Lord Edgware Dies

‘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 other mentions of Paris have we in co

He sat down again, his brows drawn together. I could almost feel the waves of his furious concentration of thought.

‘What happened at that luncheon?’ he murmured. ‘Some casual word or phrase must have shown to Donald Ross the significance of 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 co

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 were – where?’

‘I’m not sure. I think he was looking up 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 Duc. It is possible that he was looking at M. le Duc 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 Duc 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 scrutinize his alibi too carefully. And yet to fake an alibi in a big hotel is not so difficult. To go across by the afternoon service – to 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 ma

‘That absolutely describes it.’ 

‘Precisement. 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 goodbye 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 know that now, at this moment, he was at war with himself.

‘At any rate,’ I said, ‘this murder ca

‘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 ca

‘I seem to remember dimly something of the sort.’ 

‘They were: Why did Lord Edgware change his mind on the subject 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 on his face when we left his house that day? What were a pair of pince-nez doing in 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 ca

‘You see what that means. Either I am wrong as to the person, and it ca

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 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. But now – now – we shall get on!’

Chapter 27. Concerning Pince-Nez

A minute later his mood had changed. He sprang to his feet.

I also sprang to mine – completely 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 knees 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 Carroll, 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.’