“I believe you. Carry on. What do you want to know?”
“I understand, Mademoiselle, that your friend lunched with you yesterday.”
“She did.”
“Did she tell you what her plans were for last night?”
“She didn’t exactly mention last night.”
“But she said something?”
“Well, she mentioned something that maybe is what you’re driving at. Mind you, she spoke in confidence.”
“That is understood.”
“Well, let me see now. I think I’d better explain things in my own words.”
“If you please, Mademoiselle.”
“Well, then, Carlotta was excited. She isn’t often excited. She’s not that kind. She wouldn’t tell me anything definite, said she’d promised not to, but she’d got something on. Something I gathered, in the nature of a gigantic hoax.”
“A hoax?”
“That’s what she said. She didn’t say how or when or where. Only—” She paused, frowning. “Well—you see—Carlotta’s not the kind of person who enjoys practical jokes or hoaxes or things of that kind. She’s one of those serious, nice-minded, hard-working girls. What I mean is, somebody had obviously put her up to this stunt. And I think—she didn’t say so, mind—”
“No, no, I quite understand. What was it that you thought?”
“I thought—I was sure—that in some way money was concerned. Nothing really ever excited Carlotta except money. She was made that way. She’d got one of the best heads for business I’ve ever met. She wouldn’t have been so excited and so pleased unless money—quite a lot of money—had been concerned. My impression was that she’d taken on something for a bet—and that she was pretty sure of winning. And yet that isn’t quite true. I mean, Carlotta didn’t bet. I’ve never known her make a bet. But anyway, somehow or other, I’m sure money was concerned.”
“She did not actually say so?”
“N-no-o. Just said that she’d be able to do this, that and the other in the near future. She was going to get her sister over from America to meet her in Paris. She was crazy about her little sister. Very delicate, I believe, and musical. Well that’s all I know. Is that what you want?”
Poirot nodded his head.
“Yes. It confirms my theory. I had hoped, I admit, for more. I had anticipated that Miss Adams would have been bound to secrecy. But I hoped that, being a woman, she would not have counted revealing the secret to her best friend.”
“I tried to make her tell me,” admitted Jenny. “But she only laughed and said she’d tell me about it some day.”
Poirot was silent for a moment. Then he said:
“You know the name of Lord Edgware?”
“What? The man who was murdered? On a poster half an hour ago.”
“Yes. Do you know if Miss Adams was acquainted with him?”
“I don’t think so. I’m sure she wasn’t. Oh! wait a minute.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle?” said Poirot eagerly.
“What was it now?” She frowned, knitting her brow as she tried to remember. “Yes, I’ve got it now. She mentioned him once. Very bitterly.”
“Bitterly?”
“Yes. She said—what was it?—that men like that shouldn’t be allowed to ruin other people’s lives by their cruelty and lack of understanding. She said—why, so she did—that he was the kind of man whose death would probably be a good thing for everybody.”
“When was it she said this, Mademoiselle?”
“Oh! about a month ago, I think it was.”
“How did the subject come up?”
Jenny Driver racked her brains for some minutes and finally shook her head.
“I can’t remember,” she confessed. “His name cropped up or something. It might have been in the newspaper. Anyway, I remember thinking it odd that Carlotta should be so vehement all of a sudden when she didn’t even know the man.”
“Certainly it is odd,” agreed Poirot thoughtfully. Then he asked:
“Do you know if Miss Adams was in the habit of taking veronal?”
“Not that I knew. I never saw her take it or mention taking it.”
“Did you ever see in her bag a small gold box with the initials C.A. on it in rubies?”
“A small gold box—no. I am sure I didn’t.”
“Do you happen to know where Miss Adams was last November?”
“Let me see. She went back to the States in November, I think—towards the end of the month. Before that she was in Paris.”
“Alone?”
“Alone, of course! Sorry—perhaps you didn’t mean that! I don’t know why any mention of Paris always suggests the worst. And it’s such a nice respectable place really. But Carlotta wasn’t the weekending sort, if that’s what you’re driving at.”
“Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to ask you a very important question. Was there any man Miss Adams was specially interested in?”
“The answer to that is ‘No,’” said Jenny slowly. “Carlotta, since I’ve known her, has been wrapped up in her work and in her delicate sister. She’s had the ‘head of the family all depends on me’ attitude very strongly. So the answer’s NO—strictly speaking.”
“Ah! and not speaking so strictly?”
“I shouldn’t wonder if—lately—Carlotta hadn’t been getting interested in some man.”
“Ah!”
“Mind you, that’s entirely guesswork on my part. I’ve gone simply by her manner. She’s been—different—not exactly dreamy, but abstracted. And she’s looked different, somehow. Oh! I can’t explain. It’s the sort of thing that another woman just feels—and, of course, may be quite wrong about.”
Poirot nodded.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle. One thing more. Is there any friend of Miss Adams whose initial is D?”
“D,” said Jenny Driver thoughtfully. “D? No, I’m sorry. I can’t think of anyone.”
Eleven
THE EGOIST
I do not think Poirot had expected any other answer to his question. All the same he shook his head sadly. He remained lost in thought. Jenny Driver leant forward, her elbows on the table.
“And now,” she said, “am I going to be told anything?”
“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “First of all let me compliment you. Your answers to my questions have been singularly intelligent. Clearly you have brains, Mademoiselle. You ask whether I am going to tell you anything. I answer—not very much. I will tell you just a few bare facts, Mademoiselle.”
He paused, and then said quietly:
“Last night Lord Edgware was murdered in his library. At ten o’clock yesterday evening a lady whom I believe to have been your friend Miss Adams came to the house, asked to see Lord Edgware, and announced herself as Lady Edgware. She wore a golden wig and was made up to resemble the real Lady Edgware who, as you probably know, is Miss Jane Wilkinson, the actress. Miss Adams (if it were she) only remained a few moments. She left the house at five minutes past ten but she did not return home till after midnight. She went to bed, having taken an overdose of veronal. Now, Mademoiselle, you see the point, perhaps, of some of the questions I have been asking you.”
Jenny drew a deep breath.
“Yes,” she said, “I see now. I believe you’re right, M. Poirot. Right about its having been Carlotta, I mean. For one thing, she bought a new hat off me yesterday.”
“A new hat?”
“Yes. She said she wanted one to shade the left side of her face.”
r />
There I must insert a few words of explanation as I do not know when these words will be read. I have seen many fashions of hats in my time—the cloche that shaded the face so completely that one gave up in despair the task of recognizing one’s friends. The tilted forward hat, the hat attached airily to the back of the head, the beret, and many other styles. In this particular June the hat of the moment was shaped like an inverted soup plate and was worn attached (as if by suction) over one ear, leaving the other side of the face and hair open to inspection.
“These hats are usually worn on the right side of the head?” asked Poirot.
The little modiste nodded.
“But we keep a few to be worn on the opposite side,” she explained. “Because there are people who much prefer their right profile to the left or who have a habit of parting the hair on one side only. Now, would there be any special reason for Carlotta’s wanting that side of her face to be in shadow?”
I remembered that the door of the house in Regent Gate opened to the left, so that anyone entering would be in full view of the butler that side. I remembered also that Jane Wilkinson (so I had noticed the other night) had a tiny mole at the corner of the left eye.
I said as much excitedly. Poirot agreed, nodding his head vigorously.
“It is so. It is so. Vous avez parfaitement raison, Hastings. Yes, that explains the purchase of the hat.”
“M. Poirot?” Jenny sat suddenly bolt upright. “You don’t think—you don’t for one moment think—that Carlotta did it? Kill him, I mean. You can’t think that? Not just because she spoke so bitterly about him.”
“I do not think so. But it is curious, all the same—that she should have spoken so, I mean. I would like to know the reason for it. What had he done—what did she know of him to make her speak in such a fashion?”
“I don’t know—but she didn’t kill him. She’s—oh! she was—well—too refined.”
Poirot nodded approvingly.
“Yes, yes. You put that very well. It is a point psychological. I agree. This was a scientific crime—but not a refined one.”
“Scientific?”
“The murderer knew exactly where to strike so as to reach the vital nerve centres at the base of the skull where it joins the cord.”