Part 12 (1/2)
”So you, Mademoiselle, being wise and discreet, came along to me as you were bidden, and have managed to put me au courant of the situation.”
Something in the tone of his voice made the girl look up sharply.
”Of course, I know,” said Lily apologetically, ”how very valuable your time is.”
”You are too flattering, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, ”but indeed - yes, it is true, at this present time I have many cases of moment on hand.”
”I was afraid that might be so,” said Lily, rising. ”I will tell Lady Astwell -”
But Poirot did not rise also. Instead he lay back in his chair and looked steadily up at the girl.
”You are in haste to be gone, Mademoiselle? Sit down one more little moment, I pray of you.”
He saw the color flood into her face and ebb out again. She sat down once more slowly and unwillingly.
”Mademoiselle is quick and decisive,” said Poirot. ”She must make allowances for an old man like myself, who comes to his decisions slowly. You mistook me, Mademoiselle. I did not say that I would not go down to Lady Astwell.”
”You will come, then?”
The girl's tone was flat. She did not look at Poirot, but down at the ground, and so was unaware of the keen scrutiny with which he regarded her.
”Tell Lady Astwell, Mademoiselle, that I am entirely at her service. I will be at - Mon Repos, is it not? - this afternoon.”
He rose. The girl followed suit.
”I - I will tell her. It is very good of you to come, M. Poirot. I am afraid, though, you will find you have been brought on a wild goose chase.”
”Very likely, but - who knows?”
He saw her out with punctilious courtesy to the door. Then he returned to the sitting-room, frowning, deep in thought. Once or twice he nodded his head, then he opened the door and called to his valet.
”My good George, prepare me, I pray of you, a little valise. I go down to the country this afternoon.”
”Very good, sir,” said George.
He was an extremely English-looking person. Tall, cadaverous and unemotional.
”A young girl is a very interesting phenomenon, George,” said Poirot, as he dropped once more into his armchair and lighted a tiny cigarette. ”Especially, you understand, when she has brains. To ask someone to do a thing and at the same time to put them against doing it, that is a delicate operation. It requires finesse. She was very adroit - oh, very adroit - but Hercule Poirot, my good George, is of a cleverness quite exceptional.”
”I have heard you say so, sir.”
”It is not the secretary she has in mind,” mused Poirot. ”Lady Astwell's accusation of him she treats with contempt. Just the same she is anxious that no one should disturb the sleeping dogs. I, my good George, I go to disturb them, I go to make the dogs fight! There is a drama there, at Mon Repos. A human drama, and it excites me. She was adroit, the little one, but not adroit enough. I wonder - I wonder what I shall find there?”
Into the dramatic pause which succeeded these words George's voice broke apologetically: ”Shall I pack dress clothes, sir?”
Poirot looked at him sadly.
”Always the concentration, the attention to your own job. You are very good for me, George.”
When the 4:55 drew up at Abbots Cross station, there descended from it M. Hercule Poirot, very neatly and foppishly attired, his mustaches waxed to a stiff point. He gave up his ticket, pa.s.sed through the barrier, and was accosted by a tall chauffeur.
”Mr Poirot?”
The little man beamed upon him.
”That is my name.”
”This way, sir, if you please.”
He held open the door of the big Rolls Royce limousine.
The house was a bare three minutes from the station.
The chauffeur descended once more and opened the door of the car, and Poirot stepped out. The butler was already holding the front door open.
Poirot gave the outside of the house a swift appraising glance before pa.s.sing through the open door. It was a big, solidly built red brick mansion, with no pretensions to beauty, but with an air of solid comfort.
Poirot stepped into the hall. The butler relieved him deftly of his hat and overcoat, then murmured with that deferential undertone only to be achieved by the best servants: ”Her Ladys.h.i.+p is expecting you, sir.”
Poirot followed the butler up the soft carpeted stairs. This, without doubt, was Parsons, a very well-trained servant, with a manner suitably devoid of emotion. At the top of the staircase he turned to the right along a corridor. He pa.s.sed through a door into a little anteroom, from which two more doors led. He threw open the lefthand one of these, and announced: ”M. Poirot, m'lady.”
The room was not a very large one, and it was crowded with furniture and knickknacks. A woman, dressed in black, got up from a sofa and came quickly toward Poirot.
”M. Poirot,” she said with outstretched hand. Her eye ran rapidly over the dandified figure. She paused a minute, ignoring the little man's bow over her hand, and his murmured ”My Lady,” and then, releasing his hand after a sudden vigorous pressure, she exclaimed: ”I believe in small men! They are the clever ones.”
”Inspector Miller,” murmured Poirot, ”is, I think, a tall man?”
”He is a b.u.mptious idiot,” said Lady Astwell. ”Sit down here by me, will you, M. Poirot?”
She indicated the sofa and went on: ”Lily did her best to put me off sending for you, but I have not come to my time of life without knowing my own mind.”
”A rare accomplishment,” said Poirot, as he followed her to the settee.
Lady Astwell settled herself comfortably among the cus.h.i.+ons and turned so as to face him.
”Lily is a dear girl,” said Lady Astwell, ”but she thinks she knows everything, and as often as not in my experience those sort of people are wrong. I am not clever, M. Poirot, I never have been, but I am right where many a more stupid person is wrong. I believe in guidance. Now do you want me to tell you who is the murderer, or do you not? A woman knows, M. Poirot.”
”Does Miss Margrave know?”
”What did she tell you?” asked Lady Astwell sharply.
”She gave me the facts of the case.”
”The facts? Oh, of course they are dead against Charles, but I tell you, M. Poirot, he didn't do it. I know he didn't!”
She bent upon him an earnestness that was almost disconcerting.
”You are very positive, Lady Astwell?”
”Trefusis killed my husband, M. Poirot. I am sure of it.”