Poirot Investigates
Ayres, he and Mrs. Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was
sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his
master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He
went to the boathouse, donned his ‘tramp’ clothes, which you may
be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped
the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by
pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a
policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street,
where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!”
“It’s impossible,” murmured Japp.
“Ask Madame,” said my friend, smiling.
The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He
opened it, and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow
puckered.
“_Ah, sacré!_ But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse!
_Ce pauvre Japp_! Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we
three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I,
who would not rob a child—_mille tonnerres! Mon ami_, what have
you, that you laugh so heartily?”
X
The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman
Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of an informal
nature. Amongst these was to be numbered Dr. Hawker, a near
neighbour of ours, and a member of the medical profession. It was
the genial doctor’s habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and
have a chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was an ardent admirer.
The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last degree,
admired the talents so far removed from his own.
On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half-past
eight and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery
topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. It must
have been about a quarter of an hour later when the door of our
sitting-room flew open, and a distracted female precipitated
herself into the room.
“Oh, doctor, you’re wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a
turn, it did indeed.”
I recognized in our new visitor Dr. Hawker’s housekeeper, Miss
Rider. The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house
a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a
state bordering on incoherence.
“What terrible voice? Who is it, and what’s the trouble?”
“It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it—and a voice spoke.
‘Help,’ it said. ‘Doctor—help. They’ve killed me!’ Then it sort of
tailed away. ‘Who’s speaking?’ I said. ‘Who’s speaking?’ Then I
got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, ‘Foscatine’—something like
that—‘Regent’s Court.’”
The doctor uttered an exclamation.
“Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent’s Court. I must go at
once. What can have happened?”
“A patient of yours?” asked Poirot.
“I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian,
but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night,
Monsieur Poirot, unless——” He hesitated.
“I perceive the thought in your mind,” said Poirot, smiling. “I
shall be delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get
hold of a taxi.”
Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly
pressed for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon
bowling along in the direction of Regent’s Park. Regent’s Court
was a new block of flats, situated just off St. John’s Wood Road.
They had only recently been built, and contained the latest service
devices.
There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift-bell
impatiently, and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed
attendant sharply.
“Flat II. Count Foscatini. There’s been an accident there, I
understand.”
The man stared at him.
“First I’ve heard of it. Mr. Graves—that’s Count Foscatini’s
man—went out about half an hour ago, and he said nothing.”
“Is the Count alone in the flat?”
“No, sir, he’s got two gentlemen dining with him.”
“What are they like?” I asked eagerly.
We were in the lift now, ascending rapidly to the second floor, on
which Flat II was situated.
“I didn’t see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were
foreign gentlemen.”
He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing.
No. II was opposite to us. The doctor rang the bell. There was no
reply, and we could hear no sound from within. The doctor rang
again and again; we could hear the bell trilling within, but no
sign of life rewarded us.
“This is getting serious,” muttered the doctor. He turned to the
lift attendant.
“Is there any pass-key to this door?”
“There is one in the porter’s office downstairs.”
“Get it, then, and, look here, I think you’d better send for the
police.”
Poirot approved with a nod of the head.
The man returned shortly; with him came the manager.
“Will you tell me, gentlemen, what is the meaning of all this?”
“Certainly. I received a telephone message from Count Foscatini
stating that he had been attacked and was dying. You can understand
that we must lose no time—if we are not already too late.”
The manager produced the key without more ado, and we all entered
the flat.
We passed first into a small square lounge hall. A door on the
right of it was half open. The manager indicated it with a nod.
“The dining-room.”
Dr. Hawker led the way. We followed close on his heels. As we
entered the room I gave a gasp. The round table in the centre bore
the remains of a meal; three chairs were pushed back, as though
their occupants had just risen. In the corner, to the right of the
fire-place, was a big writing-table, and sitting at it was a man—or
what had been a man. His right hand still grasped the base of the
telephone, but he had fallen forward, struck down by a terrific
blow on the head from behind. The weapon was not far to seek. A
marble statuette stood where it had been hurriedly put down, the
base of it stained with blood.
The doctor’s examination did not take a minute. “Stone dead. Must
have been almost instantaneous. I wonder he even managed to
telephone. It will be better not to move him until the police
arrive.”
On the manager’s suggestion we searched the flat, but the result
was a foregone conclusion. It was not likely that the murderers
would be concealed there when all they had to do was to walk out.
We came back to the dining-room. Poirot had not accompanied us in
our tour. I found him studying the centre table with close
attention. I joined him. It was a well-polished round mahogany
table. A bowl of roses decorated the centre, and white lace mats
reposed on the gleaming surface. There was a dish of fruit, but
the three dessert plates were untouched. There were three
coffee-cups with remains of coffee in them—two black, one with
milk. All three men had taken port, and the decanter, half-full,
stood before the centre plate. One of the men had smoked a cigar,
the other two cigarettes. A tortoiseshell-and-silver box, holding
cigars and cigarettes, stood open upon the table.
I enumerated all these facts to myself, but I was forced to admit
that they did not shed any brilliant light on the situation. I
wondered what Poirot saw in them to make him so intent. I asked
him.
“_Mon ami_,” he replied, “you miss the point. I am looking for
something that I do _not_ see.”
“What is that?”
“A mistake—even a little mistake—on the part of the murderer.”
He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and
shook his head.
“Monsieur,” he said to the manager, “explain to me, I pray, your
system of serving meals here.”
The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall.
“This is the service lift,” he explained. “It runs to the kitchens
at the top of the building. You order through this telephone, and
the dishes are sent down in the lift, one course at a time. The
dirty plates and dishes are sent up in the same manner. No domestic
worries, you understand, and at the same time you avoid the wearying
publicity of always dining in a restaurant.”
Poirot nodded.
“Then the plates and dishes that were used to-night are on high in
the kitchen. You permit that I mount there?”
“Oh, certainly, if you like! Roberts, the lift man, will take you
up and introduce you; but I’m afraid you won’t find anything that’s
of any use. They’re handling hundreds of plates and dishes, and
they’ll be all lumped together.”
Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens
and questioned the man who had taken the order from Flat II.
“The order was given from the _à la carte menu_—for three,” he
explained. “Soup julienne, filet de sole normande, tournedos of
beef, and a rice soufflé. What time? Just about eight o’clock, I
should say. No, I’m afraid the plates and dishes have been all
washed up by now. Unfortunate. You were thinking of finger-prints,
I suppose?”
“Not exactly,” said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. “I am more
interested in Count Foscatini’s appetite. Did he partake of every
dish?”
“Yes; but of course I can’t say how much of each he ate. The plates
were all soiled, and the dishes empty—that is to say, with the
exception of the rice soufflé. There was a fair amount of that
left.”
“Ah!” said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.
As we descended to the flat again he remarked in a low tone:
“We have decidedly to do with a man of method.”
“Do you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?”
“The latter was undoubtedly an orderly gentleman. After imploring
help and announcing his approaching demise, he carefully hung up
the telephone receiver.”
I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries gave me
the glimmering of an idea.
“You suspect poison?” I breathed. “The blow on the head was a
blind.”
Poirot merely smiled.
We re-entered the flat to find the local inspector of police had
arrived with two constables. He was inclined to resent our
appearance, but Poirot calmed him with the mention of our Scotland
Yard friend, Inspector Japp, and we were accorded a grudging
permission to remain. It was a lucky thing we were, for we had not
been back five minutes before an agitated middle-aged man came
rushing into the room with every appearance of grief and agitation.
This was Graves, valet-butler to the late Count Foscatini. The
story he had to tell was a sensational one.
On the previous morning, two gentlemen had called to see his
master. They were Italians, and the elder of the two, a man of
about forty, gave his name as Signor Ascanio. The younger was a
well-dressed lad of about twenty-four.
Count Foscatini was evidently prepared for their visit and
immediately sent Graves out upon some trivial errand. Here the man
paused and hesitated in his story. In the end, however, he admitted
that, curious as to the purport of the interview, he had not obeyed
immediately, but had lingered about endeavouring to hear something
of what was going on.
The conversation was carried on in so low a tone that he was not
as successful as he had hoped; but he gathered enough to make it
clear that some kind of monetary proposition was being discussed,
and that the basis of it was a threat. The discussion was anything
but amicable. In the end, Count Foscatini raised his voice slightly,
and the listener heard these words clearly:
“I have no time to argue further now, gentlemen. If you will dine
with me to-morrow night at eight o’clock, we will resume the
discussion.”
Afraid of being discovered listening, Graves had then hurried out
to do his master’s errand. This evening the two men had arrived
punctually at eight. During dinner they had talked of indifferent
matters—politics, the weather, and the theatrical world. When
Graves had placed the port upon the table and brought in the coffee
his master told him that he might have the evening off.
“Was that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?” asked the