Part 20 (1/2)
”And what is that, sir?”
”Today, George, I make a final thorough search of the Tower room.”
True enough, after breakfast, Poirot, with the permission of Lady Astwell, went to the scene of the crime. There, at various times of the morning, members of the household saw him crawling about on all fours, examining minutely the black velvet curtains and standing on high chairs to examine the picture frames on the wall. Lady Astwell for the first time displayed uneasiness.
”I have to admit it,” she said. ”He is getting on my nerves at last. He has something up his sleeve, and I don't know what it is. And the way he is crawling about on the floor up there like a dog makes me downright s.h.i.+very. What is he looking for, I'd like to know? Lily, my dear, I wish you would go up and see what he is up to now. No, on the whole, I'd rather you stayed with me.”
”Shall I go, Lady Astwell?” asked the secretary, rising from the desk.
”If you would, Mr Trefusis.”
Owen Trefusis left the room and mounted the stairs to the Tower room. At first glance, he thought the room was empty, there was certainly no sign of Hercule Poirot there. He was just turning to go down again when a sound caught his ears; he then saw the little man halfway down the spiral staircase that led to the bedroom above.
He was on his hands and knees; in his left hand was a little pocket lens, and through this he was examining minutely something on the woodwork beside the stair carpet.
As the secretary watched him, he uttered a sudden grunt, and slipped the lens into his pocket. He then rose to his feet, holding something between his finger and thumb. At that moment he became aware of the secretary's presence.
”Ah, hah! M. Trefusis, I didn't hear you enter.”
He was in that moment a different man. Triumph and exultation beamed all over his face. Trefusis stared at him in surprise.
”What is the matter, M. Poirot? You look very pleased.”
The little man puffed out his chest.
”Yes, indeed. See you I have at last found that which I have been looking for from the beginning. I have here between my finger and thumb the one thing necessary to convict the criminal.”
”Then,” the secretary raised his eyebrows, ”it was not Charles Leverson?”
”It was not Charles Leverson,” said Poirot. ”Until this moment, though I know the criminal, I am not sure of his name but at last all is clear.”
He stepped down the stairs and tapped the secretary on the shoulder.
”I am obliged to go to London immediately. Speak to Lady Astwell for me. Will you request of her that everyone should be a.s.sembled in the Tower room this evening at nine o'clock? I shall be there then, and I shall reveal the truth. Ah, me, but I am well content.”
And breaking into a fantastic little dance, he skipped from the Tower room. Trefusis was left staring after him.
A few minutes later Poirot appeared in the library, demanding if anyone could supply him with a little cardboard box.
”Unfortunately, I have not such a thing with me,” he explained, ”and there is something of great value that it is necessary for me to put inside.”
From one of the drawers in the desk Trefusis produced a small box, and Poirot professed himself highly delighted with it.
He hurried upstairs with his treasure-trove; meeting George on the landing, he handed the box to him.
”There is something of great importance inside,” he explained. ”Place it, my good George, in the second drawer of my dressing-table, beside the jewel-case that contains my pearl studs.”
”Very good, sir,” said George.
”Do not break it.” said Poirot. ”Be very careful. Inside that box is something that will hang a criminal.”
”You don't say, sir,” said George.
Poirot hurried down the stairs again and, seizing his hat, departed from the house at a brisk run.
His return was more unostentatious. The faithful George, according to orders, admitted him by the side door.
”They are all in the Tower room?” inquired Poirot.
”Yes, sir.”
There was a murmured interchange of a few words, and then Poirot mounted with the triumphant step of the victor to that room where the murder had taken place less than a month ago. His eyes swept around the room. They were all there, Lady Astwell, Victor Astwell, Lily Margrave, the secretary, and Parsons, the butler. The latter was hovering by the door uncertainly.
”George, sir, said I should be needed here,” said Parsons as Poirot made his appearance. ”I don't know if that is right, sir?”
”Quite right,” said Poirot. ”Remain, I pray of you.”
He advanced to the middle of the room.
”This has been a case of great interest,” he said in a slow, reflective voice. ”It is interesting because anyone might have murdered Sir Reuben Astwell. Who inherits his money? Charles Leverson and Lady Astwell. Who was with him last that night? Lady Astwell. Who quarreled with him violently? Again Lady Astwell.”
”What are you talking about?” cried Lady Astwell. ”I don't understand, I -”
”But someone else quarreled with Sir Reuben,” continued Poirot in a pensive voice. ”Someone else left him that night white with rage. Supposing Lady Astwell left her husband alive at a quarter to twelve that night, there would be ten minutes before Mr Charles Leverson returned, ten minutes in which it would be possible for someone from the second floor to steal down and do the deed, and then return to his room again.”
Victor Astwell sprang up with a cry.
”What the h.e.l.l -?” He stopped, choking with rage.
”In a rage, Mr Astwell, you once killed a man in West Africa.”
”I don't believe it,” cried Lily Margrave.
She came forward, her hands clenched, two bright spots of color in her cheeks.
”I don't believe it,” repeated the girl. She came close to Victor Astwell's side.
”It's true, Lily,” said Astwell, ”but there are things this man doesn't know. The fellow I killed was a witch doctor who had just ma.s.sacred fifteen children. I consider that I was justified.”
Lily came up to Poirot.
”M. Poirot,” she said earnestly, ”you are wrong. Because a man has a sharp temper, because he breaks out and says all kinds of things, that is not any reason why he should do a murder. I know - I know, I tell you - that Mr Astwell is incapable of such a thing.”
Poirot looked at her, a very curious smile on his face. Then he took her hand in his and patted it gently.
”You see, Mademoiselle,” he said gently, ”you also have your intuitions. So you believe in Mr Astwell, do you?”