Part 19 (1/2)
”Yes.”
”And you didn't see him again?”
”No.”
She was stirring now, throwing herself about, moaning faintly.
”She is coming out,” said the doctor. ”Well, I think we have got all we can, eh?”
Poirot nodded. The doctor leaned over Lady Astwell.
”You are waking,” he murmured softly. ”You are waking now. In another minute you will open your eyes.”
The two men waited, and presently Lady Astwell sat upright and stared at them both.
”Have I been having a nap?”
”That's it, Lady Astwell, just a little sleep,” said the doctor.
She looked at him.
”Some of your hocus-pocus, eh?”
”You don't feel any the worse, I hope?” he asked.
Lady Astwell yawned.
”I feel rather tired and done up.”
The doctor rose.
”I will ask them to send you up some coffee,” he said, ”and we will leave you for the present.”
”Did I - say anything?” Lady Astwell called after them as they reached the door.
Poirot smiled back at her.
”Nothing of great importance, Madame. You informed us that the drawing-room covers needed cleaning.”
”So they do,” said Lady Astwell. ”You needn't have put me into a trance to get me to tell you that.” She laughed good-humoredly. ”Anything more?”
”Do you remember M. Trefusis picking up a paper-knife in the drawing-room that night?” asked Poirot.
”I don't know, I'm sure,” said Lady Astwell. ”He may have done so.”
”Does a bulge in the curtain convey anything to you?”
Lady Astwell frowned.
”I seem to remember,” she said slowly. ”No - it's gone, and yet -”
”Do not distress yourself, Lady Astwell,” said Poirot quickly, ”it is of no importance - of no importance whatever.”
The doctor went with Poirot to the latter's room.
”Well,” said Cazalet, ”I think this explains things pretty clearly. No doubt when Sir Reuben was dressing down the secretary, the latter grabbed tight hold on a paper-knife, and had to exercise a good deal of self-control to prevent himself answering back. Lady Astwell's conscious mind was wholly taken up with the problem of Lily Margrave, but her subconscious mind noticed and misconstrued the action.
”It implanted in her the firm conviction that Trefusis murdered Sir Reuben. Now we come to the bulge in the curtain. That is interesting. I take it from what you have told me of the Tower room that the desk was right in the window. There are curtains across that window, of course?”
”Yes, mon ami, black velvet curtains.”
”And there is room in the embrasure of the window for anyone to remain concealed behind them?”
”There would be just room, I think.”
”Then there seems at least a possibility,” said the doctor slowly, ”that someone was concealed in the room, but if so it could not be the secretary, since they both saw him leave the room. It could not be Victor Astwell, for Trefusis met him going out, and it could not be Lily Margrave. Whoever it was must have been concealed there before Sir Reuben entered the room that evening. You have told me pretty well how the land lies. Now what about Captain Naylor? Could it have been he who was concealed there?”
”It is always possible,” admitted Poirot. ”He certainly dined at the hotel, but how soon he went out afterward is difficult to fix exactly. He returned about half-past twelve.”
”Then it might have been he,” said the doctor, ”and if so, he committed the crime. He had the motive, and there was a weapon near at hand. You don't seem satisfied with the idea, though?”
”Me, I have other ideas,” confessed Poirot. ”Tell me now, M. le Docteur, supposing for one minute that Lady Astwell herself had committed this crime, would she necessarily betray the fact in the hypnotic state?”
The doctor whistled.
”So that's what you are getting at? Lady Astwell is the criminal, eh? Of course - it is possible; I never thought of it till this minute. She was the last to be with him, and no one saw him alive afterward. As to your question: I should be inclined to say - No. Lady Astwell would go into the hypnotic state with a strong mental reservation to say nothing of her own part in the crime. She would answer my questions truthfully, but she would be dumb on that one point. Yet I should hardly have expected her to be so insistent on Mr Trefusis's guilt.”
”I comprehend,” said Poirot. ”But I have not said that I believe Lady Astwell to be the criminal. It is a suggestion, that is all.”
”It is an interesting case,” said the doctor after a minute or two. ”Granting Charles Leverson is innocent, there are so many possibilities, Humphrey Naylor, Lady Astwell, and even Lily, Margrave.”
”There is another you have not mentioned,” said Poirot quietly, ”Victor Astwell. According to his own story, he sat in his room with the door open waiting for Charles Leverson's return, but we have only his own word for it, you comprehend?”
”He is the bad-tempered fellow, isn't he?” asked the doctor. ”The one you told me about?”
”That is so,” agreed Poirot.
The doctor rose to his feet.
”Well, I must be getting back to town. You will let me know how things shape, won't you?”
After the doctor had left, Poirot pulled the bell for George.
”A cup of tisane, George. My nerves are much disturbed.”
”Certainly, sir,” said George. ”I will prepare it immediately.”
Ten minutes later he brought a steaming cup to his master. Poirot inhaled the noxious fumes with pleasure. As he sipped it, he soliloquized aloud.
”The chase is different all over the world. To catch the fox you ride hard with the dogs. You shout, you run, it is a matter of speed. I have not shot the stag myself, but I understand that to do so you crawl for many long, long hours upon your stomach. My friend Hastings has recounted the affair to me. Our method here, my good George, must be neither of these. Let us reflect upon the household cat. For many long, weary hours, he watches the mouse hole, he makes no movement, he betrays no energy, but - he does not go away.”