The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Agatha Christie [ebook reader android .txt] 📗

to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist’s shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?”

“No, that is a lie.”

“I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp’s clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there⁠—and signed the register in his name!”

“That is absolutely untrue.”

“Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of handwriting between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury,” said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.

After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.

Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.

“What is it, Poirot?” I inquired.

“Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly.”

In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.

When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary’s offer of tea.

“No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room.”

I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!

My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:

“No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!”

“What is the trouble?” I asked.

With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.

“It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot”⁠—thump⁠—“find”⁠—thump⁠—“that last link of which I spoke to you.”

I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.

“It is done⁠—so! By placing⁠—one card⁠—on another⁠—with mathematical⁠—precision!”

I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.

“What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen your hand shake once.”

“On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt,” observed Poirot, with great placidity.

“Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp’s bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say⁠—”

But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.

“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken ill?”

“No, no,” he gasped. “It is⁠—it is⁠—that I have an idea!”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, much relieved. “One of your ‘little ideas’?”

“Ah, ma foi, no!” replied Poirot frankly. “This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you⁠—you, my friend, have given it to me!”

Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.

Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.

“What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: ‘A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!’ And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street.”

I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair.

“He’ll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!”

Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.

“What can be the matter?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw.”

“Well,” said Mary, “I expect he will be back before dinner.”

But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.

XII The Last Link

Poirot’s abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o’clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.

“Madame, I have your permission to hold a little réunion in the salon? It is necessary for everyone to attend.”

Mary smiled sadly.

“You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte blanche in every way.”

“You are too amiable, madame.”

Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing forward chairs as he did so.

“Miss Howard⁠—here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good Dorcas. And Annie. Bien! We must delay our proceedings a few minutes until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note.”

Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.

“If that man comes into the house, I leave it!”

“No, no!” Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.

Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room.

The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience.

“Messieurs, mesdames, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept locked, and was consequently exactly as it had been when the tragedy occurred. I found: first,