“And the second stage?”
“If the little idea turns out to be right—then I know! It is quite simple, you see.”
“I wish you’d tell me what your theory—or your little idea—is?”
Poirot shook his head gently.
“That is another rule. The detective never tells.”
“Can’t you suggest it even?”
“No. I will only say that I formed my theory as soon as you mentioned a gold tooth.”
Bryan Martin stared at him.
“I’m absolutely bewildered,” he declared. “I can’t make out what you are driving at. If you’d just give me a hint.”
Poirot smiled and shook his head.
“Let us change the subject.”
“Yes, but first—your fee—you must let me.”
Poirot waved an imperious hand.
“Pas un sou! I have done nothing to aid you.”
“I took up your time—”
“When a case interests me, I do not touch money. Your case interested me very much.”
“I’m glad,” said the actor uneasily.
He looked supremely unhappy.
“Come,” said Poirot kindly. “Let us talk of something else.”
“Wasn’t that the Scotland Yard man whom I met on the stairs?”
“Yes, Inspector Japp.”
“The light was so dim, I wasn’t sure. By the way, he came round and asked me some questions about that poor girl, Carlotta Adams, who died of an overdose of veronal.”
“You knew her well—Miss Adams?”
“Not very well. I knew her as a child in America. I came across her here once or twice but I never saw very much of her. I was very sorry to hear of her death.”
“You liked her?”
“Yes. She was extraordinarily easy to talk to.”
“A personality very sympathetic—yes, I found the same.”
“I suppose they think it might be suicide? I knew nothing that could help the inspector. Carlotta was always very reserved about herself.”
“I do not think it was suicide,” said Poirot.
“Far more likely to be an accident, I agree.”
There was a pause.
Then Poirot said with a smile:
“The affair of Lord Edgware’s death becomes intriguing, does it not?”
“Absolutely amazing. Do you know—have they any idea—who did it—now that Jane is definitely out of it?”
“Mais oui—they have a very strong suspicion.”
Bryan Martin looked excited.
“Really? Who?”
“The butler has disappeared. You comprehend—flight is as good as a confession.”
“The butler! Really, you surprise me.”
“A singularly good-looking man. Il vous ressemble un peu.” He bowed in a complimentary fashion.
Of course! I realized now why the butler’s face had struck me as being faintly familiar when I first saw it.
“You flatter me,” said Bryan Martin with a laugh.
“No, no, no. Do not all the young girls, the servant girls, the flappers, the typists, the girls of society, do they not all adore M. Bryan Martin? Is there one who can resist you?”
“A lot, I should think,” said Martin. He got up abruptly.
“Well, thank you very much, M. Poirot. Let me apologize again for having troubled you.”
He shook hands with us both. Suddenly, I noticed he looked much older. The haggard look was more apparent.
I was devoured with curiosity, and as soon as the door closed behind him, I burst out with what I wanted to know.
“Poirot, did you really expect him to come back and relinquish all idea of investigating those queer things that happened to him in America?”
“You heard me say so, Hastings.”
“But then—” I followed the thing out logically.
“Then you must know who this mysterious girl is that he had to consult?”
He smiled.
“I have a little idea, my friend. As I told you, it started from the mention of the gold tooth, and if my little idea is correct, I know who the girl is, I know why she will not let M. Martin consult me. I know the truth of the whole affair. And so could you know it if you would only use the brains the good God has given you. Sometimes I really am tempted to believe that by inadvertence He passed you by.”
Eighteen
THE OTHER MAN
I do not propose to describe either the inquest on Lord Edgware or that on Carlotta Adams. In Carlotta’s case the verdict was Death by Misadventure. In the case of Lord Edgware the inquest was adjourned, after evidence of identification and the medical evidence had been given. As a result of the analysis of the stomach, the time of death was fixed as having occurred not less than an hour after the completion of dinner, with possible extension to an hour after that. This put it as between ten and eleven o’clock, with the probability in favour of the earlier time.
None of the facts concerning Carlotta’s impersonation of Jane Wilkinson were allowed to leak out. A description of the wanted butler was published in the press, and the general impression seemed to be that the butler was the man wanted. His story of Jane Wilkinson’s visit was looked upon as an impudent fabrication. Nothing was said of the secretary’s corroborating testimony. There were columns concerning the murder in all the papers, but little real information.
Meanwhile Japp was actively at work, I knew. It vexed me a little that Poirot adopted such an inert attitude. The suspicion that approaching old age had something to do with it flashed across me—not for the first time. He made excuses to me which did not ring very convincingly.
“At my time of life one saves oneself the trouble,” he explained.
“But, Poirot, my dear fellow, you mustn’t think of yourself as old,” I protested.
I felt that he needed bracing. Treatment by suggestion—that, I know, is the modern idea.
“You are as full of vigour as ever you were,” I said earnestly. “You’re in the prime of life, Poirot. At the height of your powers. You could go out and solve this case magnificently if you only would.”
Poirot replied that he preferred to solve it sitting at home.
“But you can’t do that, Poirot.”
“Not entirely, it is true.”
“What I mean is, we are doing nothing! Japp is doing everything.”
“Which suits me admirably.”
“It doesn’t suit me at all. I want you to be doing things.”
“So I am.”
“What are you doing?”
“Waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Pour que mon chien de chasse me rapporte le gibier,” replied Poirot with a twinkle.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean the good Japp. Why keep a dog and bark yourself? Japp brings us here the result of the physical energy you admire so much. He has various means at his disposal which I have not. He will have news for us very soon, I do not doubt.”
By dint of persistent inquiry, it was true that Japp was slowly getting together material. He had drawn a blank in Paris, but a couple of days later he came in looking pleased with himself.
“It’s slow work,” he said. “But we’re getting somewhere at last.”