‘We get to hear things, M. Poirot,’ he said stolidly.
Poirot nodded. He had reached out for the daily paper. It had been opened by Japp, doubtless while he was waiting, and had been cast impatiently aside on our entry. In a mechanical manner, Poirot folded it back at the middle page, smoothed and arranged it. Though his eyes were on the paper, his mind was deep in some kind of puzzle.
‘You have not answered,’ he said presently. ‘Since all goes in the swimming fashion, why come to me?’
‘Because I heard you were at Regent Gate yesterday morning.’
‘I see.’
‘Now, as soon as I heard that, I said to myself, “Something here.” His lordship sent for M. Poirot. Why? What did he suspect? What did he fear? Before doing anything definite, I’d better go round and have a word with him.’
‘What do you mean by “anything definite”? Arresting the lady, I suppose?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You have not seen her yet?’
‘Oh! yes, I have. Went round to the Savoy first thing. Wasn’t going to risk her giving us the slip.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘So you—’
He stopped. His eyes, which had been fixed thoughtfully and up to now unseeingly on the paper in front of him, now took on a different expression. He lifted his head and spoke in a changed tone of voice.
‘And what did she say? Eh! my friend. What did she say?’
‘I gave her the usual stuff, of course, about wanting a statement and cautioning her—you can’t say the English police aren’t fair.’
‘In my opinion foolishly so. But proceed. What did milady say?’
‘Took hysterics—that’s what she did. Rolled herself about, threw up her arms and finally flopped down on the ground. Oh! she did it well—I’ll say that for her. A pretty bit of acting.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot blandly. ‘You formed, then, the impression that the hysterics were not genuine?’
Japp winked vulgarly.
‘What do you think? I’m not to be taken in with those tricks. She hadn’t fainted—not she! Just trying it on, she was. I’ll swear she was enjoying it.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘I should say that was perfectly possible. What next?’
‘Oh! well, she came to—pretended to, I mean. And moaned—and groaned and carried on and that sour-faced maid of hers doped her with smelling salts and at last she recovered enough to ask for her solicitor. Wasn’t going to say anything without her solicitor. Hysterics one moment, solicitor the next, now I ask you, is that natural behaviour, sir?’
‘In this case quite natural, I should say,’ said Poirot calmly.
‘You mean because she’s guilty and knows it.’
‘Not at all, I mean because of her temperament. First she gives you her conception of how the part of a wife suddenly learning of her husband’s death should be played. Then, having satisfied her histrionic instinct, her native shrewdness makes her send for a solicitor. That she creates an artificial scene and enjoys it is no proof of her guilt. It merely indicates that she is a born actress.’
‘Well, she can’t be innocent. That’s sure.’
‘You are very positive,’ said Poirot. ‘I suppose that it must be so. She made no statement, you say? No statement at all?’
Japp grinned.
‘Wouldn’t say a word without her solicitor. The maid telephoned for him. I left two of my men there and came along to you. I thought it just as well to get put wise to whatever there was going on before I went on with things.’
‘And yet you are sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. But I like as many facts as possible. You see, there’s going to be a big splash made about this. No hole and corner business. All the papers will be full of it. And you know what papers are.’
‘Talking of papers,’ said Poirot. ‘How do you account for this, my dear friend. You have not read your morning paper very carefully.’
He leant across the table, his finger on a paragraph in the society news. Japp read the item aloud.
Sir Montagu Corner gave a very successful dinner-party last night at his house on the river at Chiswick. Among those present were Sir George and Lady du Fisse, Mr James Blunt, the well-known dramatic critic, Sir Oscar Hammerfeldt of the Overton Film Studios, Miss Jane Wilkinson (Lady Edgware) and others.
For a moment Japp looked taken aback. Then he rallied.
‘What’s that got to do with it? This thing was sent to the Press beforehand. You’ll see. You’ll find that our lady wasn’t there, or that she came in late—eleven o’clock or so. Bless you sir, you mustn’t believe everything you see in the Press to be gospel. You of all people ought to know better than that.’
‘Oh! I do, I do. It only struck me as curious, that was all.’
‘These coincidences do happen. Now, M. Poirot, closed as an oyster I know you to be by bitter experience. But you’ll come across with things, won’t you? You’ll tell me why Lord Edgware sent for you?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Lord Edgware did not send for me. It was I who requested him to give me an appointment.’
‘Really? And for what reason?’
Poirot hesitated a minute.
‘I will answer your question,’ he said slowly. ‘But I should like to answer it in my own way.’
Japp groaned. I felt a sneaking sympathy with him. Poirot can be intensely irritating at times.
‘I will request,’ went on Poirot, ‘that you permit me to ring up a certain person and ask him to come here.’
‘What person?’
‘Mr Bryan Martin.’
‘The film star? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that you may find what he has got to say interesting—and possibly helpful. Hastings, will you be so good?’
I took up the telephone-book. The actor had a flat in a big block of buildings near St James’ Park.
‘Victoria 49499.’
The somewhat sleepy voice of Bryan Martin spoke after a few minutes.
‘Hello—who’s speaking?’
‘What am I to say?’ I whispered, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.
‘Tell him,’ said Poirot, ‘that Lord Edgware has been murdered, and that I should esteem it a favour if he would come round here and see me immediately.’
I repeated this meticulously. There was a startled exclamation at the other end.
‘My God,’ said Martin. ‘So she’s done it then! I’ll come at once.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Poirot. I told him.
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. He seemed pleased. ‘So she’s done it then. That was what he said? Then it is as I thought, it is as I thought.’
Japp looked at him curiously.
‘I can’t make you out, M. Poirot. First you sound as though you thought the woman might not have done it after all. And now you make out that you knew it all along.’
Poirot only smiled.
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