. Poirot." She drew herself up. "I'm his daughter. It is my right to know--what
my father dreaded on the last day but one of his life. It isn't fair to leave me in
the dark. It isn't fair to him--not to tell me."

"Were you so devoted to your father, then, Mademoiselle?" asked Poirot
gently.

She drew back as though stung.

"Fond of him?" she whispered. "Fond of him. I--I--"



	Thirteen at Dinner
	53

And suddenly her self-control snapped. Peals of laughter broke from her. She
lay back in her chair and laughed and laughed.
"It's so funny," she gasped. "It's so funny--to be asked that."
That hysterical laughter had not passed unheard. The door opened and Miss
Carroll came in. She was firm and efficient.
"Now, now, Geraldine, my dear, that won't do. No, no. Hush, now. I insist.
No. Stop it. I mean it. Stop it at once."
Her determined manner had its effect. Geraldine's laughter grew fainter. She
wiped her eyes and sat up.
"I'm sorry," she said in a low voice. "I've never done that before."
Miss Carroll was still looking at her anxiously. "I'm all right now, Miss Carroll. It was idiotic."
She smiled suddenly. A queer bitter smile that twisted her lips. She sat up
very straight in her chair and looked at no one.
"He asked me," she said in a cold clear voice, "if I had been very fond of my
father."
Miss Carroll made a sort of indeterminate cluck. It denoted irresolution on her part. Geraldine went on, her voice high and scornful.
"I wonder if it is better to tell lies or the truth? The truth, I think. I wasn't
fond of my father. I hated him!"
"Geraldine dear."
"Why pretend? You didn't hate him because he couldn't touch you! You were
one of the few people in the world that he couldn't get at. You saw him as the
employer who paid you so much a year. His rages and his queernesses didn't
interest you--you ignored them. I know what you'd say. 'Everyone has got to put
up with something.' You were cheerful and uninterested. You're a very strong
woman. You're not really human. But then you could have walked out of the house
any minute. I couldn't. I belonged."
"Really, Geraldine, I don't think it's necessary going into all this. Fathers and
daughters often don't get on. But the less said in life the better, I've found."
Geraldine turned her back on her. She addressed herself to Poirot.
"M. Poirot, I hated my father! I am glad he is dead! It means freedom for
me--freedom and independence. I am not in the least anxious to find his
murderer. For all we know the person who killed him may have had reasons--
ample reasons--justifying that action."
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.
"That is a dangerous principle to adopt, Mademoiselle."
"Will hanging someone else bring Father back to life?"
"No," said Poirot dryly. "But it may save other innocent people from being
murdered."
"I don't understand."
"A person who has once killed, Mademoiselle, nearly always kills again--sometimes
again and again."
"I don't believe it. Not--not a real person."
"You mean--not a homicidal maniac? But yes, it is true. One life is removed--perhaps
after a terrific struggle with the murderer's conscience. Then--danger
threatens--the second murder is morally easier. At the slightest threatening of
suspicion a third follows. And little by little an artistic pride arises--it is a mtier-- to kill. It is done at last almost for pleasure."
The girl had hidden her face in her hands.
"Horrible. Horrible. It isn't true."


	54
	Agatha Christie
"And supposing I told you that it had already happened? That already--to
save himself--the murderer has killed a second time?"
"What's that, M. Poirot?" cried Miss Carroll. "Another murder? Where?
Who?"
Poirot gently shook his head.
"It was an illustration only. I ask pardon."
"Oh! I see. For a moment I really thought--Now, Geraldine, if you've
finished talking arrant nonsense.
"You are on my side, I see," said Poirot with a little bow.
"I don't believe in capital punishment," said Miss Carroll briskly. "Otherwise
I am certainly on your side. Society must be protected."
Geraldine got up. She smoothed back her hair.
"I am sorry," she said. "I am afraid I have been making rather a fool of myself.
You still refuse to tell me why my father called you in?"
"Called him in?" said Miss Carroll in lively astonishment.
"You misunderstand, Miss Marsh. I have not refused to tell you."
Poirot was forced to come out into the open.
"I was only considering how far that interview might have been said to be
confidential. Your father did not call me in. I sought an interview with him on
behalf of a client. That client was Lady Edgware."
"Oh! I see."
An extraordinary expression came over the girl's face. I thought at first it was
disappointment. Then I saw it was relief.
"I have been very foolish," she said slowly. "I thought my father had perhaps
thought himself menaced by some danger. It was stupid."
"You know, M. Poirot, you gave me quite a turn just now," said Miss Carroll.
"When you suggested that woman had done a second murder."
Poirot did not answer her. He spoke to the girl.
"Do'you believe Lady Edgware committed the murder, Mademoiselle?"
She shook her head.
"No, I don't. I can't see her doing a thing like that. She's much too--well,
artificial."
"I don't see who else can have done it," said Miss Carroll. ?And I don't think
women of that kind have got any moral sense."
"It needn't have been her," argued Geraldine. "She may have come here and
just had an interview with him and gone away, and the real murderer may have
been some lunatic who got in afterwards."
"All murderers are mentally deficient--of that I am assured," said Miss
Carroll. "Internal gland secretion."
At that moment the door opened and a man came in--then stopped
awkwardly.
"Sorry," he said. "I didn't know anyone was in here."
Geraldine made a mechanical introduction.
"My cousin, Lord Edgware. M. Poirot. It's all right, Ronald. You're not
interrupting."
"Sure, Dina? How do you do, M. Poirot? Are your grey cells functioning over
our particular family mystery?"
I cast my mind back trying to remember. That round, pleasant, vacuous face,
the eyes with slight pouches underneath them, the little moustache marooned like
an island in the middle of the expanse of face.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	55


Of course! It was Carlotta Adams' escort on the night of the supper party in
Jane Wilkinson's suite.

Captain Ronald Marsh. Now Lord Edgware.


CHAPTER 13
The Nephew


The new Lord Edgware's eye was a quick one. He noticed the slight start I gave.

"Ah! you've got it," he said amiably. "Aunt Jane's little supper party. Just a
shade bottled, wasn't I? But I fancied it passed quite unperceived."

Poirot was saying good-bye to Geraldine Marsh and Miss Carroll.
"I'll come down with you," said Ronald genially.
He led the way down the stairs talking as he went.

"Rum thing--life. Kicked out one day, lord of the manor the next. My late
unlamented uncle kicked me out, you know, three years ago. But I expect you
know all about that, M. Poirot?"

"I had heard the fact mentioned--yes," replied Poirot composedly.

"Naturally. A thing of that kind is sure to be dug up. The earnest sleuth can't

afford to miss it."

He grinned.

Then he threw open the dining-room door.

"Have a spot before you go."

Poirot refused. So did I. But the young man mixed himself a drink and
continued to talk.

"Here's to murder," he said cheerfully. "In the space of one short night I am
converted from the creditor's despair to the tradesman's hope. Yesterday ruin
stared me in the face, to-day all is affluence. God bless Aunt Jane."

He drained his glass. Then, with a slight change of manner, he spoke to
Poirot.

"Seriously, though, M. Poirot, what are you doing here? Four days ago Aunt
Jane was dramatically declaiming. 'Who will rid me of this insolent tyrant?' and lo
and behold she is ridded! Not by your agency, I hope? The perfect crime, by

Hercule Poirot, ex-sleuth-hound."

Poirot smiled.

"I am here this afternoon in answer to a note from Miss Geraldine Marsh."

"A discreet answer, eh? No, M. Poirot, what are you really doing here? For

some reason or other you are interesting yourself in my uncle's death."

"I am always interested in murder, Lord Edgware."

"But you don't commit it. Very cautious. You should teach Aunt Jane caution.
Caution and a shade more camouflage. You'll excuse me calling her Aunt Jane. It
amuses me. Did you see her blank face when I did it the other night? Hadn't the

foggiest notion who I was."

"En veritY?"

"No. I was kicked out of here three months before she came along."



	56
	Agatha Christie


The fatuous expression of good-nature on his face failed for a moment. Then he

went on lightly.

	"Beautiful woman. But no subtlety. Methods are rather crude, eh?"

	Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

	"It is possible."

	Ronald looked at him curiously.

	"I believe you think she didn't do it. So she's got round you too, has she?"

"I have a great admiration for beauty," said Poirot evenly. "But also for--evidence."

	He brought the last word out very quietly.

	"Evidence?" said the other sharply.

	"Perhaps you do not know, Lord Edgware, that Lady Edgware was at a party

at Chiswick last night at the time she was supposed to have been seen here."
Ronald swore.

"So she went after all! How like a woman! At six o'clock she was throwing her
weight about, declaring that nothing on earth would make her go, and I suppose
about ten minutes after she'd changed her mind! When planning a murder never
depend upon a woman doing what she says she'll do. That's how the best laid plans
of murder gang agley. No, M. Poirot, I'm not incriminating myself. Oh, yes, don't
think I can't read what's passing through your mind. Who is the Natural Suspect?

The well-known Wicked Ne'er-do-Well Nephew."

	He leaned back in his chair chuckling.

"i'm saving your little grey cells for you, M. Poirot. No need for you to hunt
round for someone who saw me in the offing when Aunt Jane was declaring she
never, never, never would go out that night, etc. I was there. So you ask yourself
did the wicked nephew in very truth come here last night disguised in a fair wig
and a Paris hat?"

Seemingly enjoying the situation, he surveyed us both. Poirot, his head a little
on one side, was regarding him with close attention. I felt rather uncomfortable.

"I had a motive--oh! yes, motive admitted. And I'm going to give you a
present of a very valuable and significant piece of information. I called to see my
uncle yesterday morning. Why? To ask for money. Yes, lick your lips over that. To
As FOR MO.. And I went away without getting any. And that same evening--that
very same evening--Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord

Edgware Dies. Look well on a bookstall."

	He paused. Still Poirot said nothing.

	"I'm really flattered by your attention, M. Poirot. Captain Hastings looks as

though he had seen a ghost---or were going to see one any minute. Don't get so
 strung up, my dear fellow. Wait for the anti-climax. Well, where were we? Oh!

yes, case against the Wicked Nephew. Guilt is to be thrown on the hated Aunt by
Marriage. Nephew, celebrated at one time for acting female parts, does his
supreme histrionic effort. In a girlish voice he announces himself as Lady Edgware
and sidles past the butler with mincing steps. No suspicions are aroused. 'Jane,'
cries my fond uncle. 'George,' I squeak. I fling my arms about his neck and neatly
insert the penknife. The next details are purely medical and can be omitted. Exit
the spurious lady. And so to bed at the end of a good day's work."

He laughed and rising, poured himself out another whisky and soda. He
returned slowly to his chair.

"Works out well, doesn't it? But you see, here comes the crux of the matter.
The disappointment! The annoying sensation of having been led up the garden.
For now, M. Poirot, we come to the alibi!"



	Thirteen at Dinner
	57
He finished off his glass.
"I always find alibis very enjoyable," he remarked. "Whenever I happen to be
reading a detective story I sit up and take notice when the alibi comes along. This
is a remarkably good alibi. Three strong, and Jewish at that. In plainer language, Mr. Mrs. and Miss Dortheimer. Extremely rich and extremely musical. They have
a box at Covent Garden. Into that box they invite young men with prospects--as
good a one, shall we say, as they can hope to get. Do I like the opera? Frankly, no.
But I enjoy the excellent dinner in Grosvenor Square first, and I also enjoy an
excellent supper somewhere else afterwards, even if I do have to dance with
Rachel Dortheimer and have a stiff arm for two days afterwards. So you see, M.
Poirot, there you are. When uncle's lifeblood is flowing, I am whispering cheerful
nothings into the diamond encrusted ears of the fair (I beg your pardon, dark)
Rachel in a box at Covent Garden. Her long Jewish nose is quivering with emotion.
And so you see, M. Poirot, why I can afford to be so frank."
He leaned back in his chair.
"I hope I have not bored you. Any questions to ask?"
"I can assure you that I have not been bored," said Poirot. "Since you are so
kind, there is one little question that I would like to ask."
"Delighted."
"How long, Lord Edgware, have you known Miss Carlotta Adams?"
Whatever the young man had expected, it certainly had not been this. He sat
up sharply with an entirely new expression on his face.
"Why on earth do you want to know that? What's that got to d6 with what
we've been talking about?"
"I was curious, that was all. For the other, you have explained so fully
everything there is to explain that there is no need for me to ask questions."
Ronald shot a quick glance at him. It was almost as though he did not care for
Poirot's amiable acquiescence. He would, I thought, have preferred him to be
more suspicious.
"Carlotta Adams? Let me see. About a year. A little more. I got to know her
last year when she gave her first show."
"You knew her well?"
"Pretty well. She's not the sort of girl you ever got to know frightfully well.
Reserved and all that."
"But you liked her?"
Ronald stared at him.
"I wish I knew why you were so interested in the lady. Was it because I was
with her the other night? Yes, I like her very much. She's sympatheticlistens to a
chap and makes him feel he's something of a fellow after all."
Poirot nodded.
"I comprehend. Then you will be sorry." "Sorry? What about?" "That she is dead!"
"What?" Ronald sprang up in astonishment. "Carlotta dead?"
He looked absolutely dumbfounded by the news.
"You're pulling my leg, M. Poirot. Carlotta was perfectly well the last time I
saw her."
"When was that?" asked Poirot quickly.
"Day before yesterday, I think. I can't remember."
"Tout de mme, she is dead"
"It must have been frightfully sudden. What was it? A street accident?"


	58
	Agatha Christie


Poirot looked at the ceiling.

"No. She took an overdose of veronal."
"Oh! I say. Poor kid. How frightfully sad." "N'est-ce pas?"

"I am sorry. And she was getting on so well. She was going to get her kid sister
over and had all sorts of plans. Dash it, I'm more sorry than I can say."

"Yes,"' said Poirot. "It is sad to die when you are young--when you do not

want to die--when all life is open before you and you have everything .to live for."
Ronald looked at him curiously.

"I don't think I quite get you, M. Poirot?"

"No?"

Poirot rose and held out his hand.

"I express my thoughts--a little strongly perhaps. For I do not like to see
youth deprived of its right to live, Lord Edgware. I feel--very strongly about it. I
wish you good-day."

"Oh---er--good-bye."

As I opened the door I almost collided with Miss Carroll.

"Ah! M. Poirot, they told me you hadn't gone yet. I'd like a word with you if I
may. Perhaps you wouldn't mind coming up to my room.

"It's about that child, Geraldine," she said when we had entered her sanctum

and she had closed the door.

"Yes, Mademoiselle?"

"She talked a lot of nonsense this afternoon. Now don't protest. Nonsense!
That's what I call it and that's what it was. She broods."

"I could see that she was suffering from over-strain," said Poirot gently.
"Well--to tell the truth--she hasn't had a very happy life. No, one can't
pretend she has. Frankly, M. Poirot, Lord Edgware was a peculiar man--not the
sort of man who ought to have had anything to do with the upbringing of children.

Quite frankly, he terrorised Geraldine."

Poirot nodded.

"Yes, I should imagine something of the kind."

"He was a peculiar man. HeI don't quite know how to put it--but he
enjoyed seeing anyone afraid of him. It seemed to give him a morbid kind of
pleasure."

"Quite so."

"He was an extremely well-read man, and a man of considerable intellect. But
in some ways--well, I didn't come across that side of him myself, but it was there.
I'm not really surprised his wife left him. This wife, I mean. I didn't approve of
her, mind. I've no opinion of that young woman at all. But in marrying Lord
Edgware she got all and more than she deserved. Well, she left him--and no bones
broken, as they say. But Geraldine couldn't leave him. For a long time he'd forget
all about her, and then, suddenly, he'd remember. I sometimes think--though
perhaps I shouldn't say it--"

"Yes, yes, Mademoiselle, say it."

"Well, I sometimes thought he revenged himself on the mother--his first
wifc that way. She was a gentle creature, I believe, with a very sweet disposition.
I've always been sorry for her. I shouldn't have mentioned all this, M. Poirot, if it
hadn't been for that very foolish outburst of Geraldine's just now. Things she
said--about hating her father--they might sound peculiar to anyone who didn't
know."

"Thank you very much, Mademoiselle. Lord Edgware, I fancy, was a man who
would have done much better not to marry.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	59


"Much better."

"He never thought of marrying for a third time?"

"How could he? His wife was alive."

"By giving her her freedom, he would have been free himself."

"I should think he had had enough trouble with two wives as it was," said Miss
Carroll grimly.

"So you think there would have been no question of a third marriage. There

was no one? Think, Mademoiselle. No one?"

Miss Carroll's colour rose.

"I cannot understand the way you keep harping on the point. Of course there
was no one."


CHAPTER 14
Five Questions


"Why did you ask Miss Carroll about the possibility of Lord Edgware's wanting to
marry again?" I asked with some curiosity as we were driving home.

"It just occurred to me that there was the possibility of such a thing, mon ami ."

"Why?"

"I have been searching in my mind for something to explain Lord Edgware's
sudden volte face regarding the matter of divorce. There is something curious
there, my friend."

"Yes," I said thoughtfully. "It is rather odd."

"You see, Hastings, Lord Edgware confirmed what Madame had told us. She
had employed the lawyers of all kinds, but he refused to budge the inch. No, he

would not agree to the divorce. And then, all of a sudden, he yields!"

"Or so he says," I reminded him.

"Very true, Hastings. It is very just, the observation you make there. So he
says. We have no proof, whatever, that that letter was written. Eh bien, on one
part, ce Monsieur is lying. For some reason he tells us the fabrication, the
embroidery. Is it not so? Why, we do not know. But, on the hypothesis that he did write that letter, there must have been a reason for so doing. Now the reason that
presents itself most naturally to the imagination is that he has suddenly met
someone whom he desires to marry. That explains perfectly his sudden change of
face. And so, naturally, I make the inquiries."

"Miss Carroll turned the idea down very decisively," I said.
"Yes. Miss Carroll . . ." said Poirot in a meditative voice.
"Now what are you driving at?" I asked in exasperation.

Poirot is an adept at suggesting doubts by the tone of his voice.
"What reason should she have for lying about it?" I asked. "A ucune-aucune .

"But, you see, Hastings, it is difficult to trust her evidence."

"You think she's lying? But why? She looks a most upright person."

"That is just it. Between the deliberate falsehood and the disinterested
inaccuracy it is very hard to distinguish something."

"What do you mean?"



	60
	Agatha Christie


"To deceive deliberately--that is one thing. But to be so sure of your facts, of

your ideas and of their essential truth that the details do not matter--that, my
friend, is a special characteristic of particularly honest persons. Already, mark you,
she has told us one lie. She said she saw Jane Wilkinson's face when she could not
possibly have done so. Now how did that come about? Look at it this way. She
looks down and sees Jane Wilkinson in the hall. No doubt enters her head that it is Jane Wilkinson. She knows it is. She says she saw her face distinctly because--being
so sure of her facts---exact details do not matter! It is pointed out to her that
she could not have seen her face. Is that so? Well, what does it matter if she saw
her face or not--it was Jane Wilkinson. And so with any other question. She knows. And so she answers questions in the light of her knowledge, not by reason
of remembered facts. The positive witness should always be treated with suspicion,
my friend. The uncertain witness who doesn't remember, isn't sure, will think a
minuteah! yes, that's how it was--is infinitely more to be depended upon!"

"Dear me, Poirot," I said. "You upset all my preconceived ideas about
witnesses."

"In reply to my question as to Lord Poirot's marrying again she ridicules the
idea--simply because it has never occurred to her. She will not take the trouble to
remember whether any infinitesimal signs may have pointed thai way. Therefore
we are exactly where we were before."

"She certainly did not seem at all taken aback when you pointed out she could
not have seen Jane Wilkinson's face," I remarked thoughtfully.

"No. That is why I decided that she was one of those honestly inaccurate
persons, rather than a deliberate liar. I can see no motive for deliberate lying
unless--true, that is an idea!"

	"What is?" I asked eagerly.

	But Poirot shook his head.

"An idea suggested itself to me. But it is too impossibleyes, much too
impossible."

	And he refused to say more.

	"She seems very fond of the girl," I said.

"Yes. She certainly was determined to assist at our interview. What was your
impression of the Honourable Geraldine Marsh, Hastings?"

"I was sorry for her4eeply sorry for her."

"You have always the tender heart, Hastings. Beauty in distress upsets you
every time."

	"Didn't you feel the same?"

	He nodded gravely.

	"Yes--she has not had a happy life. That is written very clearly on her face."

"At any rate," I said warmly, "you realise how preposterous Jane Wilkinson's
suggestion was--that she should have had anything to do with the crime, I mean."

"Doubtless her alibi is satisfactory, but Japp has not communicated it to me as
yet."

"My dear Poiroto you mean to say that even after seeing her and talking to
her, you are still not satisfied and want an alibi?"

"Eh bien, my friend, what is the result of seeing and talking to her? We
perceive that she has passed through great unhappiness, she admits that she hated
her father and is glad that he is dead, and she is deeply uneasy about what he may

have said to us yesterday morning. And after that you say--no alibi is necessary!"
"Her mere frankness proves her innocence," I said warmly.

"Frankness is a characteristic of the family The new Lord Edgwarewith
what a gesture he laid his cards on the table."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	61


"He did indeed," I said, smiling at the remembrance. "Rather an original
method."

Poirot nodded.

"He--what do you say?--cuts the ground before our feet."

"From under," I corrected. "Yes--it made us look rather foolish."

"What a curious idea. You may have looked foolish. I did not feel foolish in the
least and I do not think I looked it. On the contrary, my friend, I put him out of
countenance."

"Did you?" I said doubtfully, not remembering having seen signs of anything
of the kind.

"Si, si. I listen--and listen. And at last I ask a question about something quite
different, and that, you may have noticed, disconcerts our brave Monsieur very
much. You do not observe, Hastings."

"I thought his horror and astonishment at hearing of Carlotta Adams' death

was genuine," I said. "I suppose you will say it was a piece of clever acting."
"Impossible to tell, I agree it seemed genuine."

"Why do you think he flung all those facts at our head in that cynical way? Just
for amusement?"

"That is always possible. You English, you have the most extraordinary
notions ofhumour. But it may have been policy. Facts that are concealed acquire a
suspicious importance. Facts that are frankly revealed tend to be regarded as less
important than they really are."

"The quarrel with his uncle that morning, for instance?"

"Exactly. He knows that the fact is bound to leak out. Eh bien, he will parade

it."

"He is not so foolish as he looks."

"Oh! he is not foolish at all. He has plenty of brains when he cares to use
them. He sees exactly where he stands and, as I said, he lays his cards on the table.
You play the bridge, Hastings. Tell me, when does one do that?"

"You play bridge yourself," I said, laughing. "You know well enough when
all the rest of the tricks are yours and you want to save time and get on to a new
hand."

"Yes, mon ami, that is all very true. But occasionally there is another reason. I
have remarked it once or twice when playing with les dames. There is perhaps a
little doubt. Eh bien, la dame, she throws down the cards, says 'and all the rest are
mine,' and gathers up the cards and cuts the new pack. And possibly the other
players agrec cspecially if they are a little inexperienced. The thing is not
obvious, mark you. It requires to be followed out. Half-way through dealing the
next hand, one of the players thinks: 'Yes, but she would have to have taken over
that fourth diamond in dummy whether she wanted to or not, and then she would

have had to lead a little club and my nine would have made.'"

"So you think?"

"I think, Hastings, that too much bravado is a very interesting thing. And I
also think that it is time we dined. Une petite omelette, n'est ce pas? And after that,

about nine o'clock, I have one more visit I wish to make."

"Where is that?"

"We will dine first, Hastings. And until we drink our coffee, we will not
discuss the case further. When engaged in eating, the brain should be the servant
of the stomach."

Poirot was as good as his word. We went toa little restaurant in Soho where
he was well known, and there we had a delicious omelette, a sole, a chicken and a
Baba au Rhum of which Poirot was inordinately fond.



	62
		Agatha Christie

		Then, as we sipped our coffee, Poirot smiled affectionately across the table at

	me.

	"My good friend," he said. "I depend upon you more than you know."

	I was confused and delighted by these unexpected words. He had never said

anything of the kind to me before. Sometimes, secretly, I had felt slightly hurt. He
seemed almost to go out of his way to disparage my mental powers.

Although I did no think his own powers were flagging, I did realise suddenly
that perhaps he had come to depend on my aid more than he knew.

	"Yes," he said dreamily. "You may not always comprehend just how it is so--

but you do often and often point the way."

	I could hardly believe my ears.

	"Really, Poirot," I stammered. "I'm awfully glad. I suppose I've learnt a good

deal from you one way or another--"

	He shook his head.

	"Mais non, ce n'est pas fa. You have learnt nothing."

	"Oh!" I said, rather taken aback.

"That is as it should be. No human being should learn from another. Each
individual should develop his own powers to the uttermost, not try to imitate those
of someone else. I do not wish you to be a second and inferior Poirot. I wish you to
be the supreme Hastings. And you are the supreme Hastings. In you, Hastings, I

find the normal mind almost perfectly illustrated."

	"I'm not abnormal, I hope," I said.

"No, no. You are beautifully and perfectly balanced. In you sanity is
personified. Do you realise what that means to me? When the criminal sets out to
do a crime his first effort is to deceive. Who does he seek to deceive? The image in
his mind is that of the normal man. There is probably no such thing actually--it is a
mathematical abstraction. But you come as near to realising it as is possible. There
are moments when you have flashes of brilliance when you rise above average,
moments (I hope you will pardon me) when you descend to curious depths
of obtuseness, but take it all for all, you are amazingly normal. Eh bien, how does
this profit me? Simply in this way. As in a mirror I see reflected in your mind
exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. That is terrifically helpful and suggestive."

I did not quite understand. It seemed to me that what Poirot was saying was
hardly complimentary. However, he quickly disabused me of that impression.

"I have expressed myself badly," he said quickly. "You have an insight into the
criminal mind, which I myself lack. You show me what the criminal wishes me to
believe. It is a great gift."

"Insight," I said thoughtfully. "Yes, perhaps I have got insight."

I looked across the table at him. He was smoking his tiny cigarettes and
regarding me with great kindliness.

"Ce cher Hastings," he murmured. "I have indeed much affection for you."
I was pleased but embarrassed and hastened to change the subject.
"Come," I said in a business-like manner. "Let us discuss the case."

"Eh bien." Poirot threw his head back, his eyes narrowed. He slowly puffed
out smoke.

'Je me pose des questions," he said. "Yes?" I said eagerly.
"You, too, doubtless?"

"Certainly," I said. And also leaning back and narrowing my own eyes I threw

out:



	Thirteen at Dinner
	63

"Who killed Lord Edgware?"
Poirot immediately sat up and shook his head vigorously.
"No, no. Not at all. Is it a question, that? You are like someone who reads the
detective story and who starts guessing each of the characters in turn without
rhyme or reason. Once, I agree, I had to do that myself. It was a very exceptional
case. I will tell you about it one of these days. It was a feather in my cap. But of
what were we speaking?"
"Of the questions you were 'posing' to yourself," I replied dryly. It was on the
tip of my tongue to suggest that my real use to Poirot was to provide him with a
companion to whom he could boast, but I controlled myself. If he wished to
instruct then let him.
"Come on," I said. "Let's hear them."
That was all that the vanity of the man wanted. He leaned back again and
resumed his former attitude.
"The first question we have already discussed. Why did Lord Edgware change
his mind on the subject of divorce? One or two ideas suggest themselves to me on
that subject. One of them you know.
"The second question I ask myself is What happened to that letter? To
whose interest was it that Lord Edgware and his wife should continue to be tied
together?
"Three. What was the meaning of the expression on his face that you saw
when you looked back yesterday morning on leaving the librartj? Have you any
answer to that, Hastings?"
I shook my head.
"I can't understand it."
"You are sure that you didn't imagine it? Sometimes, Hastings, you have the
imagination un peu vif."
"No, no." I shook my head vigorously. "I'm quite sure I wasn't mistaken." "Bien. Then it is a fact to be explained. My fourth question concerns those
pince-nez. Neither Jane Wilkinson nor Carlotta Adams wore glasses. What, then,
are the glasses doing in Carlotta Adams' bag?
"And for my fifth question. Why did someone telephone to find out if Jane
Wilkinson were at Chiswick and who was it?
"Those, my friend, are the questions with which I am tormenting myself. If I
could answer those, I should feel happier in my mind. If I could even evolve a
theory that explained them satisfactorily my amour propre would not suffer so
much."
"There are several other questions," I said.
"Such as?"
"Who incited Carlotta Adams to this hoax? Where was she that evening before
and after ten o'clock? Who is D who gave her the golden box?"
"Those questions are self-evident," said Poirot. "There is no subtlety about
them. They are simply things we do not know. They are questions of fact. We may
get to know them any minute. My questions, mon ami, are psychological. The little
grey cells of the brain--"
"Poirot," I said desperately. I felt that I must stop him at all costs. I could not
bear to hear it all over again.
"You spoke of making a visit tonight?"
Poirot looked at his watch.
"True," he said. "I will telephone and find out if it is convenient."
He went away and returned a few minutes later.


	64
	Agatha Christie

"Come," he said. "All is well."
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To the house of Sir Montagu Corner at Chiswick. I would like to know a little
more about that telephone call,"

CHAPTER 15
Sir MontagU Corner

	It was about ten o'clock when we reached Sir Montagu Corner's house on the river

	at Chiswick. It was a big house standing back in its own grounds. We were

	admitted into a beautifully-panelled hall. On our right, through an open door, we

	saw the dining-room with its long polished table lit with candles.

	"Will you come this way, please?"

	The butler led the way up a broad staircase and into a long room on the first

	floor overlooking the river.

	"M. Hercule Poirot," announced the butler.

	It was a beautifully-proportioned room, and had an old-world air with its

	carefully-shaded dim lamps. In one corner of the room was a bridge table, set near

	the open window, and round it sat four people. As we entered the room one of the

	four rose and came towards us.

		"It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, M. Poirot."

		I looked with some interest at Sir Montagu Corner. He had a distinctly Jewish

	cast of countenance, very small intelligent black eyes and a carefully-arranged
toupee. He was a short man
	five foot eight at most, I should say. His manner was
	affected to the last degree.
"Let me introduce you. Mr. and Mrs. Widburn."
"We've met before," said Mrs. Widburn brightly.
"And Mr. Ross."
	Ross was a young fellow of about twenty-two with a pleasant face and fair hair.

	"I disturb your game. A million apologies," said Poirot.
"Not at all. We have not started. We were commencing to deal the cards only.
Some coffee, M. Poirot?"
Poirot declined but accepted an offer of old brandy. It was brought us in
immense goblets.
As we sipped it, Sir Montagu discoursed.
He spoke of Japanese prints, of Chinese lacquer, of Persian carpets, of the
French impressionists, of modem music and of the theories of Einstein.
Then he sat back and smiled at us beneficently. He had evidently thoroughly
enjoyed his performance, In the dim light he looked like some genie of the
mediaeval age. All round the room were exquisite examples of art and culture.
"And now, Sir Montagu," said Poirot. "I will trespass on your kindness no
longer but will come to the object of my visit."
Sir Montagu waved a curious claw-like hand.
"There is no hurry. Time is infinite.'
"One always feels that in this house," sighed Mrs. Widbum. "So wonderful."
"I would not live in London for a million pounds," said Sir Montagu. "Here


	Thirteen at Dinner
	65

one is in the old-world atmosphere of peace that--alas! we have put behind us in
these jarring days.'
A sudden impish fancy flashed over me that if someone were really to offer Sir
Montagu a million pounds, old-world peace might go to the wall, but I trod down
such heretical sentiments.
"What is money, after all?" murmured Mrs. Widburn.
"Ah!" said Mr. Widburn thoughtfully, and rattled some coins absentmindedly
in his trousers pocket.
"Archie," said Mrs. Widburn reproachfully.
"Sorry," said Mr. Widburn and stopped.
"To speak of crime in such an atmosphere is, I feel, unpardonable," began
Poirot apologetically.
"Not at all." Sir Montagu waved a gracious hand. "A crime can be a work of
art. A detective can be an artist. I do not refer, of course, to the police. An
inspector has been here to-day. A curious person. He had never heard of
Benvenuto Cellini, for instance."
"He came about Jane Wilkinson, I suppose," said Mrs. Widburn with instant
curiosity.
"So it seems," said Sir Montagu. "I asked her here knowing that she was
beautiful and talented and hoping that I might be able to be of use to her. She was
thinking of going into management. But it seems that I was fated to be of use to her
in a very different way."
"Jane's got luck," said Mrs. Widburn. "She's been dying to get rid of Edgware and here's somebody gone and saved her the trouble. She'll marry the young Duke
of Merton now. Everyone says so. His mother's wild about it."
"I was favourably impressed by her," said Sir Montagu graciously. "She made
several most intelligent remarks about Greek art."
I smiled to myself picturing Jane saying "Yes" and "No," "Really how
wonderful," in her magical husky voice. Sir Montagu was the type of man to whom
intelligence consisted of the faculty of listening to his own remarks with suitable
attention.
"Edgware was a queer fish, by all accounts," said Widburn. "I daresay he's got
a good few enemies."
"Is it true, M. Poirot,' asked Mrs. Widburn, "that somebody ran a penknife
into the back of his brain?"
"Perfectly true, Madame. It was very neatly and efficiently done---scientific,
in fact."
"I note your artistic pleasure, M. Poirot," said Sir Montagu.
"And now," said Poirot, "let me come to the object of my visit. Lady Edgware
was called to the telephone when she was here at dinner. It is about that telephone
call that I seek information. Perhaps you will allow me to question your domestics
on the subject?"
"Certainly. Certainly. Just press that bell, will you, Ross?"
The butler answered the bell. He was a tall middle-aged man of ecclesiastical
apparance.
Sir Montagu explained what was wanted. The butler turned to Poirot with
polite attention.
"Who answered the telephone when it rang?" began Poirot.
"I answered it myself, sir. The telephone is in a recess leading out of the hall."
"Did the person ask to speak to Lady Edgware or to Miss Jane Wilkinson?" "To Lady Edgware, sir.'


	66
	Agatha Christie


	"What did they say exactly?"

	The butler reflected for a moment.

	"As far as I remember, sir, I said 'Hello.' A voice then asked if I was Chiswick

43434. I replied that that was so. It then asked me to hold the line. Another voice
then asked if that was Chiswick 43434 and on my replying 'yes' it said 'Is Lady
Edgware dining there?' I said her ladyship was dining here. The voice said, 'I
would like to speak to her, please.' I went and informed her ladyship who was at

the dinner table. Her ladyship rose, and I showed her where the 'phone was."
"And then?"

"Her ladyship picked up the receiver and said: 'Hello--who's speaking?' Then
she said: 'Yes--that's all right. Lady Edgware speaking.' I was just about to leave
her ladyship when she called to me and said they had cut her off. She said someone
had laughed and evidently hung up the receiver. She asked me if the person ringing up had given any name. They had not done so. That was all that occurred,
sir.

	Poirot frowned to himself.

"Do you really think the telephone call has something to do with the murder,
M. Poirot?" asked Mrs. Widburn.

	"Impossible to say, Madame. It is just a curious circumstance."

	"People do ring up for a joke sometimes. It's been done to me."

	"C'est toujours possible, Madame."
	He spoke to the butler again.

	"Was it a man's voice or a woman's who rang up?"

	"A lady's, I think, sir."

	"What kind of a voice, high or low?"

"Low, sir. Careful and rather distinct." He paused. "It may be my fancy, sir,
but it sounded like a foreign voice. The R's were very noticeable."

	"As far as that goes it might have been a Scotch voice, Donald," said Mrs.

Widburn, smiling at Ross.

	Ross laughed.

	"Not guilty," he said. "I was at the dinner table."

	Poirot spoke once again to the butler.

"Do you think," he asked, "that you would recognise that voice if you were to
hear it any time?"

	The butler hesitated.

	"I couldn't quite say, sir. I might do so. I think it is possible that I should do

SO."

	"I thank you, my friend."

	"Thank you, sir."

	The butler inclined his head and withdrew, pontifical to the last.

Sir Montagu Carter continued to be very friendly and to play his r61e of old-world
charm. He persuaded us to remain and play bridge. I excused myself-the
stakes were bigger than I cared about. Young Ross seemed relieved also at the
prospect of someone taking his hand. He and I sat looking on while the other four

played. The evening ended in a heavy financial gain to Poirot and Sir Montagu.
Then we thanked our host and took our departure. Ross came with us. "A strange little man," said Poirot as we stepped out into the night.

The night was fine and we had decided to walk until we picked up a taxi
instead of having one telephoned for.

	"Yes, a strange little man," said Poirot again.

	"A very rich little man," said Ross with feeling.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	67


"I suppose so."

"He seems to have taken a fancy to me," said Ross. "Hope it will last. A man
like that behind you means a lot."

"You are an actor, Mr. Ross?"

Ross said that he was. He seemed sad that his name had not brought instant
recognition. Apparently he had recently won marvellous notices in some gloomy
play translated from the Russian.

When Poirot and I between us had soothed him down again, Poirot asked
casually:

"You knew Carlotta Adams, did you not?"

"No. I saw her death announced in the paper to-night. Overdose of some drug

or other. Idiotic the way all these girls dope." "It is sad, yes. She was clever, too." "I suppose so."

He displayed a characteristic lack of interest in anyone else's performance but
his own.

"Did you see her show at all?" I asked.

"No. That sort of thing's not much in my line. Kind of craze for it at present,
but I don't think it will last."

"Ah!" said Poirot. "Here is a taxi."

He waved a stick.

"Think I'll walk," said Ross. "I get a tube straight home from Hammersmith."
Suddenly he gave a nervous laugh.

"'Odd thing," he said. "That dinner last night."

"Yes?"

"We were thirteen. Some fellow failed at the last minute. We never noticed it
till just the end of dinner."

"And who got up first?" I asked.

He gave a queer little nervous cackle of laughter.

"I did," he said.


CHAPTER 16
Mainly Discussion


When we got home we found Japp waiting for us:

"Thought I'd just call round and have a chat with you before turning in, M.
Poirot," he said cheerfully.

"Eh bien, my good friend, how goes it?"

"Well, it doesn't go any too well. And that's a fact."

He looked depressed.

"Got any help for me, M. Poirot?'

"I have one or two little ideas that I should like to present to you," said Poirot.
"You and your ideas! In some ways, you know, you're a caution. Not that I
don't want to hear them. I do. There's some good stuff in that funny-shaped head of
yours."

Poirot acknowledged the compliment somewhat coldly.



	68
	Agatha Christie
"Have you any idea about the double lady problem--that's what I want to
know? Eh, M. Poirot? What about it? Who was she?"
	"That is exactly what I wish to talk to you about."
	He asked Japp if he had ever heard of Carlotta Adams.
	"I've heard the name. For the moment I can't just place it."
	Poirot explained.
"Her! Does imitations, does she? Now what made you fix on her? What have
you got to go on?"
	Poirot related the steps we had taken and the conclusion we had drawn.
"By the Lord, it looks as though you were right. Clothes, hat, gloves, etc., and
the fair wig. Yes, it must be. I will say--you're the goods, M. Poirot. Smart work,
that! Not that I think there's anything to show she was put out of the way. That
seems a bit far fetched. I don't quite see eye to eye with you there. Your theory is a
bit fantastical for me. I've more experience than you have. I don't believe in this
villain-behind-the-scenes motif. Carlotta Adams was the woman all right, but I
should put it one of two ways. She went there for purposes of her own--blackmail,
maybe, since she hinted she was going to get money. They had a bit of a dispute.
He turned nasty, she turned nasty, and she finished him off. And I should say that
when she got home she went all to pieces. She hadn't meant murder. It's my belief
she took an overdose on purpose as the easiest way out."
	"You think that covers all the facts?"
"Well, naturally there are a lot of things we don't know yet. It's a good
working hypothesis to go on with. The other explanation is that the hoax and the
murder had nothing to do with each other. It's just a damned queer coincidence."
Poirot did not agree, I knew. But he merely said noncommittally: "Mais oui, c'est possible."
"Or, look here, how's this? The hoax is innocent enough. Someone gets to
hear of it and thinks it will suit their purpose jolly well. That's not a bad idea?" He
paused, and went on: "But personally I prefer idea No. 1. What the link was
between his lordship and the girl we'll find out somehow or other."
Poirot told him of the letter to America posted by the maid, and Japp agreed
that that might possibly be of great assistance.
"I'll get on to that at once," he said, making a note of it in his little book.
"I'm the more in favour of the lady being the killer because I can't find anyone
else," he said, as he put the book away. "Captain Marsh now, his lordship as now
is. He's got a motive sticking out a yard. A bad record too. Hard up and none too
scrupulous over money. What's more he had a row with his uncle yesterday
morning. He told me that himself as a matter of fact--which rather takes the taste
out of it. Yes, he'd be a likely customer. But he's got an alibi for yesterday evening.
He was at the opera with the Dortheimers. Rich Jews. Grosvenor Square. I've
looked into that and it's all right. He dined with them, went to the opera and they
went on to supper at Sobranis. So that's that."
	"And Mademoiselle?"
"The daughter, you mean? She was out of the house too. Dined with some
people called Carthew West. They took her to the opera and saw her home
afterwards. Quarter to twelve she got in. That disposes of her. The secretary
woman seems all right--very efficient decent woman. Then there's the butler. I
can't say I take to him much. It isn't natural for a man to have good looks like that.
There's something fishy about him--and something odd about the way he came to
enter Lord Edgware's service. Yes, I'm checking up on him all right. I can't see any
motive for murder, though."
	"No fresh facts have come to light?"


Thirteen at Dinner 69

"Yes, one or two. It's hard to say whether they mean anything or not. For one

thing, Lord Edgware's key's missing."
"The key to the front door?"
"Yes."

"That is interesting, certainly."

"As I say, it may mean a good deal or nothing at all. Depends. What/s a bit
more significant to my mind is this. Lord Edgware cashed a cheque yesterday--not
a particularly large onea hundred pounds as a matter of fact. He took the money
in French notes--that's why he cashed the cheque, because of his journey to Paris

to-day. Well, that money has disappeared."

"Who told you of this?"

"Miss Carroll. She cashed the cheque and obtained the money. She

mentioned it to me, and then I found that it had gone."

"Where was it yesterday evening?"

"Miss Carroll doesn't know. She gave it to Lord Edgware about half-past
three. It was in a Bank envelope. He was in the library at the time. He took it and
laid it down beside him on a table."

"That certainly gives one to think. It is a complication." "Or a simplification. By the way--the wound."
"Yes?"

"The doctor says it wasn't made by an ordinary penknife. Something of that

kind but a different shaped blade. And it was amazingly sharp."

"Not a razor?"

"No, no. Much smaller."

Poirot frowned thoughtfully.

"The new Lord Edgware seems to be fond of his joke," remarked Japp. "He seems to think it amusing to be suspected of murder. He made sure we did suspect

him of murder, too. Looks a bit queer, that."

"It might be merely intelligence."

"More likely guilty conscience. His uncle's death came very pat for him. He's

moved into the house, by the way."

"Where was he living before?"

"Martin Street, St. George's Road. Not a very swell neighbourhood.'

"You might make a note of that, Hastings."

I did so, though I wondered a little. If Ronald had moved to Regent Gate, his
former address was hardly likely to be needed.

,'I think the Adams girl did it," said Japp, rising. "A fine bit of work on your
part, M. Poirot, to tumble to that. But there, of course, you go about to theatres
and amusing yourself. Things strike you that don't get the chance of striking me.
Pity there's no apparent motive, but a little spade work will soon bring it to light, I
expect."

"There is one person with a motive to whom you have given no attention,"
remarked Poirot.

"Who's that sir?"

"The gentleman who is reputed to have wanted to marry Lord Edgware's wife.
I mean the Duke of Merton."

"Yes, I suppose there is a motive." Japp laughed. "But a gentleman in his

position isn't likely to murder. And anyway, he's over in Paris." "You do not regard him as a serious suspect, then?"
"Well, M. Poirot, do you?"

And laughing at the absurdity of the idea, Japp left us.



	70
	Agatha Christie

CHAPTER 17
The Butler

The following day was one of inactivity for us, and activity for Japp. He came round
to see us about teatime.
He was red and wrathful.
"I've made a bloomer.'
"Impossible, my friend," said Poirot soothingly.
	"Yes, I have. I've let that (here he gave way to profanity)
	of a butler slip
through my fingers."

	"He has disappeared?"
"Yes. Hooked it. What makes me kick myself for a double-dyed idiot is that I
didn't particularly suspect him."
"Calm yourself---but calm yourself then."
"All very well to talk. You wouldn't be calm ffyou'd been hauled over the coals
at headquarters. Oh! he's a slippery customer. It isn't the first time he's given
anyone the slip. He's an old hand."
Japp wiped his forehead and looked the picture of misery. Poirot made
sympathetic noises--somewhat suggestive of a hen laying an egg. With more
insight into the English charcter, I poured out a stiff whisky and soda and placed it
in front of the gloomy inspector. He brightened a little.
"Well," he said. "I don't mind if I do."
Presently he began to talk more cheerfully.
"I'm not so sure even now that he's the murderer! Of course it looks bad his
bolting this way, but there might be other reasons for that. I'd begun to get on to
him, you see. Seems he's mixed up with a couple of rather disreputable night
clubs. Not the usual thing. Something a great deal more recherch and nasty. In
fact, he's a real bad hat."
"Tout de mme, that does not necessarily mean that he is a murderer."
"Exactly! He may have been up to some funny business or other, but not
necessarily murder. No, I'm more than ever convinced it was the Adams girl. I've
got nothing to prove it as yet, though. I've had men going all through her flat today,
but we've found nothing that's helpful. She was a canny one. Kept no letters
except a few business ones about financial contracts. They're all neatly docketed
and labelled. Couple of letters from her sister in Washington. Quite straight and
aboveboard. One or two pieces of good old-fashioned jewellery--nothing new or
expensive. She didn't keep a diary. Her pass-book and cheque-book don't show
anything helpful. Dash it all, the girl doesn't seem to have had any private life at
all!"
"She was of a reserved character," said Poirot thoughtfully. "From our point of
view that is a pity."
"I've talked to the woman who did for her. Nothing there. I've been and seen
that girl who keeps a hat shop and who, it seems, was a friend of hers.'
"Ah! and what do you think of Miss Driver?"
"She was a smart wide-awake bit of goods. She couldn't help me, though. Not


	Thirteen at Dinner
	71
that that surprised me. The amount of missing girls I've had to trace and their
family and their friends always say the same things. 'She was a bright and
affectionate disposition and had no men friends.' That's never true. It's unnatural.
Girls ought to have men friends. If not there's something wrong about them. It's
the muddle-headed loyalty of friends and relations that makes a detective's life so
difficult."
He paused for want of breath, and I replenished his glass.
"Thank you, Captain Hastings, I don't mind if I do. Well, there you are.
You've got to hunt and hunt about. There's about a dozen young men she went out
to supper and danced with, but nothing to show that one of them meant more than
another. There's the present Lord Edgware, there's Mr. Bryan Martin, the film
star, there's half a dozen others--but nothing special and particular. Your man
behind idea is all wrong. I think you'll find that she played a lone hand, M. Poirot.
I'm looking now for the connection between her and the murdered man. That must
exist. I think I'll have to go over to Paris. There was Paris written in that little gold
box, and the late Lord Edgware ran over to Paris several times last Autumn, so
Miss Carroll tells me, attending sales and buying curios. Yes, I think I must go over
to Paris. Inquest's to-morrow. It'll be adjourned, of course. After that I'll take the
afternoon boat."
"You have a furious energy, Japp. It amazes me."
"Yes, you're getting lazy. You just sit here and think.t What you call employing
the little grey cells. No good, you've got to go out to things. They won't come to
you.
The little maidservant opened the door.
"Mr. Bryan Martin, sir. Are you busy or will you see him?"
"I'm off, M. Poirot." Japp hoisted himself up. "All the stars of the theatrical
world seem to consult you."
Poirot shrugged a modest shoulder, and Japp laughed.
"You must be a millionaire by now, M. Poirot. What do you do with the
money? Save it?"
"Assuredly I practise the thrift. And talking of the disposal of money, how did
Lord Edgware dispose of his?"
"Such property as wasn't entailed he left to his daughter. Five hundred to
Miss Carroll. No other bequests. Very simple will."
"And it was made--when?"
"After his wife left him--just over two years ago. He expressly excludes her
from participation, by the way."
"A vindictive man," murmured Poirot to himself.
With a cheerful "So long," Japp departed.
Bryan Martin entered. He was faultlessly attired and looked extremely
handsome. Yet I thought that he looked haggard and not too happy.
"I am afraid I have been a long time coming, M. Poirot," he said
apologetically. "And, after all, I have been guilty of taking up your time for
nothing."
"En veritY?"
"Yes. I have seen the lady in question. I've argued with her, pleaded with her,
but all to no purpose. She won't hear of my interesting you in the matter. So I'm
afraid we'll have to let the thing drop. I'm very sorry--very sorry to have bothered
you--"
"Du toutu tout," said Poirot genially. "I expected this."
"Eh?" The young man seemed taken aback.


	72
	Agatha Christie


"You expected this?" he asked in a puzzled way.

"Mais oui. When you spoke of consulting your friend--I could have predicted

that all would have arrived as it has done."

"you have a theory, then?"

"A detective, M. Martin, always has a theory. It is expected of him. I do not

call it a theory myself. I say that I have a little idea. That is the first stage."

"And the second stage?"

"If the little idea turns out to be right--then I know! It is quite simple, you
see."

"I wish you'd tell me what your theoryr your little idea--is?"

Poirot shook his head gently.

"That is another rule. The detective never tells."

"Can't you suggest it even?"

"No. I will only say that I formed my theory as soon as you mentioned a gold
tooth."

Bryan Martin stared at him.

"I'm absolutely bewildered," he declared. "I can't make out what you are

driving at. If you'd just give me a hint."
Poirot smiled and shook his head.
"Let us change the subject."

"Yes, but first--your feeyou must let me." .

Poirot waved an imperious hand.

"Pas un sou! I have done nothing to aid you."

"I took up your time "

"When a case interests me, I do not touch money. Your case interested me
very much."

"I'm glad," said the actor uneasily.

He looked supremely unhappy.

"Come," said Poirot kindly. "Let us talk of something else."
"Wasn't that the Scotland Yard man whom I met on the stairs?"
"Yes, Inspector Japp."

"The light was so dim, I wasn't sure. By the way, he came round and asked me
some questions about that poor girl, Carlotta Adams, who died of an overdose of
veronal."

"You knew her well--Miss Adams?"

"Not very well. I knew her as a child in America. I came across her here once

or twice but I never saw very much of her. I was very sorry to hear of her death."
"You liked her?"

"Yes. She was extraordinarily easy to talk to."

"A personality very sympathetieyes, I found the same."

"I suppose they think it might be SUicide? I knew nothing that could help the

inspector. Carlotta was always very reserved about herself." "I do not think it was suicide," said Poirot.
"Far more likely to be an accident, I agree."
There was a pause.

Then Poirot said with a smile:

"The affair of Lord Edgware's death becomes intriguing, does it not?"

"Absolutely amazing. Do you know have they any idea who did it--now
that Jane is definitely out of it?"

"Mais oui--they have a very strong suspicion."

Bryan Martin looked excited.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	73


	"Really? Who?"

	"The butler has disappeared. You comprehend
	flight is as good as a

confession."

	"The butler! Really, you surprise me."

"A singularly good-looking man. Il vous ressemble un peu," he bowed in a
complimentary fashion.

Of course! I realised now why the butler's face had struck me as being faintly
familiar when I first saw it.

"You flatter me," said Bryan Martin with a laugh.

"No, no, no. Do not all the young girls, the servant girls, the flappers, the
typists, the girls of society, do they not all adore M. Bryan Martin? Is there one
who can resist you?"

"A lot, I should think," said Martin. He got up abruptly.

"Well, thank you very much, M. Poirot. Let me apologise again for having
troubled you."

He shook hands with us both. Suddenly, I noticed, he looked much older. The
haggard look was more apparent.

I was devoured with curiosity, and as soon as the door closed behind him, I
burst out with what I wanted to know.

"Poirot, did you really expect him to come back and relinquish all idea of

investigating those queer things that happened to him in America?"

"You heard me say so, Hastings."

"But then--" I followed the thing out logically.

"Then you must know who this mysterious girl is that he had to consult?"
He smiled.

"I have a little idea, my friend. As I told you, it started from the mention of
the gold tooth, and if my little idea is correct, I know who the girl is, I know why
she will not let M. Martin consult me, I know the truth of the whole affair. And so
could you know it if you would only use the brains the good God has given you.
Sometimes I really am tempted to believe that by inadvertence He passed you by."


CHAPTER 18
The Other Man


I do not propose to describe either the inquest on Lord Edgware or that on
Carlotta Adams. In Carlotta's case the verdict was Death by Misadventure. In the
case of Lord Edgware the inquest was adjourned, after evidence of identification
and the medical evidence had been .given. As a result of the analysis of the
stomach, the time of death was fixed as having occurred not less than an hour after
the completion of dinner, with possible extension to an hour after that. This put it
as between ten and eleven o'clock, with the probability in favour of the earlier
time.

None of the facts concerning Carlotta's impersonation of Jane Wilkinson were
allowed to leak out. A description of the wanted butler was published in the Press.;
and the general impression seemed to be that the butler was the man wanted. His
story of Jane Wilkinson's visit was looked upon as an impudent fabrication. Nothing



	74
	Agatha Chrtie


was said of the secretary's corroborating testimony. There were columns concerning
the murder in all the papers, but little real information.

Meanwhile Japp was actively at work, I knew. It vexed me a little that Poirot
adopted such an inert attitude. The suspicion that approaching old age had
something to do with it flashed across me--not for the first time. He made excuses
to me which did not ring very convincingly.

"At my time of life one saves oneself the trouble," he explained.

"But, Poirot, my dear fellow, you mustn't think of yourself as old," I
protested.

I felt that he needed bracing. Treatment by suggestion--that, I know, is the
modern idea.

"You are as full of vigour as ever you were," I said earnestly. "You're in the
prime of life, Poirot. At the height of your powers. You could go out and solve this
case magnificently if you only would."

Poirot replied that he preferred to solve it sitting at home.
"But you can't do that, Poirot."
"Not entirely, it is true."'

"What I mean is, we are doing nothing! Japp is doing everything."

"Which suits me admirably."

"It doesn't suit me at all. I want you to be doing things."

"So I am."

"What are you doing?"
"Waiting."
"Waiting for what?"

"Pour que mon chien de chasse me rapporte le gibier," replied Poirot with a
twinkle.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the good Japp. Why keep a dog and bark yourself?. Japp brings us
here the result of the physical energy you admire so much. He has various means
at his disposal which I have not. He will have news for us very soon, I do not
doubt."

By dint of persistent inquiry, it was true that Japp was slowly getting together
material. He had drawn a blank in Paris, but a couple of days later he came in
looking pleased with himself.

"It's slow work," he said. "But we're getting somewhere at last."

"I congratulate you, my friend. What has happened?"

"I've discovered that a fair-haired lady deposited an attache-case in the cloakroom
at Euston at nine o'clock that night. They've been shown Miss Adams' case
and identify it positively. It's of American make and so just a little different."

"Ah! Euston. Yes, the nearest of the big stations to Regent Gate. She went
there doubtless, made herself up in the lavatory, and then left the case. When was
it taken out again?"
"At half-past ten. The clerk says by the same lady."

Poirot nodded.

"And I've come on something else too. I've reason to believe that Carlotta

Adams was in Lyons Corner House in the Strand at eleven o'clock."

"Ah.t c'est trs bien fa.t How did you come across that?"

"Well, really more or less by chance. You see, there's been a mention in the
papers of the little gold box with the ruby initials. Some reporter wrote it up--he
was doing an article on the prevalence of dope-taking among young actresses.
Sunday paper romantic stuff. The fatal little gold box with its deadly contents--



	Thirteen at Dinner
	75

pathetic figure of a young girl with all the world before her! And just a wonder
expressed as to where she passed her last evening and how she felt and so on and so
on.
"Well, it seems a waitress at the Corner House read this and she remembered
that a lady she had served that evening had had such a box in her hand. She
remembered the C.A. on it. And she got excited and began talking to all her
friends--perhaps a paper would give her something?
"A young newspaper man soon got on to it and there's going to be a good
sobstuff article in to-night's Evening Shriek. The last hours of the talented atress.
Waiting--for the man who never came--and a good bit about the waitress's
sympathetic intuition that something was not well with her sister woman. You
know the kind of bilge, M. Poirot?'
"And how has it come to your ears so quickly?"
"Oh! well, we're on very good terms with the Evening Shriek. It got passed on
to me while their particular bright young man tried th get some news out of me
about something else. So I rushed along to the Corner House straight away--"
Yes, that was the way things ought to be done. I felt a pang of pity for Poirot.
Here was Japp getting all this news at first handuite possibly missing valuable
details, and here was Poirot placidly content with stale news.
"I saw the girl--and I don't think there's much doubt about it. She couldn't
pick out Carlotta Adams' photograph, but then she said she didn't notice the lady's
face particularly. She was young and dark and slim, and very well dressed, the girl
said. Had got on one of the new hats. I wish women looked at faces a bit more and
hats a bit less."
"The face of Miss Adams is not an easy one to observe," said Poirot. "It had
the mobility, the sensitiveness--the fluid quality."
"I daresay you're right. I don't go in for analysing these things. Dressed in
black the lady was, so the girl said, and she had an attache-case with her. The girl
noticed that particularly,, because it struck her as odd that a lady so well dressed
should be carrying a case about. She ordered some scrambled eggs and some
coffee, but the girl thinks she was putting in time and waiting for someone. It was
when the girl came to give her the bill that she noticed the box. The lady took it out
of her handbag and had it on the table looking at it. She opened the lid and shut it
down again. She was smiling in a pleased dreamy sort of way. The girl noticed the
box particular because it was such a lovely thing. 'I'd like to have a gold box with
my initials in rubies on it!'" she said.
"Apparently Miss Adams sat there some time after paying her bill. Then,
finally, she looked at her watch once more, seemed to give it up and went out."
Poirot was frowning.
"It was a rendez-vous," he murmured. "A rendez-vous with someone who did
not turn Up. Did Carlotta Adams meet that person afterwards? Or did she fail to
meet him and go home and try to ring him up? I wish I knew--oh! how I wish I
knew."
"That's your theory, M. Poirot. Mysterious Man-in-the-Background. That
Man-in-the-Background's a myth. I don't say she mayn't have been waiting for
someonthat's possible. She may have made an appointment to meet someone
there after her business with his lordship was settled satisfactorily. Well, we know
what happened. She lost her head and stabbed him. But she's not one to lose her
head for long. She changes her appearance at the station, gets out her case, goes to
the rendezvous, and then what they call the 'reaction' gets her. Horror of what
she's done. And when her friend doesn't turn up, that finishes her. He may be


	76
	Agatha Christie


someone who knew she was going to Regent Gate that evening. She feels the
game's up. So she takes out her little box of dope. An overdose of that and it'll be
all over. At anyrate she won't be hanged. Why, it's as plain as the nose on your

face."

Poirot's hand strayed doubtfully to his nose, then his fingers dropped to his
moustaches. He caressed them tenderly with a proud expression.

"There was no evidence at all of a mysterious Man-in-the-Background," said
Japp, pursuing his advantage doggedly. "I haven't got evidence yet'of a connection
between her and his lordship, but I shall do--it's only a question of time. I must
say I'm disappointed about Paris, but nine months ago is a long time. I've still got
someone making inquiries over there. Something may come to light yet. I know

you don't think so. You're a pig-headed old boy, you know."

"You insult first my nose and then my headY'

"Figure of speech, that's all," said Japp soothingly. "No offence meant."
"The answer to that," I said, "is 'Nor taken.'"

Poirot looked from one to the other of us completely puzzled.
"Any orders?" inquired Japp facetiously from the door.
Poirot smiled forgivingly at him. "An order, no. A suggestion--yes."
"Well, what is it? Out with it."

"A suggestion that you circularise the taxi-cabs. Find one that took a fare--or
more probably two fares--yes, two fares--from the neighbourhood of Covent
Garden to Regent Gate on the night of the murder. As to time it would probably be
about twenty minutes to eleven."

Japp cocked an eye alertly. He had the look of a smart terrier dog.

"So that's the idea, is it?" he said. "Well, I'll do it. Can't do any harm--and
you sometimes know what you're talking about."

No sooner had he left than Poirot arose and with great energy began to brush
his hat.

"Ask me no questions, my friend. Instead bring me the benzine. A morsel of

omelette this morning descended on my waistcoat."

I brought it to him.

"For once," I said. "I do not think I need to ask questions. It seems fairly
obvious. But do you think it really is so?"

"Mon ami, at the moment I concern myself solely with the toilet. If you will

pardon me saying so, your tie does not please me."

"It's a jolly good tie," I said.

"Possibly--once. It feels the old age as you have been kind enough to say I do.
Change it, I beseech you, and also brush the right sleeve."

"Are we proposing to call on King George?" I inquired sarcastically.

"No. But I saw in the newspaper this morning that the Duke of Merton had
'returned to Merton House. I understand he is a premier member of the English
aristocracy. I wish to do him all honour."

There is nothing of the Socialist about Poirot.
"Why are we going to call on the Duke of Merton?" "I wish to see him."

That was all I could get out of him. When my attire was at last handsome
enough to please Poirot's critical eye, we started out.

At Merton House, Poirot was asked by a footman if he had an appointment.
Poirot replied in the negative. The footman bore away the card and returned
shortly to say that His Grace was very sorry but he was extremely busy this
morning. Poirot immediately sat down in a chair.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	77
	"Trs bien," he said. "I wait. I will wait several hours if need be."
This, however, was not necessary. Probably as the shortest way of getting rid
of the importunate caller, Poirot was bidden to the presence of the gentleman he
desired to see.
The Duke was about twenty-seven years of age. He was hardly prepossessing
in appearance, being thin and weakly. He had nondescript thin hair going bald at
the temples, a small bitter mouth and vague dreamy eyes. There were several
crucifixes in the room and various religious works of art. A wide shelf of books
seemed to contain nothing but theological works. He looked far more like a weedy
young haberdasher than like a duke. He had, I knew, been educated at home,
having been a terribly delicate child. This was the man who had fallen an
immediate prey to Jane Wilkinson! It was really ludicrous in the extreme. His
manner was priggish and his reception of us just short of courteous.
"You may, perhaps, know my name," began Poirot. "I have no acquaintance with it." "I study the psychology of crime."
The Duke was silent. He was sitting at a writing-table, an unfinished letter
before him. He tapped impatiently on the desk with his pen.
	"For what reason did you wish to see me?" he inquired coldly.
Poirot was sitting opposite him. His back was to the window. The Duke was
facing it.
"I am at present engaged on investigating the circumstances connected with
Lord Edgware's death."
	Not a muscle of the weak yet obstinate face moved.
	"Indeed? I was not acquainted with him."
	"But you are, I think, acquainted with his wife--with Miss Jane Wilkinson?"

	"That is so."
"You are aware that she is supposed to have had a strong motive for desiring
the death of her husband?"
	"I am really not aware of anything of the kind."
"I should like to ask you outright, your Grace, Are you shortly going to marry
Miss Jane Wilkinson?"
"When I am engaged to marry anyone the fact will be announced in the
newspapers. I consider your question an impertinence." He stood up. "Good-morning."
	Poirot stood up also. He looked awkward He hung his head. He stammered.

	"I did not mean . . . I . . . ]e vous demande pardon . . ."

	"Good-morning," repeated the Duke, a little louder.
This time Poirot gave it up. He made a characteristic gesture of hopelessness,
and we left. It was an ignominious dismissal.
I felt rather sorry for Poirot. His usual bombast had not gone well. To the
Duke of Merton a great detective was evidently lower than a blackbeetle.
"That didn't go too well," I said sympathetically. "What a stiff-necked tartar
the man is. What did you really want to see him for?"
"I wanted to know whether he and Jane Wilkinson are really going to marry."
"She said so."
"Ah! she said so. But, you realise, she is of those who say anything that suits
their purpose. She might have decided to marry him and he--poor man--might
not yet be aware of the fact."
	"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."


78
	Agatha Christie

"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, I can hardly bear to wait through the long months. 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, scandalised, stopping him.
"This 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
any more. 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 could not 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."

CHAPTER 19
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 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?"


	Thirteen at Dinner
	79

"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 will-power 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 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 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 hole happiness of my
son's life is at stake." She spoke more peremptorily. "!t 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?"


	80
	Agatha Christie


"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 antagonise 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
misfortunethen 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. Lady 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 houseto 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.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	81
"That is true enough, and yet, Hastings, will it really be such a bad thing for
M. le Due 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 from
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 importanceall 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--"
My 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 who says the police force is corrupt."
"So Japp is convinced at last," murmured Poirot. "Curious that the Man-inthe-Background
theory should be proved just at the moment when I was inclined
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 idee, fa!"
He sighed--then rousing himself:
"Come, Hastings, let us hear what Japp has to say."


82
	Agatha Christie

CHAPTER 20
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 say that: As though you wanted
to loiter. Sooner you get there and get another fare the better for you. They 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 number 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 cabstanding 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'd 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."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	83

"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 thirly 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
possible 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 into 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


Poirot took the cable with great interest. I read it over his shoulder.


Following is text letter 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



84

Agatha Christie

ever so sweet about my show and my take off of her, which brings me
routed to what I, am going to tell you. I don't really like her very much
because Yve 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
moat 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
wotld 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
thc,sand 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 lse majest for that.' Well then, we laid our heads together and
got down to details.
"I'll tell you all about it next week whether I'm spotted or not.
But anyway, Lucie darling, whether I succeed or faiN, I'm to have the
ter thousand dollars. Oh! Lucie, little sister, what that's going to mean
to ts. No time for more---just going off to do my 'hoax.' Lots and lots
and lots of love, little sister mine.
"Yours,
"Carlotta."

Poirt laid down the letter. It had touched him, I could see.
Japl, however, reacted in quite a different way.
"W've got him," said Japp exultantly.
"Yes," said Poirot.
His xoice sounded strangely flat
Japl looked at him curiously.
"What is it, M. Poirot?''
"No:hing," said Poirot. "It is not, somehow, just as I thought. That is all."
He Rooked acutely unhappy.
"Bug still it must be so," he said as though to himself. "Yes, it must be so." "Of ,course it is so. Why, you've said so all along!" "No no. You misunderstand me."
"Dicln't you say there was someone back of all this who got the girl into doing
it innoce tly?"
"Yes, yes."
"WI1, what more do you want?"
Poir-t sighed and said nothing.
"Yo are an odd sort of cove. Nothing ever satisfies you. I say, it was a piece of
luck the girl wrote this letter."
Poir-t agreed with more vigour than he had yet shown.
"Mais oui, that is what the murderer did not expect. When Miss Adams
accepted that ten thousand dollars she signed her death warrant. The murderer
thought e had taken all precautions--and yet in sheer innocence she outwitted
him. Th dead speak. Yes, sometimes the dead speak."
"In ,ever thought she'd done it off her own bat," said Japp unblushingly. "No., no," said Poirot absently.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	85
	"Well, I must get on with things."

	"You are going to arrest Captain Marsh--Lord Edgware, I mean?"

	"Why not? The case against him seems proved up to the hilt."

	"True."
"You seem very despondent about it, M. Poirot. The truth is, you like things
to be difficult. Here's your own theory proved and even that does not satisfy you.
Can you see any flaw in the evidence we've got?"
	Poirot shook his head.
"Whether Miss Marsh was accessory or not, I don't know," said Japp. "Seems
as though she must have known about it, going there with him from the opera. If
she wasn't, why did he take her? Well, we'll hear what they've both got to say.'
"May I be present?"
	Poirot spoke almost humbly.
	"Certainly you can. I owe the idea to you!"

	He picked up the telegram on the table.

	I drew Poirot aside.
	"What is the matter, Poirot?"
"I am very unhappy, Hastings. This seems the plain sailing and the
aboveboard. But there is something wrong. Somewhere or other, Hastings, there is
a fact that escapes us. It all fits together, it is as I imagined it, and yet, my friend,
there is something wrong."
	He looked at me piteously.
I was at a loss what to say.

CHAPTER 21
Ronald's Story

I found it hard to understand Poirot's attitude. Surely this was what he had
predicted all along?
All the way to Regent Gate, he Sat perplexed and frowning, paying no
attention to Japp's selfmcongratulations.
He came out of his reveries at last with a sigh.
"At all events," he murmured, "we can see what he has to say."
"Next to nothing if he's wise," said Japp. "There's any amount of men that
have hanged themselves by being too eager to make a statement. Well, no one can
say as we don't warn them! It's all fair and aboveboard. And the more guilty they
are, the more anxious they are to pipe up and tell you the lies they've thought out
to meet the case. They don't know that you should always submit your lies to a
solicitor first."
He laughed and said:
"Solicitors and coroners are the worst enemies of the police. Again and again
I've had a perfectly clear case messed up by the Coroner fooling about and letting
the guilty party get away with it. Lawyers you can't object to so much, I suppose.
They're paid for their artfulness and twisting things this way and that."
On arrival at Regent Gate we found that our quarry was at home. The family


	86
	Agatha Christie

were still at the luncheon table. Japp proferred a request to speak to Lord Edgware
privately. We were shown into the library.
In a minute or two the young man came to us. There was an easy smile on his
face which changed a little as he cast a quick glance over us. His lips tightened.
"Hello, Inspector," he said. "What's all this about?"
Japp said his little piece in the classic fashion. "So that's it, is it?" said Ronald.
He drew a chair towards him and sat down. He pulled out a cigarette case. "I think, Inspector, I'd like to make a statement."
"That's as you please, my lord."
"Meaning that it's damned foolish on my part. All the same, I think I will.
'Having no reason to fear the truth,' as the heroes in books always say."
Japp said nothing. His face remained expressionless.
"There's a nice handy table and chair," went on the young man. "Your minion
can sit down and take it all down in shorthand."
I don't think that Japp was used to having his arrangements made for him so
thoughtfully. Lord Edgware's suggestion was adopted.
"To begin with," said the young man. "Having some grains of intelligence, I
strongly suspect that my beautiful alibi has bust. Gone up in smoke. Exit the useful
Dortheimers. Taxi-driver, I suppose?"
"We know all about your movements on that night," said Japp woodenly.
"I have the greatest admiration for Scotland Yard. All the same, you know, if I
had really been planning a deed of violence I shouldn't have hired a taxi and driven
straight to the place and kept the fellow waiting. Have you thought of that? Ah! I
see M. Poirot has."
"It had occurred to me, yes," said Poirot.
"Such is not the manner of premeditated crime," said Ronald. "Put on a red
moustache and horn-rimmed gl.asses and drive to the next street and pay the man off. Take the tube--well well, I won't go into it all. My Counsel, at a fee of
several thousand guineas, will do it better than I can. Of course, I see the answer.
Crime was a sudden impulse. There was I, waiting in the cab, etc., etc. It occurs to
me, 'Now, my boy, up and doing.'
"Well, I'm going to tell you the truth. I was in a hole for money. That's been
pretty clear, I think. It was rather a desperate business. I had to get it by the next
day or drop out of things. I tried my uncle. He'd no love for me, but I thought he
might care for the honour of his name. Middle-aged men sometimes do. My uncle
proved to be lamentably modern in his cynical indifference.
"Well--it looked like just having to grin and bear it. I was going to try and
have a shot at borrowing from Dortheimer, but I knew there wasn't a hope. And
marry his daughter I couldn't. She's much too sensible a girl to take me, anyway.
Then, by chance, I met my cousin at the opera. I don't often come across her, but
she was always a decent kid when I lived in the house. I found myself telling her all
about it. She'd heard something from her father anyway. Then she showed her
mettle. She suggested I should take her pearls. They'd belonged to her mother."
He paused. There was something like real emotion, I think, in his voice. Or
else he suggested it better than I could have believed possible.
"Well--I accepted the blessed child's offer. I could raise the money I wanted
on them, and I swore I'd turn to and redeem them even if it meant working to
manage it. But the pearls were at home in Regent Gate. We decided that the best
thing to do would be to go and fetch them at once. We jumped in a taxi and off we
went.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	87
	"We made the fellow stop on the opposite side of the street in case anyone

	should hear the taxi draw up at the door. Geraldine got out and went across the

	road. She had her latchkey with her. She wood go in quietlY, get the pearls and

	bring them out to me. She didn't expect to meet anyone except, possibly, a

	servant. Miss Carroll, my uncle's secretary, usually
	He, himself would probably be in the library,
	went to Ied at half-past nine.
	"So off Dina went. I stood on the pavemeat smoking a cigarette. Every now

	and then I looked over towards the house to see if she was coming. And now I

	come to the part of the story that you may believe or not as you like. A man passed

	me on the sidewalk. I turned to look after him. To my surprise he went up the

	steps and let himself in to No. 17. At least I thought it was No, 17, but, of course, I

	was some distance away. That surprised me very much for tTM reasons. One was

	that the man had let himself in with a key, and the second was that I thought I

	recognised in him a certain well-known actor.

	"I was so surprised that I determined to 100k into matters. I happened to have

	my own key of No. 17 in my pocket. I'd lost it or thought I'd lost it three years ago,

	had come across it unexpectedly a day or two ago and had been meaning to give it

	back to my uncle this morning. However, in the heat of oor discussion, it had

	slipped my memory. I had transferred it with the other cortents of my pockets

	when I changed.

	"Telling the taxi man to wait, I strode hurriedly along the pavement, crossed

	the road, went up the steps of No. 17, and opened the door with my key. The hall

	was empty. There was no sign of any visitor having just eotered. I stood for a

	minute looking about me. Then I went towards the library door. Perhaps the man

	was in with my uncle. If so, I should hear the rurmur ofvoice. I stood outside the

	library door, but I heard nothing.

	"I suddenly felt I had made the most abject fool of myself. Of course the man

	.must.,have,g. on, e i.nto, so,me other, house---the h0se beyond, robably Regent Gate
	Is rarner clim! ii ted
	
	P
	
		y gh at mght. I felt an absolute idiot. What on earth had

	possessed me to follow the fellow, I could not think. It had laftded me here, and a

	pretty fool I should look if my uncle were to come suddenly out of the library and

	find me. I should get Geraldine into trouble and altogether th fat would be in the

	fire. All because something in the man's manner had made me imagine that he was

	doing something that he didn't want known. Luckily no one cught me. I must get

	out of it as soon as I could.

	"I tiptoed back towards the front door a0d at the same moment Geraldine

	came down the stairs with the pearls in her hand.

	"She was very startled at seeing me, of course. I got her cUt of the house, and

then explained."

	He paused.

	"We hurried back to the opera. Got there just as the curtain was going up. No
one suspected that we'd left it. It was a hot night and
		eo 1

to get a breath of air."
	several p e went outside
	He paused.
"I know what you'll say: Why didn't I tell you this right away? And now I put it
to you: Would you, with a motive for murder sticking out sa yard, admit lightheartedly
that you'd actually been at the place the murder was committed on the
night in question?
"Frankly, I funked it! Even if we were believed, it was going to be a lot of
worry for me and for Geraldine, We'd had nothing to do witch the murder, we'd
seen nothing, we'd heard nothing. Obviously, I thought, Aunt Jane had done it.


	88
	Agatha Christie


Well, why bring myself in? I told you about the quarrel and my lack of money
because I knew you'd ferret it out, and if I'd tried to conceal all that you'd be much
more suspicious and you'd probably examine that alibi much more closely. As it
was, I thought that if I bucked enough about it it would almost hypnotise you into
thinking it all right. The Dortheimers were, I know, honestly convinced that I'd
been at Covent Garden all the time. That I spent one interval with my cousin
wouldn't strike them as suspicious. And she could always say she'd been with me
there and that we hadn't left the place."

"Miss Marsh agreed to this--concealment?"

"Yes. Soon as I got the news, I got on to her and cautioned her for her life not
to say anything about her excursion here that night. She'd been with me and I'd
been with her during the last interval at Covent Garden. We'd walked in the street

a little, that was all. She understood and she quite agreed."

He paused.

"I know it looks bad--coming out with this afterwards. But the story's true
enough. I can give you the name and address of the man who let me have the cash
on Geraldine's pearls next morning. And if you ask her, she'll confirm every word
I've told you."

He sat back in his chair and looked at Japp.

Japp continued to look expressionless.

"You say you thought Jane Wilkinson had committed the murder, Lord
Edgware?" he said.

"Well, wouldn't you have thought so? After the butler's story?"

"What about your wager with Miss Adams?"

"Wager with Miss Adams? With Carlotta Adams, do you mean? What has she
got to do with it?"

"Do you deny that you ottred her the sum of ten thousand dollars to

impersonate Miss Jane Wilkinson at the house that night?"

Ronald stared.

"Offered her ten thousand dollars? Nonsense. Someone's been pulling your
leg. I haven't got ten thousand dollars to offer. You've got hold of a mare's nest.

Does she say so? Oh! dash it all--I forgot, she's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes," said Poirot quietly. "She is dead."

Ronald turned his eyes from one to the other of us. He had been debonair
before. Now his face had whitened. His eyes looked frightened.

"I don't understand all this," he said. "It's true what I told you. I suppose you
don't believe m any of you."

And then, to my amazement, Poirot stepped forward.

"Yes," he said, "I believe you."


CHAPTER 22

Strange Behaviour of Hercule Poirot


We were in our rooms.

"What on earth--" I began.

Poirot stopped me with a gesture more extravagant than any gesture I had
ever seen him make. Both arms whirled in the air.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	89

"I implore of you, Hastings! Not now. Not now."
And upon that he seized his hat, clapped it on his head as though he had never
heard of order and method, and rushed headlong from the room. He had not
returned when, about an hour later, Japp appeared.
"Little man gone out?" he inquired.
I nodded.
Japp sank into a seat. He dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. The day
was warm.
"What the devil took him?" he inquired. "I can tell you, Captain Hastings,
you could have knocked me down with a feather when he stepped up to the man
and said: 'I believe you.' For all the world as though he were acting in a romantic
melodrama. It beats me."
It beat me also, and I said so.
"And then he marches out of the house," said Japp. "What did he say about it
to you?"
"Nothing," I replied.
"Nothing at all?"
"Absolutely nothing. When I was going to speak to him he waved me aside. I
thought it best to leave him alone. When we got back here I started to question
him. He waved his arms, seized his hat and rushed out again."
We looked at each other. Japp tapped his forehead significantly.
"Must be," he said.
For once I was disposed to agree. Japp had often suggested before that Poirot
was what he called "touched." In those cases he had simply not understood what
Poirot was driving at. Here, I was forced to confess, I could not understand Poirot's
attitude. If not touched, he was, at any rate, suspiciously changeable. Here was
his own private theory triumphantly confirmed and straight away he went back
on it.
It was enough to dismay and distress his warmest supporters. I shook my head
in a discouraged fashion.
"He's always been what I call peculiar," said Japp. "Got his own particular
angle of looking at things--and a very queer one it is. He's a kind of genius, I admit
that. But they always say that geniuses are very near the border line and liable to
slip over any minute. He's always been fond of having things difficult. A
straightforward case is never good enough for him. No, it's got to be tortuous. He's
got away from real life. He plays a game of his own. It's like an old lady playing at
patience. If it doesn't come out, she cheats. Well it's the other way round with
him. If it's coming out too easily, he cheats to make it more difficult! That's the way
I look at it."
I found it difficult to answer him. I was too perturbed and distressed to be able
to think dearly. I, also, found Poirot's behaviour unaccountable. And since I was
very attached to my strange little friend, it worried me more than I cared to
express.
In the middle of a gloomy silence, Poirot walked into the room.
He was, I was thankful to see, quite calm now.
Very carefully he removed his hat, placed it with his stick on the table, and sat
down in his accustomed chair.
"So you are here, my good Japp. I am glad. It was on my mind that I must see
you as soon as possible."
. Japp looked at him without replying. He saw that this was only the beginning.
He waited for Poirot to explain himself.
This my friend did, speaking slowly and carefully.


	90
	Agatha Christie

"Ecoutez, Japp. We are wrong. We are all wrong. It is grievous to admit it,
but we have made a mistake."
"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
yon 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 noiseyou'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 confidencealways 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'estfini! 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."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	91


"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
desperathere 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 had dozed offin 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.

"Ym inclined to believaccident. 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



	92
	Agatha Christie
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!" said 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, queje
suis bte!"
"What's he saying?" inquired Japp of me.
"Listen." Poirot rose and tapped Japp on the chest. "Why does Miss Adams'
maid not recognise that box? Why does Miss Driver not recognise it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Because the box was rlew! 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


	Thirteen at Dinner
	93


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.


CHAPTER 23
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 at 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 here 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
straight away. To get them clear you've got to think back--remember a lot of little
words and phrases that perhaps you didn't pay much 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



94 Agatha Christie


be a decent sort really and yet go down the hill. More sinned against than
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 nameit 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
MarshLord 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 idea he had had lingering in his fantastic
brain, he had now been forced to admit himself that it had not materialised---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, 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 the 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 realise th'at 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. Apart from my terrible grief, I have been so affronted



Thirteen at Dinner

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 realise
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, 0h! 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 Adans
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?"
"You don't think it possible that it could be Hercule Poirot?" I suggested as
delicately as I was able.
Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.
"There are times when I have been in error--but this is not one of them.


96
	Agatha Christie


Clearly then, since the letter seems impossible, it is impossible. There is some fact
about the letter which escapes us. I seek to discover what that fact is."

And thereupon he resumed his study of the letter in question, using a small
pocket microscope.

As he finished perusing each page, he passed it across to me. I, certainly,
could find nothing amiss. It was written in a firm fairly legible handwriting and it

was word for word as it had been telegraphed across.

Poirot sighed deeply.

"There is no forgery of any kind here no, it is all written in the same hand.
And yet, since, as I say, it is impossible "

He broke off. With an impatient gesture he demanded the sheets from me. I

passed them over, and once again he went slowly through them.

Suddenly he uttered a cry.

I had left the breakfast table and was standing looking out of the window. At
this sound, however, I turned sharply.

Poirot was literally quivering with excitement. His eyes were green like a
cat's. His pointing finger trembled.

"See you, Hastings? Look here quickly--come and look."

I ran to his side. Spread out before him was one of the middle sheets of the
letter. I could see nothing unusual about it.

"See you not? All these other sheets have the clean edge--they are single
sheets. But this one--see one side of it is ragged--it has been torn. Now do you
see what I mean? This was a double sheet, and so, you comprehend, one page of
the letter is missing."

I stared stupidly, no doubt.

"But how can it be? It makes sense."

"Yes, yes, it makes sense. That is where the cleverness of the idea comes in.
Read--and you will see."

I think I cannot do better than to append a facsimile of the page in question.
"You see it now?" said Poirot. "The letter breaks off where she is talking of
Captain Marsh. She is sorry for him, and then she says: 'He enjoyed my show very
much.' Then on the new sheet she goes on: 'He said . . .' But, mon ami, a page is
missing. The 'He' of the new page may not be the 'he' of the old page. In fact it is
not the he of the old page. It is another man altogether who proposed that hoax.
Observe, nowhere after that is the name mentioned. Ah! c'est patant.t Somehow
or other our murderer gets hold of this letter. It gives him away. No doubt he
thinks to suppress it altogether, and then--reading it over he sees another way of
dealing with it. Remove one page, and the letter is capable of being twisted into a
damning accusation of another man--a man too who has a motive for Lord
Edgware's death. Ah! it was a gift! The money for the confiture as you say! He tears
the sheet off and replaces the letter."

I looked at Poirot in some admiration. I was not perfectly convinced of the
truth of this theory. It seemed to me highly possible that Carlotta had used an old
half sheet that was already torn. But Poirot was so transfigured with joy that I
simply had not the heart to suggest this prosaic possibility. After all, he might be
right.

I did, however, venture to point out one or two difficulties in the way of his
theory.

"BUt how did the man, whoever he was, get hold of the letter? Miss Adams
took it straight from her handbag and gave it herself to the maid to post. The maid
told us so."



The Letter



96
	Agatha Christie

Clearly then, since the letter seems impossible, it is impossible. There is some fact
about the letter which escapes us. I seek to discover what that fact is."

And thereupon he resumed his study of the letter in question, using a small
pocket microscope.

As he finished perusing each page, he passed it across to me. I, certainly,
could find nothing amiss. It was written in a firm fairly legible handwriting and it

was word for word as it had been telegraphed across.

Poirot sighed deeply.

"There is no forgery of any kind here--no, it is all written in the same hand.
And yet, since, as I say, it is impossible"

He broke off. With an impatient gesture he demanded the sheets from me. I

passed them over, and once again he went slowly through them.

Suddenly he uttered a cry.

I had left the breakfast table and was standing looking out of the window. At
this sound, however, I turned sharply.

Poirot was literally quivering with excitement. His eyes were green like a
cat's. His pointing finger trembled.

"See you, Hastings? Look herequickly--come and look."

I ran to his side. Spread out before him was one of the middle sheets of the
letter. I could see nothing unusual about it.

"See you not? All these other sheets have the clean edgethey are single
sheets. But this one sec one side of it is ragged--it has been torn. Now do you
see what I mean? This was a double sheet, and so, you comprehend, one page of
the letter is missing."

I stared stupidly, no doubt.

"But how can it be? It makes sense."

"Yes, yes, it makes sense. That is where the cleverness of the idea comes in.
Read---and you will see."

I think I cannot do better than to append a facsimile of the page in question.
"You see it now?" said Poirot. "The letter breaks off where she is talking of
Captain Marsh. She is sorry for him, and then she says: 'He enjoyed my show very
much.' Then on the new sheet she goes on: 'He said . . .' But, mon ami, a page is
missing. The 'He' of the new page may not be the 'he' of the old page. In fact it is
not the he of the old page. It is another man altogether who proposed that hoax.
Observe, nowhere after that is the name mentioned. Ah! c'est patant.t Somehow
or other our murderer gets hold of this letter. It gives him away. No doubt he
thinks to suppress it altogether, and then--reading it over he sees another way of
dealing with it. Remove one page, and the letter is capable of being twisted into a
damning accusation of another man--a man too who has a motive for Lord
Edgware's death. Ah! it was a gift! The money for the confiture as you say! He tears
the sheet off and replaces the letter."

I looked at Poirot in some admiration. I was not perfectly convinced of the
truth of this theory. It seemed to me highly possible that Carlotta had used an old
half sheet that was already torn. But Poirot was so transfigured with joy that I
simply had not the heart to suggest this prosaic possibility. After all, he might be
right.

I did, however, venture to point out one or two difficulties in the way of his
theory.

"BUt how did the man, whoever he was, get hold of the letter? Miss Adams
took it straight from her handbag and gave it herself to the maid to post. The maid
told us so."



The Ltter


98
	Agatha Christie

"Therefore we must assume one of two things. Either the maid was lying, or
else, during that evening, Carlotta Adams met the murderer."
I nodded.
"It seems to me that that last possibility is the most likely one. We still do not
know where Carlotta Adams was between the time she left her flat and nine o'clock
when she left her suitcase at Euston station. During that time, I believe myself that
she met the murderer in some appointed spot--they probably had some food
together. He gave her some last instructions. What happened exactly in regard to
the letter we do not know. One can make a guess. She may have been carrying it in
her hand meaning to post it. She may have laid it down on the table in the
restaurant. He sees the address and scents a possible danger. He nay have picked
it up adroitly, made an excuse for leaving the table, opened it, read it, torn out the
sheet, and then either replaced it on the table, or perhaps given it to her as she
left, telling her that she had dropped it without noticing. The exact way of it is not
important but two things do seem clear. That Carlotta Adams met the murderer
that evening either before the murder of Lord Edgware, or afterwards (there was
time after she left the Corner House for a brief interview). I have a fancy, though there I am perhaps wrong, that it was the murderer who gave her the gold box--it
was possibly a sentimental memento of their first meeting. If so, the murderer is

"I don't see the point of the gold box."
"Listen, Hastings, Carlotta Adams was not addicted to veronal. Lucie Adams
says so, and I, too, believe it to be true. She was a clear-eyed healthy girl with no
predilection for such things. None of her friends nor her maid recognised the box.
Why, then, was it found in her possession after she died? To create the impression
that she did take veronal and that she had taken it for a considerable time that is
to say at least six months. Let us say that she met the murderer after the murder if
only for a few minutes. They had a drink together, Hastings, to celebrate the
success of their plan. And in the girl's drink he put sufficient veronal to ensure that
there should be no waking for her on the following morning."
"Horrible," I said with a shudder.
"Yes, it was not pretty," said Poirot dryly.
"Are you going to tell Japp all this?" I asked after a minute or two.
"Not at the moment. What have I got to tell? He would say, the excellent
Japp, 'another nest of the mare! The girl wrote on an odd sheet of paper!' C'est
tout ."
I looked guiltily at the ground.
"What can I siy to that? Nothing. It is a thing that might have happened. I
only know it did not happen because it is necessary that it should not have
happened.'
He paused. A dreamy expression stole across his face.
"Figure to yourself, Hastings, if only that man had had the order and the
method, he would have cut that sheet--not torn it. And we should have noticed
nothing. But nothing!"
"So we deduce that he is a man of careless habits," I said, smiling.
"No, no. He might have been in a hurry. You observe it is very carelessly
torn. Oh! assuredly he was pressed for time."
He paused and then said:
"One thing you do remark, I hope. This man--this D---he must have had a
very good alibi for that evening."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	99

"I can't see how he could have had any alibi at all if he spent his time first at
Regent Gate doing a murder and then with Carlotta Adams."
"Precisely," said Poirot. "That is what I mean. He is badly in need of an alibi,
so no doubt he prepared one. Another point: Does his name really begin with D?
Or does D stand for some nickname by which he was known to her?"
He paused and then said softly:
"A man whose initial or whose nickname is D. We have got to find him,
Hastings. Yes, we have got to find him."

CHAPTER 24
News from Paris

On the following day we had an unexpected visit.
Geraldine Marsh was announced.
I felt sorry for her as Poirot greeted her and set a chair for her. Her large dark
eyes seemed wider and darker than ever. There were black circles round them as
though she had not slept. Her face looked extraordinarily haggard and weary for
one so young--little more, really, than a child.
"I have come to see you, M. Poirot, because I don't know how to go on any
longer. I am so terribly worried and upset."
"Yes, Mademoiselle?"
His manner was gravely sympathetic.
"Ronald told me what you said to him that day. I mean that dreadful day when
he was arrested." She shivered "He told me that you came up to him suddenly,
just when he had said that he supposed no one would believe him, and that you
said to him: 'I believe you.' Is that true, M. Poirot?"
"It is true, Mademoiselle, that is what I said."
"I know, but I meant not was it true you said it, but were the words really
true. I mean, did you believe his story?"
Terribly anxious she looked, leaning forward there, her hands clasped
together.
"The words were true, Mademoiselle," said Poirot quietly. "I do not believe
your cousin killed Lord Edgware."
"Oh!" The colour came into her face, her eyes opened big and wide. "Then
you must thinkthat someone else did it!"
"Evidiment, Mademoiselle." He smiled.
"I'm stupid. I say things badly. What I mean is--you think you know who that
somebody is?"
She leaned forward eagerly.
"I have my little ideas, naturally--my suspicions, shall we say?"
"Won't you tell me? Pleasc please."
Poirot shook his head.
"It would bperhaps--unfair."
"Then you have got a definite suspicion of somebody?"
Poirot merely shook his head noncommittally.


	100
	Agatha Christie


"If only I knew a little more," pleaded the girl. "It would make it so much

easier for me. And 1 might perhaps be able to help you. Yes, really I might be able
to help you."

	Her pleading was very disarming, but Poirot continued to shake his head.

	"The Duchess of Merton is still convinced it was my stepmother," said the girl

thoughtfully. She gave a slight questioning glance at Poirot.

	He showed no reaction.

	"But I hardly see how that can be."

	"What is your opinion of her? Of your stepmother?"

"Well--I hardly know her. I was at school in Paris when my father married
her. When I carae home, she was quite kind. I mean, she just didn't notice I was

there. I thought her very empty-headed and--well, mercenary."

	Poirot nodded.

	"You spoke of the Duchess of Merton. You have seen much of her?"

"Yes. She has been very kind to me. I have been with her a great deal during
the last fortnight. It has been terrible--with all the talk, and the reporters, and
Ronald in prison and everything." She shivered. "I feel I have no real friends. But

the Duchess has been wonderful, and he has been nice too--her son, I mean."
"You like him?"

	"He is shy, I think. Stiff and rather difficult to get on with. But his mother

talks a lot about him, so that I feel that I know him better than I really do."

	"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 of 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 of 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 the turn."

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

	"Quite, quite."

"Bonnie 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."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	10l
She nodded. Her teas 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, is 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 the pig is not pretty. Tout de rnme, 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 comes from a well-known Paris shop which specialises in
such things. The letter was supposedly from a Lady Ackerly--Constance Ackerly,
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."


102

Agatha Christie

"And it was 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 pincenez."
We looked at each other, completely baffled.

CHAPTER 25
A Luncheon Party

It was, I think, on the day after that that we went to the Widburns' luncheon party
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 forget whohad uttered the phrase "judgment 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.'
As sometimes happens, the words fell in a momentary lull of conversation. It
was an awkward moment. On my right I heard Donald Ross draw in his breath


	Thirteen at Dinner
	103

sharply Mrs. Widburn began to talk violently about Russian
	
	.
	,
	one
hastily said something to somebody else. Jane alone looked sere a
the table without the least consciousness of having said anythinJ t,13eO. lown

	It was then I noticed the Duke. His lips were drawn tightlT',fn,tv

flushed, and it seemed to me as though he drew slightly away if t"is.
have had a foretaste of the fact that for a man of his posmo!
		s e I'ane

Wilkinson might lead to some awkward contretemps.
	,
	As so often happens I made the first remark that came in'er,

		'
	my
left-hand neighbour a stout titled lady who arranged childo

remember that the remark n queshon was: Who s that ext!
woman in purple at the other end of the tableP" It was of coursl'vf!'s'/
	'
	'
	,
	, ster.
Having stammered apologies, I turned and chatted to Ross,

monosyllables.
	M

	It was then, rebuffed on both sides that I noticed Bryan
		ss
	.
	'
	fflUS[
have come late for I had not seen him before.
	,s
	He was a little way further down the table on my side and w

		w
	' aro

and chatting with great animation to a pretty blonde oman. d
It was some time since I had seen him at close quarters, a In, nid at
once by the great improvement in his looks. The haggard ii/i;nost
disappeared He looked younger and in every way more fit. He \tx was and
chaffing his vis-h-vis and seemed in first-rate spirits.
	0ck '
	I did not have time to observe him further, for at that x, laos tout
neighbour forgave me and graciously permitted me to listen .t .o $ {, ,t'gue
on the beauties of a Children's Matin6e which she was orgamsu iil,,k%t
Poirot had to leave early as he had an appointment. He wa,d.ig /. the
strange disappearance of an Ambassador's boots and had a reLufkk
half-past two. He charged me to make his adieus to Mrs. Wdt . %tiii was
waiting to do so-not an easy matter, for she was at thc'a
surrounded by departing friends all breathing out "Darlings"
somebody touched me on the shoulder.
	' -, ,,e,, te

	It was young Ross.
	reOt

	"Isn't M. Poirot here? I wanted to speak to him."

	I explained that Poirot had just departed.

	Ross seemed taken aback. Looking more closely at him, I sl 1
		thing
	seemed to have upset him. He looked white and strained an it
	/0eer
	uncertain look in his eyes.

	"Did you want to see him particularly?" I asked,
	had
	He answered slowly:

	"I---don't know."

	It was such a queer answer that I stared at him in surprise,

	"It sounds odd, I know The truth is that something t'a
	happened
Something that I can't make out. I--i'd like M. Poirdp
Because, you see, I don't know what to do--I don't want to bot::,m ,oe ) ,, '
He looked so puzzled and unhappy that I hastened to reas/a?
		rPolrot

has gone to keep an appointment, I smd. But I kn ] [?a I '
back at five o'clock. Why not ring him up then, or come and se
	"Thanks Do you know, I think I will. Five o'clock?" g
	Better nng up first, I smd, and make sure before comm,tTi

	"All right. I will. Thanks, Hastings You see, I think it migl k
	,
very important."
	' ti,;"t?.
	I nodded and turned again to where Mrs Widburn was
	

words and limp handshakes.
	ihg P


	104
	Agatha Christie

	My duty done, I was turning away when a hand was slipped through my arm.

	"Don't cut me," said a merry voice.

	It was Jenny Driver looking extremely chic, by the way.

	"Hello," I said. "Where have you sprung from?"

	"I was lunching at the next table to you."

	"I didn't see you. How is business?"

	"Booming, thank you."

	"The soup plates going well?"

	"Soup plates, as you so rudely call them, are going very well. When
everybody has got thoroughly laden up with them, there's going to be dirty work
done. Something like a blister with a feather attached is going to be worn bang in
the middle of the forehead."
"Unscrupulous," I said.
"Not at all. Somebody must come to the rescue of the ostriches. They're all on
the dole."
She laughed and moved away.
"Good-bye. I'm taking an afternoon off from business. Going for a spin in the
country."
"And very nice too," I said approvingly. "It's stifling in London today."
I myself walked leisurely through the Park. I reached home about four o'clock.
Poirot had not yet come in. It was twenty minutes to five when he returned. He
was twinkling and clearly in a good humour.
"I see, Holmes," I remarked, "that you have tracked the Ambassadorial
boots."
"It was a case of cocaine smuggling. Very ingenious. For the last hour I have
been in a ladies' Beauty Parlour. There was a girl there with auburn hair who
would have captured your susceptible heart at once."
Poirot always has the impression that I am particularly susceptible to auburn
hair. I do not bother to argue about it.
The telephone rang.
"That's probably Donald Ross," I said as I went across to the instrument.
"Donald Ross?"
"Yes. The young man we met at Chiswick. He wants to see you about
something."
I took down the receiver.
"Hello. Captain Hastings speaking,"
It was Ross.
"Oh! is that you, Hastings? Has M. Poirot come in?"
"Yes, he's here now. Do you want to speak to him or are you coming round?"
"It's nothing much. I can tell him just as well over the telephone."
"Right. Hold on."
Poirot came forward and took the receiver. I was so close that I could hear,
faintly, Ross's voice.
"Is that M. Poirot?" The voice sounded eager--excited.
"Yes, it is I."
"Look here, I don't want to bother you, but there's something that seems to
me a bit odd. It's in connection with Lord Edgware's death."
I saw Poirot's figure go taut.
"Continue, continue."
"It may seem just nonsense to you--"
"No, no. Tell me, all the same."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	105


"It was Paris set me off. You see" Very faintly I heard a bell trilling.
"Half a second," said Ross.

There was the sound of the receiver being laid down.

We waited. Poirot at the mouthpiece. I was standing beside him.

I say--we waited ....

Two minutes passed--three minutes four minutes---five minutes.

Poirot shifted his feet uneasily. He glanced up at the clock.

Then he moved the hook up and down and spoke to the Exchange. He turned
to me.

"The receiver is still off at the other end, but there is no reply. They cannot
get an answer. Quick, Hastings, look up Ross's address in the telephone book. We
must go there at once."


CHAPTER 26
Paris?


A few minutes later we were jumping into a taxi.

Poirot's face was very grave.

"I am afraid, Hastings," he said. "I am afraid."

"You don't mean--" I said and stopped.

"We are up against somebody who has already struck twice--that person will
not hesitate to strike again. He is twisting and turning like a rat, fighting for his life.
Ross is a danger. Then Ross will be eliminated."

"Was what he had to tell so important?" I asked doubtfully. "He did not seem
to think so."

"Then he was wrong. Evidently what he had to tell was of supreme
importance."

"But how could anyone know?"

"He spoke to you, you say. There, at Claridge's. With people all round.
Madnessutter madness. Ah! why did you not bring him back with you--guard

him--let no one near him till I had heard what he had to say." "I never thought--I never dreamt--" I stammered.
Poirot made a quick gesture.

"Do not blame yourself how could you know? I--I would have known. The
murderer, you see, Hastings, is as cunning as a tiger and as relentless. Ah! shall we
never arrive?"

We were there at last. Ross lived in a maisonette on the first floor of a house in
a big square in Kensington. A card stuck in a little slot by the door-bell gave us the
information. The hall door was open. Inside was a big flight of stairs.

"So easy to come in. None to see," murmured Poirot as he sprang up the
stairs.

On the first floor was a kind of partition and a narrow door with a Yale lock.
Ross's card was stuck in the centre of the door.

We paused there. Everywhere there was dead silence.
I pushed the door--to my surprise it yielded.
We entered.



104

Agatha Christie

My duty done, I was turning away when a hand was slipped through my arm.



"Don't cut me," said a merry voice.
It was Jenny Driver--looking extremely chic, by the way.
"Hello," I said. "Where have you sprung from?" "I was lunching at the next table to you." "I didn't see you. How is business?"
"Booming, thank you."
"The soup plates going well?"
"Soup plates, as you so rudely call them, are going very well. When
everybody has got thoroughly laden up with them, there's going to be dirty work
done. Something like a blister with a feather attached is going to be worn bang in
the middle of the forehead."
"Unscrupulous," I said.
"Not at all. Somebody must come to the rescue of the ostriches. They're all on
the dole."
She laughed and moved away.
"Good-bye. I'm taking an afternoon off from business. Going for a spin in the
country."
"And very nice too," I said approvingly. "It's stifling in London today."
I myself walked leisurely through the Park. I reached home about four o'clock.
Poirot had not yet come in. It was twenty minutes to five when he returned. He
was twinkling and clearly in a good humour.
"I see, Holmes," I remarked, "that you have tracked the Ambassadorial
boots."
"It was a case of cocaine smuggling. Very ingenious. For the last hour I have
been in a ladies' Beauty Parlour. There was a girl there with auburn hair who
would have captured your susceptible heart at once."
Poirot always has the impression that I am particularly susceptible to auburn
hair. I do not bother to argue about it.
The telephone rang.
"That's probably Donald Ross," I said as I went across to the instrument.
"Donald Ross?"
"Yes. The young man we met at Chiswick. He wants to see you about
something."
I took down the receiver.
"Hello. Captain Hastings speaking."
It was Ross.
"Oh! is that you, Hastings? Has M. Poirot come in?"
"Yes, he's here now. Do you want to speak to him or are you coming round?"
"It's nothing much. I can tell him just as well over the telephone."
"Right. Hold on."
Poirot came forward and took the receiver. I was so close that I could hear,
faintly, Ross's voice.
"Is that M. Poirot?" The voice sounded eager--excited.
"Yes, it is I."
"Look here, I don't want to bother you, but there's something that seems to
me a bit odd. It's in connection with Lord Edgware's death."
I saw Poirot's figure go taut.
"Continue, continue."
"It may seem just nonsense to you--"
"No, no. Tell me, all the same."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	105

"It was Paris set me off. You see" Very faintly I heard a bell trilling.
"Half a second," said Ross.
There was the sound of the receiver being laid down.
We waited. Poirot at the mouthpiece. I was standing beside him.
I say--we waited ....
Two minutes passed---three minutes--four minutes--five minutes.
Poirot shifted his feet uneasily. He glanced up at the clock.
Then he moved the hook up and down and spoke to the Exchange. He turned
to me.
"The receiver is still off at the other end, but there is no reply. They cannot
get an answer. Quick, Hastings, look up Ross's address in the telephone book. We
must go there at once."

CHAPTER 26
Paris?

A few minutes later we were jumping into a taxi.
Poirot's face was very grave.
"I am afraid, Hastings," he said. "I am afraid."
"You don't mean--" I said and stopped.
"We are up against somebody who has already struck twice--that person will
not hesitate to strike again. He is twisting and turning like a rat, fighting for his life.
Ross is a danger. Then Ross will be eliminated."
"Was what he had to tell so important?" I asked doubtfully. "He did not seem
to think so."
"Then he was wrong. Evidently what he had to tell was of supreme
importance."
"But how could anyone know?"
"He spoke to you, you say. There, at Claridge's. With people all round.
Madness---utter madness. Ah! why did you not bring him back with you--guard
him--let no one near him till I had heard what he had to say." "I never thought--I never dreamt--" I stammered.
Poirot made a quick gesture.
"Do not blame yourself how could you know? I---I would have known. The
murderer, you see, Hastings, is as cunning as a tiger and as relentless. Ah! shall we
never arrive?"
We were there at last. Ross lived in a maisonette on the first floor of a house in
a big square in Kensington. A card stuck in a little slot by the door-bell gave us the
information. The hall door was open. Inside was a big flight of stairs.
"So easy to come in. None to see," murmured Poirot as he sprang up the
stairs.
On the first floor was a kind of partition and a narrow door with a Yale lock.
Ross's card was stuck in the centre of the door.
We paused there. Everywhere there was dead silence.
I pushed the door--to my surprise it yielded.
We entered.


	106
	Agatha Christie
There was a narrow hall and an open door one side, another in front of us
opening into what was evidently the sitting-room.
Into this sitting-room we went. It was the divided half of a big front drawing-room.
It was cheaply but comfortably ftrnished and it was empty. On a small table
was the telephone, the receiver stood down beside the instrument.
Poirot took a swift step forward, looked round, then shook lis head.
"Not here. Come, Hastings."
We retraced our steps and, going out into the hall, we passed'through the
other door. The room was a tiny dining-room. At one side of the table, fallen
sideways from a chair and sprawled across the table, was Ross.
Poirot bent over him.
He straightened up--his face was white.
"He's dead. Stabbed at the base of the skull."

For long afterwards the events of that afternoon remained like a nightmare in
my mind. I could not rid myself of a d:eadful feeling of responsibility.
Much later, that evening, when w'e were alone together, I stammered out to
Poirot my bitter self-reproachings. He responded quickly.
"No, no, do not blame yourself. How could you have suspected? The good
God has not given you a suspicious nature to begin with."
"You would have suspected?"
"That is different. All my life, you ee, I have tracked down murderers. I know
how, each time, the impulse to kill becomes stronger, till, at last, for a trivial
cause--" He broke off.
He had been very quiet ever sit, ce our ghastly discovery. All through the
arrival of the police, the questioning of' the other people in the house, the hundred
and one details of the dreadful routine following upon a rrurder, Poirot had
remained aloofstrangely quiet--a far--away speculative look ir his eyes. Now, as
he broke off his sentence, that same far-away speculative look returned.
"We have no time to waste in regrets, Hastings," he said quietly. "No time to
say 'If--The poor young man who is clead had something to tell us. And we know
now that that something must have been of great importancc otherwise he would
not have been killed. Since he can no longer tell us--we have got to guess. We
have got to guess--with only one little clue to guide us."
"Paris," I said.
"Yes, Paris." He got up and began to stroll up and down.
"There have been several mentio.ns of Paris in this business, but unluckily in
different connections. There is the word Paris engraved in the gold box. Paris in
November last. Miss Adams was there then--perhaps Ross was there also. Was
there someone else there whom Ross lnew? Whom he saw with Miss Adams under
somewhat peculiar circumstances?"
"We can never know," I said.
"Yes, yes, we can know. We shall know! The power of the human brain,
Hastings, is almost unlimited. What o'ther mentions of Paris have we in connection
with the case? There is the short wonan with the pince-nez who called for the box
at the jeweller's there. Was she knoven to Ross? The Duke of Merton was in Paris
when the crime was committed. Pariis, Paris, Paris. Lord Eclgware was going to
Paris--Ah! possibly we have somethirag there. Was he killed to prevent him going
to Paris?"
He sat down again, his brows drawn together. I could almost feel the waves of
his furious concentration of thought.


	Thirteen at Dinner
	107

"What happened at that luncheon?" he murmured. "Some casual word or
phrase must have shown to Donald Ross the significance of the knowledge which
was in his possession, but which up to then he had not known was significant. Was
there some mention of France? Of Paris? Up your end of the table, I mean."
"The word Paris was mentioned but not in that connection."
I told him about Jane Wilkinson's "gaffe."
"That probably explains it," he said thoughtfully. "The word Paris would be
sufficient--taken in conjunction with something else. But what was that something
else? At what was Ross looking? Or of what had he been speaking when that word
was uttered?"
"He'd been talking about Scottish superstitions."
"And his eyes werwhere?"
"I'm not sure. I think he was looking towards the head of the table where Mrs.
Widburn was sitting."
"Who sat next to her?"
"The Duke of Merton, then Jane Wilkinson, then some fellow I didn't know." "M. le Due. It is possible that he was looking at M. le Due when the word
Paris was spoken. The Duke, remember, was in Paris or was supposed to be in
Paris at the time of the crime. Suppose Ross suddenly remembered something
which went to show that Merton was not in Paris."
"My dear Poirot!"
"Yes, you consider that an absurdity. So does everyone. Had M. le Due a
motive for the crime? Yes, a very strong one. But to suppose that he committed
it-oh! absurd. He is so rich, of so assured a position, of such a well-known lofty
character. No one will scrutinise his alibi too carefully. And yet to fake an alibi in a
big hotel is not so difficult. To go across by the afternoon serviceto return--it could be done. Tell me, Hastings, did Ross not say anything when the word Paris
was mentioned? Did he show no emotion?"
"I do seem to remember that he drew in his breath rather sharply."
"And his manner when he spoke to you afterwards. Was it bewildered.
Confused?"
"That absolutely describes it."
"Prcisment. An idea has come to him. He thinks it preposterous! Absurd!
And yet he hesitates to voice it. First he will speak to me. But alas! when he has
made up his mind, I am already departed."
"If he had only said a little more to me," I lamented.
"Yes. If only-- Who was near you at the time?"
"Well, everybody, more or less. They were saying good-bye to Mrs. Widburn.
I didn't notice particularly."
Poirot got up again.
"Have I been all wrong?" he murmured as he began once more to pace the
floor. "All the time, have I been wrong?"
I looked at him with sympathy. Exactly what the ideas were that passed
through his head I did not know. "Close as an oyster," Japp had called him, and the
Scotland Yard inspector's words were truly descriptive. I only knew that now, at
this moment, he was at war with himself.
"At anyrate," I said, "this murder cannot be put down to Ronald Marsh."
"It is a point in his favour," my friend said absent-mindedly. "But that does
not concern us for the moment."
Abruptly, as before, he sat down.
"I cannot be entirely wrong. Hastings, do you remember that I once posed to
myself five questions?"


	108
	Agatha Christie


"I seem to remember dimly something of the sort."

"They were: Why did Lord Edgware change his mind on the stbject of
divorce? What is the explanation of the letter he said he wrote to his wife and
which she said she never got? Why was there that expression of rage or his face
when we left his house that day? What were a pair of pince-nez doing i Carlotta
Adams' handbag? Why did someone telephone to Lady Edgware at Chiswick and
immediately ring off?."

"Yes, these were the questions," I said. "I remember now."

"Hastings, I have had in mind all along a certain little idea. An idea as to who
the man was--the man behind. Three of those questions I have answered--and the
answers accord with my little idea. But two of the questions, Hastings, I cannot
answer.

"You see what that means. Either I am wrong as to the person, and it cannot
be that person. Or else the answer to the two questions that I cannot answer is
there all the time. Which is it, Hastings? Which is it?"

Rising, he went to his desk, unlocked it and took out the letter Lucie Adams
had sent him from America. He had asked Japp to let him keep it a day or two and
Japp had agreed. Poirot laid it on the table in front of him and pored over it.

The minutes went by. I yawned and picked up a book. I did not think that
Poirot would get much result from his study. We had already gone over and over
the letter. Granted that it was not Ronald Marsh who was referred to, there was

nothing whatever to show who else it might be.
I turned the pages of my book ....
Possibly I dozed off....

	Suddenly Poirot uttered a low cry. I sat up abruptly. He was looking at me

with an indescribable expression, his eyes green and shining.
"Hastings, Hastings."
"Yes, what is it?"

	"Do you remember I said to you that if the murderer had been a man of order

and method he would have cut this page, not torn it?"

	"Yes?"

	"I was wrong. There is order and method throughout this crime. The page had

to be torn, not cut. Look for yourself."

	I looked.

	"Eh bien, you see?"

	I shook my head.

	"You mean he was in a hurry?"

	"Hurry or no hurry it would be the same thing. Do you not see, my friend?

The page had to be torn 	"

	I
shook my head.
	In
a low voice Poirot said:
	"I have been foolish. I have been blind. Iut now--now--we shall get
on!"



	Thirteen at Dinner
	109

CHAPTER 27
Concerning PinceNez

A minute later his mood hd changed. He sprang to his feet.
I also sprang to minecompletely uncomprehending but willing.
"We will take a taxi. It is only nine o'clock. Not too late to make a visit."
I hurried after him down the stairs.
"Whom are we going to visit?" "We are going to Regent Gate."
I judged it wisest to hold my peace. Poirot, I saw, was not in the mood for
being questioned. That he was greatly excited I could see. As we sat side by side in
the taxi his fingers drummed on his knee with a nervous impatience most unlike his
usual calm.
I went over in my mind every word of Carlotta Adams' letter to her sister. By
this time I almost knew it by heart. I repeated again and again to myself Poirot's
words about the torn page.
But it was no good. As far as I was concerned, Poirot's words simply did not
make sense. Why had a page got to be torn? No, I could not see it.
A new butler opened the door to us at Regent Gate. Poirot asked for Miss
Caroll, and as we followed the butler up-the stairs I wondered for the fiftieth time
where the former "Greek god" could be. So far the police had failed utterly to run
him to earth. A sudden shiver passed over me as I reflected that perhaps he, too,
was dead ....
The sight of Miss Carroll, brisk and neat and eminently sane, recalled me from
these fantastic speculations. She was clearly very much surprised to see Poirot.
"I am glad to find you still here, Mademoiselle," said Poirot as he bowed over
her hand. "I was afraid you might be no longer in the house."
"Geraldine would not hear of my leaving," said Miss Carroll. "She begged me
to stay on. And really, at a time like this, the poor child needs someone. If she
needs nothing else, she needs a buffer. And I can assure you, when need be, I
make a very efficient buffer, M. Poirot."
Her mouth took on a grim line. I felt that she would have a short way with
reporters or news hunters.
"Mademoiselle, you have always seemed to me the pattern of efficiency. The
efficiency, I admire it very much. It is rare. Mademoiselle Marsh now, she has not
got the practical mind."
"She's a dreamer," said Miss Carroll. "Completely impractical. Always has
been. Lucky she hasn't got her living to get."
"Yes, indeed."
"But I don't suppose you came here to talk about people being practical or
impractical. What can I do for you, M. Poirot?"
I do not think Poirot quite liked to be recalled to the point in this fashion. He
was somewhat addicted to the oblique approach. With Miss Carroll, however, such
a thing was not practicable. She blinked at him suspiciously through her strong
glasses.


	110
	Agatha Christie

"There are a few points on which I should like definite informatiom. I know I
can trust your memory, Miss Carroll."

"I' wouldn't be much use as a secretary if you couldn't," said lViss Carroll
grimly.

"Was Lord Edgware in Paris last November?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me the date of his visit?"

"I shall have to look it up."

She rose, unlocked a drawer, took out a small bound book, turne.d the pages
and finally announced:

"Lord Edgware went to Paris on November 3rd and returned on the 7th. He
also went over on November 29th and returned on December 4th. Anything
more?"

"Yes. For what purpose did he go?"

"On the first occasion he went to see some statuettes which h thought of
purchasing and which were to be auctioned later. On the second occasion he had
no definite purpose in view so far as I know."

"Did Mademoiselle Marsh accompany her father on either occasion?"

"She never accompanied her father on any occasion, M. Poirot. Lo, rd Edgware
would never have dreamed of such a thing. At that time she was at t convent in
Paris, but I do not think her father went to see her or took her out--at least it
would surprise me very much if he had.'

"You yourself did not accompany him?"

"No."

She looked at him curiously and then said abruptly:

"Why are you asking me these questions, M. Poirot? What is the point of
them?"

Poirot did not reply to this question. Instead he said:

"Miss Marsh is very fond of her cousin, is she not?"

"Really, M. Poirot, I don't see what that has got to do with you.' '

"She came to see me the other day! You knew that?"

"No, I did not." She seemed startled. "What did she say?"

"She told me--though not in actual words--that she was very fond of her
cousin."

"Well, then, why ask me?"

"Because I seek your opinion."

This time Miss Carroll decided to answer.

"Much too fond of him in my opinion. Always has been."

"You do not like the present Lord Edgware?"

"I don't say that. I've no use for him, that's all. He's not serious. I don't deny
he's got a pleasant way with him. He can talk you round. But I'd rather see

Geraldine getting interested in someone with a little more backbone-"

"Such as the Duke of Merton?"

"I don't know the Duke. At anyrate, he seems to take the duties of his position

seriously. But he's running after that woman--that precious Jane Wilkinson."
"His mother--"

"Oh! I dare say his mother would prefer him to marry Geraldine. But what can
mothers do? Sons never want to marry the girls their mothers x,ant them to


"Do you think that Miss Marsh's cousin cares for her?"

"Doesn't matter whether he does or doesn't in the position he's in."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	111

"You think, then, that he will be condemned?"

"No, I don't. I don't think he did it."

"But he might be condemned all the same?"

Miss Carroll did not reply.

"I must not detain you." Poirot rose. "By the way, did you know Carlotta
Adams?"

"I saw her act. Very clever."

"Yes, she was clever." He seemed lost in meditation. "Ah! I have put down
my gloves."

Reaching forward to get them from the table where he had laid them, his cuff
caught the chain of Miss Carroll's pince-nez and jerked them off. Poirot retrieved
them and the gloves which he had dropped, uttering confused apologies.

"I must apologise also once more for disturbing you," he ended. ''But I fancied
there might be some clue in a dispute Lord Edgware had with someone last year.
Hence my questions about Paris. A forlorn hope, I fear, but Mademoiselle seemed
so very positive it was not her cousin who committed the crime. Remarkably
positive she was. Well, good-night, Mademoiselle, and a thousand pardons for
disturbing you."

We had reached the door when Miss Carroll's voice recalled us.

"M. Poirot, these aren't my glasses. I can't see through them."

"Comment?" Poirot stared at her in amazement. Then his face broke into
smiles.

"Imbecile that I am! My own glasses fell out of my pocket as I stooped to get
the gloves and pick up yours. I have mixed the two pairs. They look very alike, you
see.

An exchange was made, with smiles on both sides, and we took our departure.
"Poirot," I said when we were outside. "You don't wear glasses."
He beamed at me.

"Penetrating! How quickly you see the point."

"Those were the pince-nez found in Carlotta Adams' handbag?"

"Correct."

"Why did you think they might be Miss Carroll's?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"She is the only person connected with the case who wears glasses."
"However, they are not hers," I said thoughtfully. "So she affirms."

"You suspicious old devil."

"Not at all, not at all. Probably she spoke the truth. I think she did speak the
truth. Otherwise I doubt if she would have noticed the substitution. I did it very
adroitly, my friend."

We were strolling through the streets more or less at'random. I suggested a
taxi, but Poirot shook his head.

"I have need to think, my friend. Walking aids me."

I said no more. The night was a close one and I was in no hurry to return
home.

"Were your questions about Paris mere camouflage?" I said curiously.

"Not entirely."

"We still haven't solved the mystery of the initial D," I said thoughtfully. "It's
odd that nobody to do with the case has an initial D---either surname or Christian
name--except-oh! yes, that's odd---except Donald Ross himself. And he's dead."

"Yes," said Poirot in a sombre voice. "He is dead."



	112
	Agatha Christie

	I remembered another evening when three of us had walked at night.
Remembered something else, too, and drew my breath sharpyly. "By Jove, Poirot," I said. "Do you remember?"
"Remember what, my friend?"
	"What Ross said about thirteen at table. And he was the first to get up."
Poirot did not answer. I felt a little uncomfortable as one always does when
superstition is proved justified.
	"It is queer," I said in a low voice. "You must admit it is queer."
	"Eh?"
"I said it was queer--about Ross and thirteen. Poirot, what are you thinking
about?"
To my utter amazement and, I must admit, somewhat to my disgust, Poirot
b,gan suddenly to shake with laughter. He shook and he shook. Something was
evidently causing him the most exquisite mirth.
	"What the devil are you laughing at?" I said sharply.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" gasped Poirot. "It is nothing. It is that I think ora riddle I hear
the other day. I will tell it to you. What is it that has two legs, feathers, and barks
like a dog?"
	"A chicken, of course," I said wearily. "I knew that in the nursery."
"You are too well-informed, Hastings. You should say, 'I do not know.' And
then me, I say, 'A chicken,' and then you say, 'But a chicken does not bark like a
clog,' and I say, 'Ah! I put that in to make it more difficult.' Supposing, Hastings,
that there we have the explanation of the letter D?"
	"What nonsense!"
"Yes, to most people, but to a certain type of mind. Oh! if I had only someone
I could ask. , .'
We were passing a big cinema. People were streaming out of it discussing
their own affairs, their servants, their friends of the opposite sex, and just
easionally, the picture they had just seen.


	With a group of them we crossed the Euston Road.
"I loved it," a girl was sighing. "I think Bryan Martin's just wonderful. I never
niss any picture he's in. The way he rode down that cliff and got there in time with
the papers."
	Her escort was less enthusiastic.
"Idiotic story. If they'd just had the sense to ask Ellis right away, which
anyone with sense would have done--"
The rest was lost. Reaching the pavement I turned back to see' Poirot standing
in the middle of the road with 'buses bearing down on him from either side.
Instinctively I put my hands over my eyes. There was a jarring of brakes, and some
rich 'bus driver language. In a dignified manner Poirot walked to the kerb. He
looked like a man walking in his sleep.
	"Poirot," I said. "Were you mad?"
"No, mon ami. It was just that--something came to me. There, at that
moment."
	"A damned bad moment," I said. "And very nearly your last one."
"No matter. Ah! mort ami--I have been blind, deaf, insensible. Now I see the
answers to all those questions--yes, all five of them. Yes---I see it all .... So
simple, so childishly simple .... "


	Thirteen at Dinner
	113

CHAPTER 28
Poirot Asks a Few Questions

We had a curious walk home.
Poirot was clearly following out some train of thought in his own mind.
Occasionally he murmured a word under his breath. I heard one or two of them.
Once he said: "Candles," and another time he said something that sounded like "douzaine.' I suppose if I had been really bright I should have seen the line his
thoughts were taking. It was really such a clear trail. However, at the time, it
sounded to me mere gibberish.
No sooner were we at home than he flew to the telephone. He rang up the
Savoy and asked to speak to Lady Edgware.
"Not a hope, old boy," I said with some amusement.
Poirot, as I have often told him, is one of the worst informed men in the
world.
"Don't you know?" I went on. "She's in a new play. She'll be at the theatre.
It's only half-past ten."
Poirot paid no attention to me. He was speaking to the hotel clerk who was
evidently telling him exactly what I had just told him.
"Ah! is that so? I should like then, to speak to Lady Edgware's maid."
In a few minutes the connection was made.
"Is that Lady Edgware's maid? This is M. Poirot speaking. M. Hercule Poirot.
You ,r, emember me, do you not?"
"$s'/i.'gw, you understand, something of importance has arisen. I
would like you to come and see me at once."

"But yes, very important. I will give you the address. Listen carefully."
He repeated it twice, then hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.
"What is the idea?" I asked curiously. "Have you really got a piece of
information?"
"No, Hastings, it is she who will give me the information."
"What information?"
"Information about a certain person."
"Jane Wilkinson?"
"Oh! as to her, I have all the information I need. I know her back side before,
as you say."
"Who, then?"
see. Poirot gave me one of his supremely irritating smiles and told me to wait and
He then busied himself in tidying up the room in a fussy manner.
Ten minutes later the maid arrived. She seemed a little nervous and
uncertain. A small neat figure dressed in black, she peered about her doubtfully.
Poirot bustled forward,


	114
	Agatha Christie

"Ah! you have come. That is most kind. Sit here, will you not,

Mademoiselle Ellis, I think?"

"Yes, ir. Ellis."

She sat down on the chair Poirot had drawn forward for her.

She sat with her hands folded on her lap looking from one to the other of us.
Her small bloodless face was quite composed and her thin lips were pinched
together.

"To igin with, Miss Ellis, you have been with Lady Edgware how long?"
"Three years, sir."

"That is as I thought. You know her affairs well."

Ellis did not reply. She looked disapproving.

"What I mean is, you should have a good idea of who her enemies are likely to

be."

Ellis compressed her lips more tightly.

"Most women have tried to do her a spiteful turn, sir. Yes, they've all been
against her. Nasty jealousy."

"Her own sex did not like her?"

"No, sir. She's too good-looking. And she always gets what she wants. There's

a lot of nasty jealousy in the theatrical profession."

"What about men?"

Ellis allowed a sour smile to appear on her withered countenance.

"She can do what she likes with the gentlemen, sir, and that's a fact."

"I agree with you," said Poirot, smiling. "Yet, even allowing that, I can

imagine circumstances arising--" He broke off.

Ther he said in a different voice:

"You know Mr. Bryan Martin, the film star?" "C}h! yes, sir."
"Very well?"
"Very well, indeed."

"I believe I am not mistaken in saying that a little less than a year ago, Mr.
Bryan Martin was very deeply in love with your mistress."

"I-Icad over ears, sir. And it's 'is,' not 'was,' if you ask me." "I-te believed at that time she would marry him---eh?" "Yes, sir."

"Did she ever seriously consider marrying him?"

"She thought of it, sir. If she could have got her freedom from his lordship, I
believe she would have married him."

"And then, I suppose, the Duke of Merton appeared on the scene?"

"Yes, sir. He was doing a tour through the States. Love at first sight it was
with him."

"&nd so good-bye to Bryan Martin's chances?"

Ellis nodded.

"Of course Mr. Martin made an enormous amount of money," she explained.
"But the Duke of Merton had position as well. And her ladyship is very keen on

position. Married to the Duke, she'd have Been one of the first ladies in the land."
The maid's voice held a smug complacency. It amused me.

"$o Mr. Bryan Martin was---how do you say--turned down? Did he take it
badly?"

"lie carried on something awful, sir."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	115


"He threatened her with a revolver once. And the scenes he made. It

frightened me, it did. He was drinking a lot, too. He went all to pieces."

"But in the end he calmed down."

"So it seemed, sir. But he still hung about. And I didn't like the look in his
eye. I've warned her ladyship about it, but she only laughed. She's one who enjoys
feeling her power, you know what I mean."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I think I know what you mean."

"We've not seen so much of him just lately, sir. A good thing in my opinion.

He's beginning to get over it, I hope."

"Perhaps."

Something in Poirot's utterance of the word seemed to strike her. She asked
anxiously:

"You don't think she's in danger, sir?"

"Yes," said Poirot gravely. "I think she is in great danger. But she has brought
it on herself."

His hand, running aimlessly along the mantelshelf, caught a vase of roses and
it toppled over. The water fell on Ellis's face and head. I had seldom known Poirot
clumsy, and I could deduce from it that he was in a great state of mental
perturbation. He was very upset--rushed for a towel-tenderly assisted the maid
to dry her face and neck and was profuse in apologies.

Finally a treasury note exchanged hands and he escorted her towards the
door, thanking her for her goodness in coming.

"But it is still early," he said, glancing at the clock. "You will be back before
your mistress returns."

"Oh! that is quite all right, sir. She is going out to supper, I think, and

anyway, she never expects me to sit up for her unless she says so special."
Suddenly Poirot flew off at a tangent.
"Mademoiselle, pardon me, but you are limping."
"That's nothing, sir. My feet are a little painful."

"The corns?" murmured Poirot in the confidential voice of one sufferer to
another.

Corns, apparently, it was. Poirot expatiated upon a certain remedy which,

according to him, worked wonders.
Finally Ellis departed.
I was full of curiosity.

"Well, Poirot," I said. "Well?"

He smiled at my eagerness.

"Nothing more this evening, my friend. To-morrow morning, early, we will
ring up Japp. We will ask him to come round. We will also ring up Mr. Bryan
Martin. I think he will be able to tell us something interesting. Also, I wish to pay

him a debt that I owe him."

"Really?"

I looked at Poirot sideways. He was smiling to himself in a curious way.

"At any rate," I said, "you can't suspect him of killing Lord Edgware.
Especially after what we've heard to-night. That would be playing Jane's game with
a vengeance. To kill off the husband so as to let the lady marry someone else is a

little too disinterested for any man."

"What profound judgment!"

"Now don't be sarcastic," I said with some annoyance. "And what on earth are
you fiddling with all the time?"



	116
	Agatha Christie


	Poirot held the object in question up.

	"With the pince-nez of the good Ellis, my friend. She left them behind."

	"Nonsense, she had them on her nose when she went out."

	He shook his head gently.

	"Wrong! Absolutely wrong! What she had on, my dear Hastings, were the pair

of pince-nez we found in Carlotta Adams' handbag."

	I gasped.


CHAPTER 29
Poirot Speaks


It fell to me to ring up Inspector Japp the following morning.

His voice sounded rather depressed.

"Oh! it's you, Captain Hastings. Well, what's in the wind now?"

I gave him Poirot's message.

"Come round at eleven? Well, I dare say I could. He's not got anything to
help us over young Ross's death, has he? I don't mind confessing that we could do
with something. There's not a clue of any kind. Most mysterious business."

"I think he's got something for you," I said non-committally. "He seems very
pleased with himself at all events."

"That's more than I am, I can tell you. All right, Captain Hastings. I'll be
there."

My next task was to ring up Bryan Martin. To him I said what I had been told
to say: That Poirot had discovered something rather interesting which he thought
Mr. Martin would like to hear. When asked what it was, I said that I had no idea.

Poirot had not confided in me. There was a pause.
"All right," said Bryan at last. "I'll come."
He rang off.

Presently, somewhat to my surprise, Poirot rang up Jenny Driver and asked
her, also, to be present.

He was quiet and rather grave. I asked him no questions.

Bryan Martin was the first to arrive. He looked in good health and spirits,
but---or it might have been my fancy--a shade uneasy. Jenny Driver arrived
almost immediately afterwards. She seemed surprised to see Bryan, and he
seemed to share her surprise.

Poirot brought forward two chairs and urged them to sit down. He glanced at
his watch.

"Inspector Japp will be here in one moment, I expect."

"Inspector Japp?" Bryan seemed startled.

"Yes--I have asked him to come hereinformally--as a friend."

"I see."

He relapsed into silence. Jenny gave a quick glance at him then glanced away.

She seemed rather preoccupied about something this morning.

A moment later, Japp entered the room.

He was, I think, a trifle surprised to find Bryan Martin and Jenny Driver
there, but he made no sign. He greeted Poirot with his usual jocularity.



	Thirteen at Dinner
	117

"Well, M. Poirot, what's it all about? You've got some wonderful theory or
other, I suppose."

Poirot beamed at him.

"No, no--nothing wonderful. Just a little story quite simple--so simple that I
am ashamed not to have seen it at once. I want, if you permit, to take you with me
through the case from the beginning."

Japp sighed and looked at his watch.

"If you won't be more than an hour--" he said.

"Reassure yourself," said Poirot. "It will not take as long as that. See here, you
want to know, do you now, who it was killed Lord Edgware, who it was killed Miss
Adams, who it was killed Donald Ross?"

"I'd like to know the last," said Japp cautiously.

"Listen to me and you shall know everything. See, I am going to be humble."
(Not likely! I thought unbelievingly.) "I am going to show you every step of the
way--I am going to reveal how I was hoodwinked, how I displayed the gross
imbecility, how it needed the conversation of my friend Hastings and a chance
remark by a total stranger to put me on the right track."

He paused and then, clearing his throat, he began to speak in what I called his
"lecture" voice.

"I will begin at the supper party at the Savoy. Lady Edgware accosted me and
asked for a private interview. She wanted to get rid of her husband. At the close of
our interview she saidsomewhat unwisely, I thought--that she might have to go
round in a taxi and kill him herself. Those words were heard by Mr. Bryan Martin,

who came in at that moment."

He wheeled round.

"Eh? That is so, is it not?"

"We all heard," said the actor. "The Widburns, Marsh, Carlotta--all of us." "Oh! I agree. I agree perfectly. Eh bien, I did not have a chance to forget
those words of Lady Edgware's. Mr. Bryan Martin called on me the following

morning for the express purpose of driving those words home."
"Not at all," cried Bryan Martin angrily. "I came"
Poirot held up a hand.

"You came, ostensibly, to tell me a cock-and-bull story about being shadowed.
A tale that a child might have seen through. You probably took it from an out-of-date
film. A girl whose consent you had to obtain--a man whom you recognised by
a gold tooth. Mon ami, no young man would have a gold tooth--it is not done in
these days--and especially in America. The gold tooth it is a hopelessly old-fashioned
piece of dentistry. Oh! it was all of a piece--absurd! Having told your
cock-and-bull story you get down to the real purpose of your visit--to poison my
mind against Lady Edgware. To put it clearly, you prepare the ground for the
moment when she murders her husband."

"I don't know what you're talking about," muttered Bryan Martin. His face
was deathly pale.

"You ridicule the idea that he will agree to a divorce! You think I am going to
see him the following day, but actually the appointment is changed. I go to see him
that morning and he does agree to a divorce. Any motive for a crime on Lady
Edgware's part is gone. Moreover, he tells me that he has already written to Lady
Edgware to that effect.

"But Lady Edgware declares that she never got that letter. Either she lies, her
husband lies, or somebody has suppressed it who?

"Now I ask myself why does M. Bryan Martin give himself the trouble to come



	118
	Agatha Christie
and tell me all these lies? What inner power drives him on? And I form the idea,
Monsieur, that you have been frantically in love with that lady. Lord Edgware says
that his wife told him she wanted to marry an actor. Well, supposing that is so, but
that the lady changes her mind. By the time Lord Edgware's letter agreeing to the
divorce arrives, it is someone else she wants to marry--not you! There would be a
reason, then, for you suppressing that letter."
"I never--"
"Presently you shall say all you want to say. Now you will attend to me.
"What, then, would be your frame of mind--you, a spoilt idol who has never
known a rebuff?. As I see it, a kind of baffled fury, a desire to do Lady Edgware as
much harm as possible. And what greater harm could you do her, than to have her
accusedperhaps hanged for murder."
"Good Lord!" said Japp.
Poirot turned to him.
"But yes, that was the little idea that began to shape itself in my mind. Several
things came to support it. Carlotta Adams had two principal men friends---Captain
Marsh and Bryan Martin. It was possible, then, that Bryan Martin, a rich man, was
the one who suggested the hoax and offered her ten thousand dollars to carry it
through. It has seemed to me unlikely all along that Miss Adams could ever have
believed Ronald Marsh would have the ten thousand dollars to give her. She knew
him to be extremely hard up. Bryan Martin was a far more likely solution."
"I didn't--I tell you I didn't--" came hoarsely from the film actor's lips.
"When the substance of Miss Adams' letter to her sister was wired from
Washington-oh! la, la! I was very upset. It seemed that my reasoning was wholly
wrong. But later I made a discovery. The actual letter itself was sent to me and
instead of being continuous, a sheet of the letter was missing. So 'he' might refer to
someone who was not Captain Marsh.
"There was one more piece of evidence. Captain Marsh, when he was
arrested, distinctly stated that he thought he saw Bryan Martin enter the house.
Coming from an accused man, that carried no weight. Also M. Martin had an alibi.
That naturally! It was to be expected. If M. Martin did the murder, to have an alibi
was absolutely necessary.
"That alibi was vouched for by one person only--Miss Driver."
"What about it?" said the girl sharply.
"Nothing, Mademoiselle," said Poirot, smiling. "Except that the same day I
noticed you lunching with M. Martin and that you presently took the trouble to
come over and try to make me believe that your friend Miss Adams was specially
interested in Ronld Marsh--not, as I was sure was the case--in Bryan Martin."
"Not a bit of it," said the film star stoutly.
"You may have been unaware of it, Monsieur," said Poirot quietly, "but I
think it was true. It explains, as nothing else could, her feeling of dislike towards
Lady Edgware. That dislike was on your behalf. You had told her all about your
rebuff, had you not?"
"Well---yes--I felt I must talk to someone and she "
"Was sympathetic. Yes, she was sympathetic, I noticed it myself. Eh bien, what happens next? Ronald Marsh, he is arrested. Immediately your spirits
improve. Any anxiety you have had is over. Although your plan has miscarried
owing to Lady Edgware's change of mind about going to a party at the last minute,
yet somebody else has become the scapegoat and relieved you of all anxiety on your
own account. And then--at a luncheon party--you hear Donald Ross, that
pleasant, but rather stupid young man, say something to Hastings that seems to
show that you are not so safe after all."


	Thirteen at Dinner
	119


"It isn't true," the actor howled. The perspiration was running down his face.
His eyes looked wild with terror. "I tell you I heard nothing--nothing--I did
nothing."

Then, I think, came the greatest shock of the morning.

"That is quite true," said Poirot quietly. "And I hope you have now been
sufficiently punished for coming to me--me, Hercule Poirot, with a cock-and-bull
story."

We all gasped. Poirot continued dreamily.

"You see--I am showing you all my mistakes. There were five questions I had
asked myself. Hastings knows them. The answer to three of them fitted in very
well. Who had suppressed that letter? Clearly Bryan Martin answered that
question very well. Another question was what had induced Lord Edgware
suddenly to change his mind and agree to a divorce? Well, I had an idea as to that.
Either he wanted to marry again--but I could find no evidence pointing to that--or
else some kind of blackmail was involved. Lord Edgware was a man of peculiar
tastes. It was possible that facts about him had come to light which, while not
entitling his wife to an English divorce, might yet be used by her as a lever coupled
with the threat of publicity. I think that is what happened. Lord Edgware did not
want an open scandal attached to his name. He gave in, though his fury at having to
do so was expressed in the murderous look on his face when he thought himself
unobserved. It also explains the suspicious quickness with which he said, 'Not
because of anything in the letter,' before I had even suggested that that might be
the case.

"Two questions remained. The question of an odd pair of pince-nez in Miss
Adams' bag which did not belong to her. And the question of why Lady Edgware
was rung up on the telephone whilst she was at dinner at Chiswick. In no way
could I fit in M. Bryan Martin with either of those questions.

"So I was forced to the conclusion that either I was wrong about M. Martin, or
wrong about the questions. In despair I once again read that letter of Miss Adams'
through very carefully. And I found something! Yes, I found something!

"See for yourselves. Here it is. You see the sheet is torn? Unevenly, as often
happens. Supposing now that before the 'h' at the top there was an 's' . . .

"Ah! you have it! You see. Not he--but she! It was a woman who suggested
this hoax to Carlotta Adams.

"Well, I made a list of all the women who had been evenly remotely
connected with the case. Beside Jane Wilkinson, there were four--Geraldine
Marsh, Miss Carroll, Miss Driver and the Duchess of Merton.

"Of those four, the one that interested me most was Miss Carroll. She wore
glasses, she was in the house that night, she had already been inaccurate in her
evidence owing to her desire to incriminate Lady Edgware, and she was also a
woman of great efficiency and nerve who could have carried out such a crime. The
motive was more obscurbut after all, she had worked with Lord Edgware some
years and some motive might exist of which we were totally unaware.

"I also felt that I could not quite dismiss Geraldine Marsh from the case. She
hated her father--she had told me so. She was a neurotic, highly-strung type.
Suppose when she went into the house that night she had deliberately stabbed her
father and then coolly proceeded upstairs to fetch the pearls. Imagine her agony
when she found that her cousin whom she loved devotedly had not remained
outside in the taxi but had entered the house!

"Her agitated manner could be well explained on these lines. It.could equally
well be explained by her own innocence, but by her fear that her cousin really had
done the crime. There was another small point. The gold box found in Miss Adams'



	120
	Agatha Christie


bag had the initial D in it. I had heard Geraldine addressed by her cousin as 'Dina.'
Also, she was in a pensionnat in Paris last November and might possibly have met
Carlotta Adams in Paris.

"You may think it fantastic to add the Duchess of Merton to the list. But she
had called upon me and I recognised in her a fanatical type, The love of her whole
life was centred on her son, and she might have worked herself up to contrive a

plot to destroy the woman who was about to ruin her son's life.

"Then there was Miss Jenny Driverm"

He paused, looking at Jenny. She looked back at him, an impudent head on
one side.

"And what have you got on me?" she asked.

"Nothing, Mademoiselle, except that you were a friend of Bryan Martin's--

and that your surname begins with D."

"That's not very much."

"There's one thing more. You have the brains and the nerve to commit such a

crime. I doubt if anyone else had."
The girl lit a cigarette.
"Continue," she said cheerfully.

"Was M. Martin's alibi genuine or was it not? That was what I had to decide. If
it was, who was it Ronald Marsh had seen go into the house? And suddenly I
remembered something. The good-looking butler at Regent Gate bore a very marked resemblance to M. Martin. It was he whom Captain Marsh had seen. And
I formed a theory as to that. It is my idea that he discovered his master killed.
Beside his master was an envelope containing French banknotes to the value of a
hundred pounds. He took these notes, slipped out of the house, left them in safe
keeping with some rascally friend and returned, letting himself in with Lord
Edgware's key. He let the crime be discovered by the housemaid on the following
morning. He felt in no danger himself, as he was quite convinced that Lady
Edgware had done the murder, and the notes were out of the house and already
changed before their loss was noticed. However, when Lady Edgware had an alibi
and Scotland Yard began investigating his antecedents, he got the wind up and
decamped."

Japp nodded approvingly.

"I still have the question of the pince-nez to settle. If Miss Carroll was the
owner then the case seemed settled. She could have suppressed the letter, and in
arranging details with Carlotta Adams, or in meeting her on the evening of the
murder, the pince-nez might have inadvertently found their way into Carlotta
Adams' bag.

"But the pince-nez were apparently nothing to do with Miss Carroll. I was
walking home with Hastings here, somewhat depressed, trying to arrange things in
my mind with order and method. And then the miracle happened!

"First Hastings spoke of things in a certain order. He mentioned Donald Ross
having been one of thirteen at table at Sir Montagu Corner's and having been the
first to get up. I was following out a train of thought of my own and did not pay
much attention. It just flashed through my mind that, strictly speaking, that was
not true. He may have got up first at the end of the dinner, but actually Lady
Edgware had been the first to get up since she was called to the telephone.
Thinking of her, a certain riddle occurred to me--a riddle that I fancied accorded
well with her somewhat childish mentality. I told it to Hastings. He was, like
Queen Victoria, not amused. I next fell to wondering who I could ask for details
about M. Martin's feeling for Jane Wilkinson. She herself would not tell me, I



Thirteen at Dinner 121 knew. And then a passer by, as we were all crossing the road, uttered a simple
sentence.
"He said to his girl companion that somebody or other 'should have asked
Ellis.' And immediately the whole thing came to me in a flash!"
He looked round.
"Yes, yes, the pince-nez, the telephone call, the short woman who called for
the gold box in Paris. Ellis, of course, Jane Wilkinson's maid. I followed every step
of it--the candles--the dim light--Mrs. Van Dusen cverything. I knew!"

CHAPTER 30
The Story

He looked round at Us.
"Come, my friends," he said gently. "Let me tell you the real story of what
happened that night.
"Carlotta Adams leaves her flat at seven o'clock. From there she takes a taxi
and goes to the Piccadilly Palace."
"What?" I exclaimed.
"To the Piccadilly Palace. Earlier in the day she has taken a room there as
Mrs. Van Dusen. She wears a pair of strong glasses which, as we all know, alters
the appearance very much. As I say, she books a room, saying that she is going by
the night boat train to Liverpool and that her luggage has gone on. At eight-thirty
Lady Edgware arrives and asks for her. She is shown up to her room. There they
change clothes. Dressed in a fair wig, a white taffeta dress and ermine wrap, Carlotta Adams and not lane Wilkinson leaves the hotel and drives to Chiswick. Yes, yes, it is perfectly possible. I have been to the house in the evening. The
dinner table is lit only with candles, the lamps are dim, no one there knows Jane
Wilkinson very well. There is the golden hair, the well-known husky voice and
manner. Oh! it was quite easy. And if it had not been successful--ff someone had
spotted the fake--well, that was all arranged for, too. Lady Edgware, wearing a
dark wig, Carlotta's clothes and the pince-nez, pays her bill, has her suitcase put on
a taxi and drives to Euston. She removes the dark wig in the lavatory, she puts her
suitcase in the cloakroom. Before going to Regent Gate shb rings up Chiswiek and asks to speak to Lady Edgware. This has been arranged between them. If all has
gone well and Carlotta has not been spotted, She is to answer simply--'that's right.'
I need hardly say Miss Adams was ignorant of the real reason for the telephone call.
She goes to Regent Gate, asks for Lord Edgware, proclaims her individuality, and
goes into the library. And commits thefirst murder. Of course, she did not know
that Miss Carroll was watching her from above. As far as she is aware it will be the
butler's word (and he has never seen her, remember--and also she wears a hat
which shields her from his gaze) against the word of twelve well-known and
distinguished people.
"She leaves the house, returns to Euston, changes from fair to dark again and
picks up her suitcase. She has nowto put in time till Carlotta Adams returns from
Chiswick, They have agreed as to the approximate time. She goes to the Corner
House, occasionally glancing at her watch, for th ti ......... I .... I,. 'rkA-A.-


	122
	Agatha Christie


prepares for the second murder. She puts the small gold box she has ordered from
Paris in Carlotta Adams' bag which, of course, she is carrying. Perhaps it is then
she finds the letter. Perhaps it was earlier. Anyway, as soon as she sees the
address, she scents danger. She opens it--her suspicions are justified.

"Perhaps her first impulse is to destroy the letter altogether. But she soon sees
a better way. By removing one page of the letter it reads like an accusation of
Ronald Marsh a man who had a powerful motive for the crime. Even if Ronald
has an alibi, it will still read as an accusation of a man so long as she tears offthe s of
'she.' So that is what she does, then replaces it in the envelope and the envelope
back in the bag.

"Then, the time having come, she walks in the direction of the Savoy Hotel.
As soon as she sees the car pass, with (presumably) herself inside, she quickens her
pace, enters at the same time and goes straight up the stairs. She is inconspicuously
dressed in black. It is unlikely that anyone will notice her.

"Upstairs she goes to her room. Carlotta Adams has just reached it. The maid
has been told to go to bed--a perfectly usual proceeding. They again change
clothes and then, I fancy, Lady Edgware suggests a little drinkto celebrate. In
that drink is the veronal. She congratulates her victim, says she will send her the
cheque to-morrow. Carlotta Adams goes home. She is very sleepy--tries to ring up
a friend--possibly M. Martin or Captain Marsh, for both have Victoria numbers--but
gives it up. She is too tired. The veronai is beginning to work. She goes to bed -and she never wakes again. The second crime has been carried through
successfully.

"Now for the third crime. It is at a luncheon party. Sir Montagu Corner makes
a reference to a conversation he had with Lady Edgware on the night of the
murder. That is easy. She has only to murmur some flattering phrase. But Nemesis
comes upon her later. There is a mention of the 'judgment of Paris,' and she takes
Paris to be the only Paris she knows--the Paris of fashions and frills!

"But opposite her is sitting a young man who was at that dinner at Chiswick--a
young man who heard the Lady Edgware of that night discussing Homer and
Greek civilisation generally. Carlotta Adams was a cultured well-read girl. He
cannot understand. He stares. And suddenly it comes to him. This is not the same
woman. He is terribly upset. He is not sure of himself. He must have advice. He
thinks of me. He speaks to Hastings.

"But the lady overheard him. She is quick enough and shrewd enough to
realise that in some way or other she has given herself away. She hears Hastings
say that I will not be in till five. At twenty to five she goes to Ross's maisonette. He
opens the door, is very surprised to see her, but it does not occur to him to be
afraid. A strong able-bodied young man is not afraid of a woman. He goes with her
into the dining-room. She pours out some story to him. Perhaps she goes on her
knees and flings her arms round his neck. And then, swift and sure, she strikes--as

before. Perhaps he gives a choked cry--no more. He, too, is silenced."
There was a silence. Then Japp spoke hoarsely.
"You mean--she did it all the time?"
Poirot bowed his head.

"But why, if he was willing to give her a divorce?"

"Because the Duke of Merton is a pillar of the Anglo-Catholics. Because he
would not dream of marrying a woman whose husband was alive. He is a young
man of fanatical principles. As a widow, she was pretty certain to be able to marry
him. Doubtless she had tentatively suggested divorce, but he had not risen to the
bait."



	Thirteen at Dinner
	123
	"Then why send you to Lord Edgware?"
"Ah! parbleu." Poirot, from having been very correct and English, suddenly
relapsed into his native self. "To pull cotton-wool over my eyes! To make me a
witness to the fact that there was no motive for the murder! Yes, she dared to make
me, Hercule Poirot, her catspaw! Ma foi, she succeeded, too! Oh! that strange
brain, childlike and cunning. She can act! How well she acted surprise at being told
of the letter her husband had written her which she swore she had never received.
Did she feel the slightest pang of remorse for any of her three crimes? I can swear
she did not."
"I told you what she was like," cried Bryan Martin. "I told you. I knew she
was going to kill him. I felt it. And I was afraid that somehow she'd get away with
it. She's clever--devilish clever in a kind of half-wit way. And I wanted her to
suffer. I wanted her to suffer. I wanted her to hang for it."
His face was scarlet. His voice came thickly.
"Now, now," said Jenny Driver.
She spoke exactly as I have heard nursemaids speak to a small child in the
park.
"And the gold box with the initial D, and Paris November inside?" said Japp. "She ordered that by letter and sent Ellis, her maid, to fetch it. She had no
idea what was inside. Also, Lady Edgware borrowed a pair of Ellis's pince-nez to
help in the Van Dusen impersonation. She forgot about them and left them in
Carlotta Adams' handbag--her one mistake.
"Oh! it came to meit all came to me as I stood in the middle of the road. It
was not polite what the 'bus driver said to me, but it was worth it. Ellis! Ellis's
pince-nez. Ellis calling for the box in Paris. Ellis and therefore Jane Wilkinson.
Very possibly she borrowed something else from Ellis besides des pincenez."
	"What?"
	"A corn knife 	"
	I
shivered.
	There
was a momentary silence.
	Then
Japp said with a strange reliance in the answer:
	"M. Poirot. Is this true?"
	"It is true, mon ami."
	Then
Bryan Martin spoke, and his words were, I thought, very typical of him,
	"But
look here," he said peevishly. "What about me? Why bring me here today?
Why
nearly frighten me to death?"
	Poirot looked
at him coldly.
"To punish
you, Monsieur, for being impertinent! How dare you try and make the games
with Hercule Poirot?"
	And then
Jenny Driver laughed, She latghed and laughed.

	"Serves you right, Bryan," she said at last.

	She turned to Poirot.
"I'm glad as I can be that it wasn't Ronnie Marsh," she said. "I've always liked
him. And I'm glad, glad, glad that Carlotta's death won't go unpunished! As for
Bryan here, well, I'll tell you something, M. Poirot. I'm going to marry him. And if
he thinks he can get divorced and married every two or three years in the approved
Hollywood fashion, well, he never made a bigger mistake in his life. He's going to marry me and stick to me."
Poirot looked at her--looked at her determined chin--and at her flaming hair.
"It is very possible, Mademoiselle,' he said, "that that may be so. I said that
you had sufficient nerve for anything. Even to marry a film 'star.'"


	124
	Agatha Christie


CHAPTER 31

A Human Document


A day or two after that I was suddenly recalled to the Argentine. So it happened
that I never saw Jane Wilkinson again and only read in the paper of her trial and
condemnation. Unexpectedly, at least unexpectedly to me, she went completely to
pieces when charged with the truth. So long as she was able to be proud of her
cleverness and act her part she made no mistakes, but once her self-confidence
failed her, owing to someone having found her out, she was as incapable as a child
would be of keeping up a deception. Cross-examined, she went completely to
pieces.

So, as I said before, that luncheon party was the last time I saw Jane
Wilkinson. But when I think of her, I always see her the same way--standing in
her room at the Savoy trying on expensive black clothes with a serious absorbed
face. I am convinced that that was no pose. She was being completely natural. Her
plan had succeeded and therefore she had no further qualms and doubts. Neither
do I think that she ever suffered one pang of remorse for the three crimes she had
committed.

I reproduce here a document which she had directed was to be sent to Poirot
after her death. It is, I think, typical of that very lovely and completely
conscienceless lady.


"DEAR M. POIROT,--I have been thinking things over and I feel
that I should like to write this for you. I know that you sometimes
publish reports of your cases. I don't really think that you've ever
published a document by the person themselves. I feel, too, that
I would like everyone to know just exactly how I did it all. I still
think it was all very well planned. If it hadn't been for you
everything would have been quite all right. I've felt rather bitter
about that, but I suppose you couldn't help it. I'm sure, if I send
you this, you'll give it plenty of prominence. You will, won't you?
I should like to be remembered. And I do think I am really a
unique person. Everybody here seems to think so.

"It began in America when I got to know Merton, I saw at
once that if only I were a widow he would marry me. Unfortunately,
he has got a queer sort of prejudice against divorce. I
tried to overcome it but it was no good, and I had to be careful, because he was a very kinky sort of person.

"I soon realised that my husband simply had got to die, but I
didn't know how to set about it. You can manage things like that
ever so much better in the States. I thought and I thought but I
couldn't see how to arrange it. And then, suddenly, I saw
Carlotta Adams do her imitation of me and at once I began to see
a way. With her help I could get an alibi. That same evening I
saw you, and it suddenly struck me that it would be a good idea



Thirteen at Dinner

to send you to my husband to ask him for a divorce. At the same
time I would go about talking of killing my husband, because I've
always noticed that if you speak the truth in a rather silly way
nobody believes you. I've often done it over contracts. And it's
also a good thing to seem stupider than you are. At my second
meeting with Carlotta Adams I broached the idea. I said it was a
bet--and she fell for it at once. She was to pretend to be me at
some party and if she got away with it she was to have ten
thousand dollars. She was very enthusiastic and several of the
ideas were hers--about changing clothes and all that. You see,
we couldn't do it here because of Ellis and we couldn't do it at
her place because of her maid. She, of course, didn't see why we
couldn't. It was a little awkward. I just said 'No.' She thought me
a little stupid about it, but she gave in and we thought of the
hotel plan. I took a pair of Ellis's pincenez.
"Of course I realised quite soon that she would have to be
got out of the way too. It was a pity, but after all those imitations
of hers really were very impertinent. If mine hadn't happened to
suit me I'd have been angry about it. I had some veronal myself,
though I hardly ever take it, so that was quite easy. And then I
had quite a brainwave. You see, it would be so much better if it
could seem that she was in the habit of taking it. I ordered a
box--the duplicate of one I'd been given and I had her initials
put on it and an inscription inside. I thought if I put some odd
initial and Paris, November, inside it, it would make it all much
more difficult. I wrote for the box from the Ritz when I was in
there lunching one day. And I sent Ellis over to fetch it. She
didn't know what it was, of course.
"Everything went off quite well on the night. I took one of
Ellis's corn knives, while she was over in Paris, because it was
nice and sharp. She never noticed because I put it back
afterwards. It was a doctor in San Francisco who showed me just
where to stick it in. He'd been talking about lumbar and cistern
punctures, and he said one had to be very careful, otherwise one
went through the cistertia magna and into the medulla oblongata
where all the vital nerve centres are, and that that would cause
immediate death. I made him show me the exact place several
times. I thought it might perhaps come in useful one day. I told
him I wanted to use the idea in a film.
"It was very dishonourable of Carlotta Adams to write to her
sister. She'd promised me to tell nobody. I do think it was clever
of me to see what a good thing it would be to tear off that one
page and leave he instead of she. I thought of that all by myself. I
think I'm more proud of that than anything else. Everyone
always says I haven't got brains---but I think it needed real brains
to think of that.
"I'd thought things out vei'y carefully and I did exactly what
I'd planned when the Scotland Yard man came. I rather enjoyed
that part of it. I had thought, perhaps, that he'd really arrest me.
I felt quite safe, because they'd have to believe all those people
at the dinner and I didn't see how they could find out about me
and Carlotta changing clothes.

125


126


Agatha Christie


"After that I felt so happy and contented. My luck had held
and I really felt everything was going to go right. The old
Duchess was beastly to me, but Merton was sweet. He wanted to
marry me as soon as possible and hadn't the least suspicion.

"I don't think I've ever been so happy as I was those few
weeks. My husband's nephew being arrested made me feel just
as safe as anything. And I was more proud of myself than ever for
having thought of tearing that page out of Carlotta Adams' letter.

"The Donald Ross business was just sheer bad luck. I'm not
quite sure now just how it was he spotted me. Something about
Paris being a person and not a place. Even now I don't know who
Paris was--and I think it's a silly name for a man anyway.

"It's curious how, when luck starts going against you, it
keeps on going. I had to do something about Donald Ross
quickly, and that did go all right. It mightn't have because I
hadn't time to be clever or think of making an alibi. I did think I
was safe after that.

"Of course Ellis told me you had sent for her and questioned
her, but I gathered it was all something to do with Bryan Martin.
I couldn't think what you were driving at. You didn't ask her
whether she had called for the parcel in Paris. I suppose you
thought if she repeated that to me I should smell a rat. As it was,
it came as a complete surprise. I couldn't believe it. It was just
uncanny the way you seemed to know everything I'd done.

"I just felt it was no good. You can't fight against luck. It was bad luck, wasn't it? I wonder if you are ever sorry for what you
did. After all, I only wanted to be happy in my own way. And if it
hadn't been for me you would never have had anything to do
with the case. I never thought you'd be so horribly clever. You
didn't look clever.

"It's funny, but I haven't lost my looks a bit. In spite of all
that dreadful trial and the horrid things that man on the other
side said to me, and the way he battered me with questions.

"I look much paler and thinner, but it suits me somehow.
They all say I'm wonderfully brave. They don't hang you in
public any more, do they? I think that's a pity.

"I'm sure there's never been a murderess like me before. "I suppose I must say good-bye now. It's very queer. I don't
seem to realise things a bit. I'm going to see the chaplain tomorrow.

"Yours forgivingly (because I must forgive my enemies,
mustn't I?),

"JANE WILKINSON.

"P.S.--Do you think they will put me in Madame
Tussauds?"

