“You don’t think it possible that it could be Hercule Poirot?” I suggested as delicately as I was able.
Poirot threw me a glance of reproof.
“There are times when I have been in error—but this is not one of them. Clearly then, since the letter seems impossible, it is impossible. There is some fact about the letter which escapes us. I seek to discover what that fact is.”
And thereupon he resumed his study of the letter in question, using a small pocket microscope.
As he finished perusing each page, he passed it across to me. I, certainly, could find nothing amiss. It was written in a firm fairly legible handwriting and it was word for word as it had been telegraphed across.
Poirot sighed deeply.
“There is no forgery of any kind here—no, it is all written in the same hand. And yet, since, as I say, it is impossible—”
He broke off. With an impatient gesture he demanded the sheets from me. I passed them over, and once again he went slowly through them.
Suddenly he uttered a cry.
I had left the breakfast table and was standing looking out of the window. At this sound, I turned sharply.
Poirot was literally quivering with excitement. His eyes were green like a cat’s. His pointing finger trembled.
“See you, Hastings? Look here—quickly—come and look.”
I ran to his side. Spread out before him was one of the middle sheets of the letter. I could see nothing unusual about it.
“See you not? All these other sheets they have the clean edge—they are single sheets. But this one—see—one side of it is ragged—it has been torn. Now do you see what I mean? This letter was a double sheet, and so, you comprehend, one page of the letter is missing.”
I stared stupidly, no doubt.
“But how can it be. It makes sense.”
“Yes, yes, it makes sense. That is where the cleverness of the idea comes in. Read—and you will see.”
I think I cannot do better than to apprehend a facsimile of the page in question.
“You see it now?” said Poirot. “The letter breaks off where she is talking of Captain Marsh. She is sorry for him, and then she says: ‘He enjoyed my show very much.’ Then on the new sheet she goes on: ‘he said…’ But, mon ami, a page is missing. The ‘he’ of the new page may not be the ‘He’ of the old page. In fact it is not the ‘He’ of the old page. It is another man altogether who proposed that hoax. Observe, nowhere after that is the name mentioned. Ah! C’est épatant! Somehow or other our murderer gets hold of this letter. It gives him away. No doubt he thinks to suppress it altogether, and then—reading it over—he sees another way of dealing with it. Remove one page, and the letter is capable of being twisted into a damning accusation of another man—a man too who has a motive for Lord Edgware’s death. Ah! it was a gift! The money for the confiture as you say! He tears the sheet off and replaces the letter.”
I looked at Poirot in some admiration. I was not perfectly convinced of the truth of his theory. It seemed to be highly possible that Carlotta had used an odd half sheet that was already torn. But Poirot was so transfigured with joy that I simply had not the heart to suggest this prosaic possibility. After all, he might be right.
I did, however, venture to point out one or two difficulties in the way of his theory.
“But how did the man, whoever he was, get hold of the letter? Miss Adams took it straight from her handbag and gave it herself to the maid to post. The maid told us so.”
“Therefore we must assume one of two things. Either the maid was lying, or else, during that evening, Carlotta Adams met the murderer.”
I nodded.
“It seems to me that that last possibility is the most likely one. We still do not know where Carlotta Adams was between the time she left the flat and nine o’clock when she left her suitcase at Euston station. During that time, I believe myself that she met the murderer in some appointed spot—they probably had some food together. He gave her some last instructions. What happened exactly in regard to the letter we do not know. One can make a guess. She may have been carrying it in her hand meaning to post it. She may have laid it down on the table in the restaurant. He sees the address and scents a possible danger. He may have picked it up adroitly, made an excuse for leaving the table, opened it, read it, torn out the sheet, and then either replaced it on the table, or perhaps given it to her as she left, telling her that she had dropped it without noticing. The exact way of it was not important—but two things do seem clear. That Carlotta Adams met the murderer that evening either before the murder of Lord Edgware, or afterwards (there was time after she left the Corner House for a brief interview). I have a fancy, though there I am perhaps wrong, that it was the murderer who gave her the gold box—it was possibly a sentimental memento of their first meeting. If so, the murderer is D.”
“I don’t see the point of the gold box.”
“Listen, Hastings, Carlotta Adams was not addicted to veronal. Lucie Adams says so, and I, too, believe it to be true. She was a clear-eyed healthy girl with no predilection for such things. None of her friends nor her maid recognized the box. Why, then, was it found in her possession after she died? To create the impression that she did take veronal and that she had taken it for a considerable time—that is to say at least six months. Let us say that she met the murderer after the murder if only for a few minutes. They had a drink together, Hastings, to celebrate the success of their plan. And in the girl’s drink he put sufficient veronal to ensure that there should be no waking for her on the following morning.”
“Horrible,” I said with a shudder.
“Yes, it was not pretty,” said Poirot dryly.
“Are you going to tell Japp all this?” I asked after a minute or two.
“Not at the moment. What have I got to tell? He would say, the excellent Japp, ‘another nest of the mare! The girl wrote on an odd sheet of paper!’ C’est tout.”
I looked guiltily at the ground.
“What can I say to that? Nothing. It is a thing that might have happened. I only know it did not happen because it is necessary that it should not have happened.”
He paused. A dreamy expression stole across his face.
“Figure to yourself, Hastings, if only that man had had the order and the method, he would have cut that sheet not torn it. And we should have noticed nothing. But nothing!”
“So we deduce that he is a man of careless habits,” I said, smiling.
“No, no. He might have been in a hurry. You observe it is very carelessly torn. Oh! assuredly he was pressed for time.”
He paused and then said:
“One thing you do remark, I hope. This man—this D—he must have had a very good alibi for that evening.”
“I can’t see how he could have had any alibi at all if he spent his time first at Regent Gate doing a murder and then with Carlotta Adams.”
“Precisely,” said Poirot. “That is what I mean. He is badly in need of an alibi, so no doubt he prepared one. Another point: Does his name really begin with D? Or does D stand for some nickname by which he was known to her?”
He paused and then said softly:
“A man whose initial or whose nickname is D. We have got to find him, Hastings. Yes, we have got to find him.”
Twenty-four
NEWS FROM PARIS
On the following day we had an unexpected visit.
Geraldine Marsh was announced.
I felt sorry for her as Poirot greeted her and set a chair for her. Her large dark eyes seemed wider and darker than ever. There were black circles round them as though she had not slept. Her face looked extraordinarily haggard and weary for one so young—little more, really, than a child.
“I have come to see you, M. Poirot, because I don’t know how to go on any longer. I am so terribly worried and upset.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle?”
His manner was gravely sympathetic.
“Ronald told me what you said to him tha
t day. I mean that dreadful day when he was arrested.” She shivered. “He told me that you came up to him suddenly, just when he had said that he supposed no one would believe him, and that you said to him: ‘I believe you.’ Is that true, M. Poirot?”
“It is true, Mademoiselle, that is what I said.”
“I know, but I meant not was it true you said it, but were the words really true. I mean, did you believe his story?”
Terribly anxious she looked, leaning forward there, her hands clasped together.
“The words were true, Mademoiselle,” said Poirot quietly. “I do not believe your cousin killed Lord Edgware.”
“Oh!” The colour came into her face, her eyes opened big and wide. “Then you must think—that someone else did it!”
“Evidemment, Mademoiselle.” He smiled.
“I’m stupid. I say things badly. What I mean is—you think you know who that somebody is?”
She leaned forward eagerly.
“I have my little ideas, naturally—my suspicions, shall we say?”
“Won’t you tell me? Please—please.”
Poirot shook his head.
“It would be—perhaps—unfair.”
“Then you have got a definite suspicion of somebody?”
Poirot merely shook his head noncommittally.
“If only I knew a little more,” pleaded the girl. “It would make it so much easier for me. And I might perhaps be able to help you. Yes, really I might be able to help you.”
Her pleading was very disarming, but Poirot continued to shake his head.
“The Duchess of Merton is still convinced it was my stepmother,” said the girl thoughtfully. She gave a slight questioning glance at Poirot.
He showed no reaction.
“But I hardly see how that can be.”
“What is your opinion of her? Of your stepmother?”
“Well—I hardly know her. I was at school in Paris when my father married her. When I came home, she was quite kind. I mean, she just didn’t notice I was there. I thought her very empty-headed and—well, mercenary.”
Poirot nodded.
“You spoke of the Duchess of Merton. You have seen much of her?”
“Yes. She has been very kind to me. I have been with her a great deal during the last fortnight. It has been terrible—with all the talk, and the reporters, and Ronald in prison and everything.” She shivered. “I feel I have no real friends. But the Duchess has been wonderful, and he has been nice too—her son, I mean.”
“You like him?”
“He is shy, I think. Stiff and rather difficult to get on with. But his mother talks a lot about him, so that I feel I know him better than I really do.”