Agatha Christie - Black Coffee

Richard looked astonished. "What do you mean?"

"No, sir," Japp continued. "Or, to put it differently, that cat won't jump. You're very set on your good lady, I realize. Newly married and all that. But, to speak plainly to you, it's no manner of use putting your neck in a halter for the sake of a bad woman. Though she's a good-looker, and no mistake, I'll admit."

"Inspector Japp!" exclaimed Richard angrily.

"There's no point in getting upset with me, sir," Japp continued imperturbably. "I've told you the plain truth without beating about the bush, and I've no doubt that Monsieur Poirot here will tell you the same. I'm sorry, sir, but duty is duty, and murder is murder. That's all there is to it." Japp nodded decisively and left the room.

Turning to Poirot, who had been observing the scene from the settee, Richard asked coldly, "Well, are you going to tell me the same, Monsieur Poirot?"

Rising, Poirot took a cigarette-case from his pocket and extracted a cigarette. Instead of answering Richard's question, he posed one of his own. "Monsieur Amory, when did you first suspect your wife?" he asked.

"I never -" Richard began, but Poirot interrupted him, picking up a box of matches from the table as he spoke.

"Please, I beg of you, Monsieur Amory, nothing but the truth! You did suspect her, I know it. You suspected her before I arrived. That is why you were so anxious to get me away from this house. Do not deny it. It is impossible to deceive Hercule Poirot." He lit his cigarette, replaced the box of matches on the table, and smiled up at the much taller man, who towered over him. They made a ridiculous contrast.

"You are mistaken," Richard told Poirot stiffly. "Utterly mistaken. How could I suspect Lucia?"

"And yet, of course, there is an equally good case to be made against you," Poirot continued reflectively, as he resumed his seat. "You handled the drugs, you handled the coffee, you were short of money and desperate to acquire some. Oh, yes, anyone might be excused for suspecting you."

"Inspector Japp doesn't seem to agree with you," Richard observed.

"Ah, Japp! He has the common sense," Poirot smiled. "He is not a woman in love."

"A woman in love?" Richard sounded puzzled.

"Let me give you a lesson in psychology, monsieur," Poirot offered. "When I first arrived, your wife came up to me and begged me to stay here and discover the murderer. Would a guilty woman have done that?"

"You mean -" Richard began quickly.

"I mean," Poirot interrupted him, "that before the sun sets tonight, you will be asking her pardon upon your knees."

"What are you saying?"

"I am saying too much, perhaps," Poirot admitted, rising. "Now, monsieur, place yourself in my hands. In the hands of Hercule Poirot."

"You can save her?" Richard asked with desperation in his voice.

Poirot regarded him solemnly. "I have pledged my word – although, when I did so, I did not realize how difficult it was going to be. You see, the time it is very short, and something must be done quickly. You must promise me that you will do exactly as I tell you, without asking questions or making difficulties. Do you promise me that?"

"Very well," replied Richard rather unwillingly.

"That is good. And now, listen to me. What I suggest is neither difficult nor impossible. It is, in fact, the common sense. This house will shortly be given over to the police. They will swarm all over it. They will make their investigations everywhere. For yourself and your family it could be very unpleasant. I suggest that you leave."

"Give the house over to the police?" Richard asked, incredulous.

"That is my suggestion," Poirot repeated. "Of course, you will have to remain in the neighbourhood. But they say the local hotel is fairly comfortable. Engage rooms there. Then you will be close at hand when the police wish to question you all."

"But when do you suggest that this should take place?"

Poirot beamed at him. "My idea was – immediately."

"Surely it will all look very odd?"

"Not at all, not at all," the little detective assured Richard, smiling again. "It will appear to be a move of the utmost – how do you say? – the utmost sensitivity. The associations here are hateful to you – you cannot bear to remain another hour. I assure you, it will sound very well."

"But how about the Inspector?"

"I myself will fix it up with Inspector Japp."

"I still can't see what good this is going to achieve," Richard persisted.

"No, of course you do not see." Poirot sounded more than a trifle smug. He shrugged his shoulders. "It is not necessary that you should see. But I see. I, Hercule Poirot. That is enough." He took Richard by the shoulders. "Go, and make the arrangements. Or, if you cannot give your mind to it, let Raynor make them for you. Go! Go!" He almost pushed Richard to the door.

With a final anxious look back at Poirot, Richard left the room.

"Oh, these English! How obstinate," muttered Poirot. He moved to the French windows and called, "Mademoiselle Barbara!"

In answer to Poirot's call, Barbara Amory appeared outside the French windows. "What is it? Has something else happened?" she asked.

Poirot gave her his most winning smile. "Ah, mademoiselle," he said. "I wonder if you might be able to spare my colleague Hastings for just a little minute or two, perhaps?"

Barbara's reply was accompanied by a skittish glance. "So! You want to take my little pet away from me, do you?"

"Just for a very short time, mademoiselle, I promise you."

"Then you shall, Monsieur Poirot." Turning back into the garden, Barbara called, "My pet, you're wanted."

"I thank you," Poirot smiled again with a polite bow.

Barbara returned to the garden, and a few moments later Hastings entered the library through the French windows, looking somewhat ashamed.

"And what have you to say for yourself?" Poirot asked in a tone of mock annoyance.

Hastings attempted an apologetic smile. "It is all well to put on the grin of the sheep," Poirot admonished him. "I leave you here on guard, and the next thing I know you are promenading yourself with that very charming young lady in the garden. You are generally the most reliable of men, mon cher, but as soon as a pretty young woman appears upon the scene, your judgement flies out of the window. Alors!"

Hastings 's sheepish grin faded, to be replaced by a blush of embarrassment. "I say, I'm awfully sorry, Poirot," he exclaimed. "I just stepped outside for a second, and then I saw you through the window, coming into the room, so. I thought it didn't matter."

"You mean you thought it better not to return to face me," declared Poirot. "Well, my dear Hastings, you may have done the most irreparable damage. I found Carelli in here. The good Lord alone knows what he was doing, or what evidence he was tampering with."

"I say, Poirot, I really am sorry," Hastings apologized again. "I'm most awfully sorry."

"If you have not done the damage irreparable, it is more by good luck than for any other reason. But now, mon ami, the moment has come when we must employ our little grey cells." Pretending to smack Hastings on the cheek, Poirot in fact gave his colleague an affectionate pat.

"Ah, good! Let's get to work," Hastings exclaimed.

"No, it is not good, my friend," Poirot told him. "It is bad. It is obscure." His face wore a troubled look as he continued, "It is dark, as dark as it was last night." He thought for a moment, and then added, "But – yes – I think there is perhaps an idea. The germ of an idea. Yes, we will start there!"

Looking completely mystified, Hastings asked, "What on earth are you talking about?"

The tone of Poirot's voice changed. He spoke gravely and thoughtfully. "Why did Sir Claud die, Hastings? Answer me that. Why did Sir Claud die?"