She paused.
‘I’m going to give up the stage when I marry. I just don’t seem to care about it any more.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Poirot dryly, ‘Lord Edgware stands in the way of these romantic dreams.’
‘Yes—and it’s driving me to distraction.’ She leaned back thoughtfully. ‘Of course if we were only in Chicago I could get him bumped off quite easily, but you don’t seem to run to gunmen over here.’
‘Over here,’ said Poirot, smiling, ‘we consider that every human being has the right to live.’
‘Well, I don’t know about that. I guess you’d be better off without some of your politicians, and knowing what I do of Edgware I think he’d be no loss—rather the contrary.’
There was a knock at the door, and a waiter entered with supper dishes. Jane Wilkinson continued to discuss her problem with no appreciation of his presence.
‘But I don’t want you to kill him for me, M. Poirot.’
‘Merci, Madame.’
‘I thought perhaps you might argue with him in some clever way. Get him to give in to the idea of divorce. I’m sure you could.’
‘I think you overrate my persuasive powers, Madame.’
‘Oh! but you can surely think of something, M. Poirot.’ She leaned forward. Her blue eyes opened wide again. ‘You’d like me to be happy, wouldn’t you?’
Her voice was soft, low and deliciously seductive.
‘I should like everybody to be happy,’ said Poirot cautiously.
‘Yes, but I wasn’t thinking of everybody. I was thinking of just me.’
‘I should say you always do that, Madame.’
He smiled.
‘You think I’m selfish?’
‘Oh! I did not say so, Madame.’
‘I dare say I am. But, you see, I do so hate being unhappy. It affects my acting, even. And I’m going to be ever so unhappy unless he agrees to a divorce—or dies.
‘On the whole,’ she continued thoughtfully, ‘it would be much better if he died. I mean, I’d feel more finally quit of him.’
She looked at Poirot for sympathy.
‘You will help me, won’t you, M. Poirot?’ She rose, picking up the white wrap, and stood looking appealingly into his face. I heard the noise of voices outside in the corridor. The door was ajar. ‘If you don’t—’ she went on.
‘If I don’t, Madame?’
She laughed.
‘I’ll have to call a taxi to go round and bump him off myself.’
Laughing, she disappeared through a door to an adjoining room just as Bryan Martin came in with the American girl, Carlotta Adams, and her escort, and the two people who had been supping with him and Jane Wilkinson. They were introduced to me as Mr and Mrs Widburn.
‘Hello!’ said Bryan. ‘Where’s Jane? I want to tell her I’ve succeeded in the commission she gave me.’
Jane appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. She held a lipstick in one hand.
‘Have you got her? How marvellous. Miss Adams, I do admire your performance so. I felt I just had to know you. Come in here and talk to me while I fix my face. It’s looking too perfectly frightful.’
Carlotta Adams accepted the invitation. Bryan Martin flung himself down in a chair.
‘Well, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘You were duly captured. Has our Jane persuaded you to fight her battles? You might as well give in sooner as later. She doesn’t understand the word “No.”’
‘She has not come across it, perhaps.’
‘A very interesting character, Jane,’ said Bryan Martin. He lay back in his hair and puffed cigarette smoke idly towards the ceiling. ‘Taboos have no meaning for her. No morals whatever. I don’t mean she’s exactly immoral—she isn’t. Amoral is the word, I believe. Just sees one thing only in life—what Jane wants.’
He laughed.
‘I believe she’d kill somebody quite cheerfully—and feel injured if they caught her and wanted to hang her for it. The trouble is that she would be caught. She hasn’t any brains. Her idea of a murder would be to drive up in a taxi, sail in under her own name and shoot.’
‘Now, I wonder what makes you say that?’ murmured Poirot.
‘Eh?’
‘You know her well, Monsieur?’
‘I should say I did.’
He laughed again, and it struck me that his laugh was unusually bitter.
‘You agree, don’t you?’ he flung out to the others.
‘Oh! Jane’s an egoist,’ agreed Mrs Widburn. ‘An actress has got to be, though. That is, if she wants to express her personality.’
Poirot did not speak. His eyes were resting on Bryan Martin’s face, dwelling there with a curious speculative expression that I could not quite understand.
At that moment Jane sailed in from the next room, Carlotta Adams behind her. I presume that Jane had now ‘fixed her face’, whatever that term denoted, to her own satisfaction. It looked to me exactly the same as before and quite incapable of improvement.
The supper party that followed was quite a merry one, yet I sometimes had the feeling that there were undercurrents which I was incapable of appreciating.
Jane Wilkinson I acquitted of any subtleties. She was obviously a young woman who saw only one thing at a time. She had desired an interview with Poirot, and had carried her point and obtained her desire without delay. Now she was obviously in high good humour. Her desire to include Carlotta Adams in the party had been, I decided, a mere whim. She had been highly amused, as a child might be amused, by the clever counterfeit of herself.
No, the undercurrents that I sensed were nothing to do with Jane Wilkinson. In what direction did they lie?
I studied the guests in turn. Bryan Martin? He was certainly not behaving quite naturally. But that, I told myself, might be merely characteristic of a film star. The exaggerated self-consciousness of a vain man too accustomed to playing a part to lay it aside easily.
Carlotta Adams, at any rate, was behaving naturally enough. She was a quiet girl with a pleasant low voice. I studied her with some attention now that I had a chance to do so at close quarters. She had, I thought, distinct charm, but charm of a somewhat negative order. It consisted in an absence of any jarring or strident note. She was a kind of personified soft agreement. Her very appearance was negative. Soft dark hair, eyes a rather colourless pale blue, pale face and a mobile sensitive mouth. A face that you liked but that you would find it hard to know again if you were to meet her, say, in different clothes.
She seemed pleased at Jane’s graciousness and complimentary sayings. Any girl would be, I thought—and then—just at that moment—something occurred that caused me to revise that rather too hasty opinion.
Carlotta Adams looked across the table at her hostess who was at that moment turning her head to talk to Poirot. There was a curious scrutinizing quality in the girl’s gaze—it seemed a deliberate summing up, and at the same time it struck me that there was a very definite hostility in those pale blue eyes.
Fancy, perhaps. Or possibly professional jealousy. Jane was a successful actress who had definitely arrived. Carlotta was merely climbing the ladder.
I looked at the three other members of the party. Mr and Mrs Widburn, what about them? He was a tall cadaverous man, she a plump, fair, gushing soul. They appeared to be wealthy people with a passion for everything connected with the stage. They were in fact, unwilling to talk on any other subject. Owing to my recent absence from England they found me sadly ill-informed, and finally Mrs Widburn turned a plump shoulder on me and remembered my existence no more.
The last member of the party was the dark young man with the round cheerful face who was Carlotta Adams’ escort. I had had my suspicions from the first that the young man was not quite so sober as he might have been. As he drank more champagne this became even more clearly apparent.
He appeared to be suffering from a profound sense of injury. For the first half of the meal he sat in gloomy silence. Towards the latter half he unbosomed himself to me apparently under the impression that I was one of his oldest friends.
‘What I mean to say,’ he said. ‘It isn’t. No, dear old chap, it isn’t—’
I omit the slight slurring together of the words.
‘I mean to say,’ he went on, ‘I ask you? I mean if you take a girl—well, I mean—butting in. Going round upsetting things. Not as though I’d ever said a word to her I shouldn’t have done. She’s not the sort. You know—Puritan fathers—the Mayflower—all that. Dash it—the girl’s straight. What I mean is—what was I saying?’
‘That it was hard lines,’ I said soothingly.
‘Well, dash it all, it is. Dash it, I had to borrow the money for this beano from my tailor. Very obliging chap, my tailor. I’ve owed him money for years. Makes a sort of bond between us. Nothing like a bond, is there, dear old fellow. You and I. You and I. Who the devil are you, by the way?’
‘My name is Hastings.’
‘You don’t say so. Now I could have sworn you were a chap called Spencer Jones. Dear old Spencer Jones. Met him at the Eton and Harrow and borrowed a fiver from him. What I say is one face is very like another face—that’s what I say. If we were all Chinese we wouldn’t know each other apart.’
He shook his head sadly, then cheered up suddenly and drank off some more champagne.
‘Look on the bright side, my boy,’ he adjured me. ‘What I say is, look on the bright side. One of these days—when I’m seventy-five or so, I’m going to be a rich man. When my uncle dies. Then I can pay my tailor.’
He sat smiling happily at the thought.
There was something strangely likeable about the young man. He had a round face and an absurdly small black moustache that gave one the impression of being marooned in the middle of a desert.
Carlotta Adams, I noticed, had an eye on him, and it was after a glance in his direction that she rose and broke up the party.
‘It was just sweet of you to come up here,’ said Jane. ‘I do so love doing things on the spur of the moment, don’t you?’
‘No,’ said Miss Adams. ‘I’m afraid I always plan a thing out very carefully before I do it. It saves—worry.’
There was something faintly disagreeable in her manner.
‘Well, at any rate the results justify you,’ laughed Jane. ‘I don’t know when I enjoyed anything so much as I did your show tonight.’
The American girl’s face relaxed.
‘Well, that’s very sweet of you,’ she said warmly. ‘And I guess I appreciate your telling me so. I need encouragement. We all do.’
‘Carlotta,’ said the young man with the black moustache. ‘Shake hands and say thank you for the party to Aunt Jane and come along.’
The way he walked straight through the door was a miracle of concentration. Carlotta followed him quickly.
‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘what was that that blew in and called me Aunt Jane? I hadn’t noticed him before.’
‘My dear,’ said Mrs Widburn. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of him. Most brilliant as a boy in the O.U.D.S. You’d hardly think so now, would you? I hate to see early promise come to nothing. But Charles and I positively must toddle.’
The Widburns duly toddled and Bryan Martin went with them.
‘Well, M. Poirot?’
He smiled at her.
‘Eh bien, Lady Edgware?’
‘For goodness’ sake, don’t call me that. Let me forget it! If you aren’t the hardest-hearted little man in Europe!’
‘But no, but no, I am not hard-hearted.’
Poirot, I thought, had had quite enough champagne, possibly a glass too much.
‘Then you’ll go and see my husband? And make him do what I want?’
‘I will go and see him,’ Poirot promised cautiously.
‘And if he turns you down—as he will—you’ll think of a clever plan. They say you’re the cleverest man in England, M. Poirot.’
‘Madame, when I am hard-hearted, it is Europe you mention. But for cleverness you say only England.’
‘If you put this through I’ll say the universe.’
Poirot raised a deprecating hand.
‘Madame, I promise nothing. In the interests of the psychology I will endeavour to arrange a meeting with your husband.’
‘Psycho-analyse him as much as you like. Maybe it would do him good. But you’ve got to pull it off—for my sake. I’ve got to have my romance, M. Poirot.’
She added dreamily: ‘Just think of the sensation it will make.’
CHAPTER 3
The Man with the Gold Tooth
It was a few days later, when we were sitting at breakfast, that Poirot flung across to me a letter that he had just opened.
‘Well, mon ami,’ he said. ‘What do you think of that?’
The note was from Lord Edgware and in stiff formal language it made an appointment for the following day at eleven.
I must say that I was very much surprised. I had taken Poirot’s words as uttered lightly in a convivial moment, and I had had no idea that he had actually taken steps to carry out his promise.
Poirot, who was very quick-witted, read my mind and his eyes twinkled a little.
‘But yes, mon ami, it was not solely the champagne.’
‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘But yes—but yes—you thought to yourself, the poor old one, he has the spirit of the party, he promises things that he will not perform—that he has no intention of performing. But, my friend, the promises of Hercule Poirot are sacred.’
He drew himself up in a stately manner as he said the last words. ‘Of course. Of course. I know that,’ I said hastily. ‘But I thought that perhaps your judgment was slightly—what shall I say—influenced.’
‘I am not in the habit of letting my judgment be “influenced” as you call it, Hastings. The best and driest of champagne, the most golden-haired and seductive of women—nothing influences the judgment of Hercule Poirot. No, mon ami, I am interested—that is all.’
‘In Jane Wilkinson’s love affair?’
‘Not exactly that. Her love affair, as you call it, is a very commonplace business. It is a step in the successful career of a very beautiful woman. If the Duke of Merton had neither a title nor wealth his romantic likeness to a dreamy monk would no longer interest the lady. No, Hastings, what intrigues me is the psychology of the matter. The interplay of character. I welcome the chance of studying Lord Edgware at close quarters.’
‘You do not expect to be successful in your mission?’
‘Pourquoi pas? Every man has his weak spot. Do not imagine, Hastings, that because I am studying the case from a psychological standpoint, I shall not try my best to succeed in the commission entrusted to me. I always enjoy exercising my ingenuity.’
I had feared an allusion to the little grey cells and was thankful to be spared it.
‘So we go to Regent Gate at eleven tomorrow?’ I said.
‘We?’ Poirot raised his eyebrows quizzically.
‘Poirot!’ I cried. ‘You are not going to leave me behind. I always go with you.’
‘If it were a crime, a mysterious poisoning case, an assassination—ah! these are the things your soul delights in. But a mere matter of social adjustment?’
‘Not another word,’ I said determinedly. ‘I’m coming.’
Poirot laughed gently, and at that moment we were told that a gentleman had called.
To our great surprise our visitor proved to be Bryan Martin.
The actor looked older by daylight. He was still handsome, but it was a kind of ravaged handsomeness. It flashed across my mind that he might conceivably take drugs. There was a kind of nervous tension about him that suggested the possibility.
‘Good morning, M. Poirot,’ he said in a cheerful manner. ‘You and Captain Hastings breakfast at a reasonable hour, I am glad to see. By the way, I suppose you are very busy just now?’
Poirot smiled at him amiably.
‘No,’ he said. ‘At the moment I have practically no business of importance on hand.’
‘Come now,’ laughed Bryan. ‘Not called in by Scotland Yard? No delicate matters to investigate for Royalty? I can hardly believe it.’
‘You confound fiction with reality, my friend,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I am, I assure you, at the moment completely out of work, though not yet on the dole. Dieu merci.’
‘Well, that’s luck for me,’ said Bryan with another laugh. ‘Perhaps you’ll take on something for me.’
Poirot considered the young man thoughtfully.
‘You have a problem for me—yes?’ he said in a minute or two.
‘Well—it’s like this. I have and I haven’t.’
This time his laugh was rather nervous. Still considering him thoughtfully, Poirot indicated a chair. The young man took it. He sat facing us, for I had taken a seat by Poirot’s side.
‘And now,’ said Poirot, ‘let us hear all about it.’
Bryan Martin still seemed to have a little difficulty in getting under way.
‘The trouble is that I can’t tell you quite as much as I’d like to.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s difficult. You see, the whole business started in America.’
‘In America? Yes?’
‘A mere incident first drew my attention to it. As a matter of fact, I was travelling by train and I noticed a certain fellow. Ugly little chap, clean-shaven, glasses, and a gold tooth.’
‘Ah! a gold tooth.’
‘Exactly. That’s really the crux of the matter.’
Poirot nodded his head several times.
‘I begin to comprehend. Go on.’
‘Well, as I say. I just noticed the fellow. I was travelling, by the way, to New York. Six months later I was in Los Angeles, and I noticed the fellow again. Don’t know why I should have—but I did. Still, nothing in that.’
‘Continue.’
‘A month afterwards I had occasion to go to Seattle, and shortly after I got there who should I see but my friend again, only this time he wore a beard.’
‘Distinctly curious.’
‘Wasn’t it? Of course I didn’t fancy it had anything to do with me at that time, but when I saw the man again in Los Angeles, beardless, in Chicago with a moustache and different eyebrows and in a mountain village disguised as a hobo—well, I began to wonder.’
‘Naturally.’
‘And at last—well, it seemed odd—but not a doubt about it. I was being what you call shadowed.’
‘Most remarkable.’
‘Wasn’t it? After that I made sure of it. Wherever I was, there, somewhere near at hand, was my shadow made up in different disguises. Fortunately, owing to the gold tooth, I could always spot him.’
‘Ah! that gold tooth, it was a very fortunate occurrence.’
‘It was.’
‘Pardon me, M. Martin, but did you never speak to the man? Question him as to the reason of his persistent shadowing?’
‘No, I didn’t.’ The actor hesitated. ‘I thought of doing so once or twice, but I always decided against it. It seemed to me that I should merely put the fellow on his guard and learn nothing. Possibly once they had discovered that I had spotted him, they would have put someone else on my track—someone whom I might not recognize.’
‘En effet…someone without that useful gold tooth.’
‘Exactly. I may have been wrong—but that’s how I figured it out.’
‘Now, M. Martin, you referred to “they” just now. Whom did you mean by “they”?’
‘It was a mere figure of speech used for convenience. I assumed—I don’t know why—a nebulous “they” in the background.’
‘Have you any reason for that belief?’
‘None.’
‘You mean you have no conception of who could want you shadowed or for what purpose?’
‘Not the slightest idea. At least—’
‘Continuez,’ said Poirot encouragingly.
‘I have an idea,’ said Bryan Martin slowly. ‘It’s a mere guess on my part, mind.’
‘A guess may be very successful sometimes, Monsieur.’
‘It concerns a certain incident that took place in London about two years ago. It was a slight incident, but an inexplicable and an unforgettable one. I’ve often wondered and puzzled over it. Just because I could find no explanation of it at the time, I am inclined to wonder if this shadowing business might not be connected in some way with it—but for the life of me I can’t see why or how.’
‘Perhaps I can.’
‘Yes, but you see—’ Bryan Martin’s embarrassment returned. ‘The awkward thing is that I can’t tell you about it—not now, that is. In a day or so I might be able to.’
Stung into further speech by Poirot’s inquiring glance he continued desperately.
‘You see—a girl was concerned in it.’
‘Ah! parfaitement! An English girl?’
‘Yes. At least—why?’
‘Very simple. You cannot tell me now, but you hope to do so in a day or two. That means that you want to obtain the consent of the young lady. Therefore she is in England. Also, she must have been in England during the time you were shadowed, for if she had been in America you would have sought her out then and there. Therefore, since she has been in England for the last eighteen months she is probably, though not certainly, English. It is good reasoning that, eh?’
‘Rather. Now tell me, M. Poirot, if I get her permission, will you look into the matter for me?’
There was a pause. Poirot seemed to be debating the matter in his mind. Finally he said:
‘Why have you come to me before going to her?’
‘Well, I thought—’ he hesitated. ‘I wanted to persuade her to—to clear things up—I mean to let things be cleared up by you. What I mean is, if you investigate the affair, nothing need be made public, need it?’
‘That depends,’ said Poirot calmly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If there is any question of crime—’
‘Oh! there’s no crime concerned.’
‘You do not know. There may be.’
‘But you would do your best for her—for us?’
‘That, naturally.’
He was silent for a moment and then said:
‘Tell me, this follower of yours—this shadow—of what age was he?’
‘Oh! quite youngish. About thirty.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘That is indeed remarkable. Yes, that makes the whole thing very much more interesting.’
I stared at him. So did Bryan Martin. This remark of his was, I am sure, equally inexplicable to us both. Bryan questioned me with a lift of his eyebrows. I shook my head.
‘Yes,’ murmured Poirot. ‘It makes the whole story very interesting.’
‘He may have been older,’ said Bryan doubtfully, ‘but I don’t think so.’
‘No, no, I am sure your observation is quite accurate, M. Martin. Very interesting—extraordinarily interesting.’
Rather taken aback by Poirot’s enigmatical words, Bryan Martin seemed at a loss what to say or do next. He started making desultory conversation.
‘An amusing party the other night,’ he said. ‘Jane Wilkinson is the most high-handed woman that ever existed.’
‘She has the single vision,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘One thing at a time.’
‘She gets away with it, too,’ said Martin. ‘How people stand it, I don’t know!’
‘One will stand a good deal from a beautiful woman, my friend,’ said Poirot with a twinkle. ‘If she had the pug nose, the sallow skin, the greasy hair, then—ah! then she would not “get away with it” as you put it.’
‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bryan. ‘But it makes me mad sometimes. All the same, I’m devoted to Jane, though in some ways, mind you, I don’t think she’s quite all there.’
‘On the contrary, I should say she was very much on the spot.’
‘I don’t mean that, exactly. She can look after her interests all right. She’s got plenty of business shrewdness. No, I meant morally.’
‘Ah! morally.’
‘She’s what they call amoral. Right and wrong don’t exist for her.’
‘Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening.’
‘We were talking of crime just now—’
‘Yes, my friend?’
‘Well, it would never surprise me if Jane committed a crime.’
‘And you should know her well,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. ‘You have acted much with her, have you not?’
‘Yes. I suppose I know her through and through and up and down. I can see her killing anybody quite easily.’
‘Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?’
