“Do not blame yourself—how could you know? I—I would have known. The murderer, see you, Hastings, is as cunning as a tiger and as relentless. Ah! shall we never arrive?”
We were there at last. Ross lived in a maisonette on the first floor of a house in a big square in Kensington. A card stuck on a little slot by the doorbell gave us the information. The hall door was open. Inside was a big flight of stairs.
“So easy to come in. None to see,” murmured Poirot as he sprang up the stairs.
On the first floor was a kind of partition and a narrow door with a Yale lock. Ross’s card was stuck in the centre of the door.
We paused there. Everywhere there was dead silence.
I pushed the door—to my surprise it yielded.
We entered.
There was a narrow hall and an open door one side, another in front of us opening into what was evidently the sitting room.
Into this sitting room we went. It was the divided half of a big front drawing room. It was cheaply but comfortably furnished and it was empty. On a small table was the telephone, the receiver stood down beside the instrument.
Poirot took a swift step forward, looked round, then shook his head.
“Not here. Come, Hastings.”
We retraced our steps and, going into the hall, we passed through the other door. The room was a tiny dining room. At one side of the table, fallen sideways from a chair and sprawled across the table, was Ross.
Poirot bent over him.
He straightened up—his face was white.
“He’s dead. Stabbed at the base of the skull.”
For long afterwards the events of that afternoon remained like a nightmare in my mind. I could not rid myself of a dreadful feeling of responsibility.
Much later, that evening, when we were alone together, I stammered out to Poirot my bitter self-reproachings. He responded quickly.
“No, no, do not blame yourself. How could you have suspected? The good God has not given you a suspicious nature to begin with.”
“You would have suspected?”
“That is different. All my life, you see, I have tracked down murderers. I know how, each time, the impulse to kill becomes stronger, till, at last, for a trivial cause—” He broke off.
He had been very quiet ever since our ghastly discovery. All through the arrival of the police, the questioning of the other people in the house, the hundred and one details of the dreadful routine following upon a murder, Poirot had remained aloof—strangely quiet—a faraway speculative look in his eyes. Now, as he broke off his sentence, that same faraway speculative look returned.
“We have no time to waste in regrets, Hastings,” he said quietly. “No time to say ‘If’—The poor young man who is dead had something to tell us. And we know now that that something must have been of great importance—otherwise he would not have been killed. Since he can no longer tell us—we have got to guess. We have got to guess—with only one little clue to guide us.”
“Paris,” I said.
“Yes, Paris.” He got up and began to stroll up and down.
“There have been several mentions of Paris in this business, but unluckily in different connections. There is the word Paris engraved in the gold box. Paris in November last. Miss Adams was there then—perhaps Ross was there also. Was there someone else there whom Ross knew? Whom he saw with Miss Adams under somewhat peculiar circumstances?”
“We can never know,” I said.
“Yes, yes, we can know. We shall know! The power of the human brain, Hastings, is almost unlimited. What other mentions of Paris have we in connection with the case? There is the short woman with the pince-nez who called for the box at the jeweller’s there. Was she known to Ross? The Duke of Merton was in Paris when the crime was committed. Paris, Paris, Paris. Lord Edgware was going to Paris—Ah! possibly we have something there. Was he killed to prevent him going to Paris?”
He sat down again, his brows drawn together. I could almost feel the waves of his furious concentration of thought.
“What happened at that luncheon?” he murmured. “Some casual word or phrase must have shown to Donald Ross the significance of knowledge which was in his possession, but which up to then he had not known was significant. Was there some mention of France? Of Paris? Up your end of the table, I mean.”
“The word Paris was mentioned but not in that connection.”
I told him about Jane Wilkinson’s “gaffe.”
“That probably explains it,” he said thoughtfully. “The word Paris would be sufficient—taken in conjunction with something else. But what was that something else? At what was Ross looking? Or of what had he been speaking when that word was uttered?”
“He’d been talking about Scottish superstitions.”
“And his eyes were—where?”
“I’m not sure. I think he was looking up towards the head of the table where Mrs. Widburn was sitting.”
“Who sat next to her?”
“The Duke of Merton, then Jane Wilkinson, then some fellow I didn’t know.”
“M. le Duc. It is possible that he was looking at M. le Duc when the word Paris was spoken. The Duke, remember, was in Paris or was supposed to be in Paris at the time of the crime. Suppose Ross suddenly remembered something which went to show that Merton was not in Paris.”
“My dear Poirot!”
“Yes, you consider that an absurdity. So does everyone. Had M. le Duc a motive for the crime? Yes, a very strong one. But to suppose that he committed it—oh! absurd. He is so rich, of so assured a position, of such a well-known lofty character. No one will scrutinize his alibi too carefully. And yet to fake an alibi in a big hotel is not so difficult. To go across by the afternoon service—to return—it could be done. Tell me, Hastings, did Ross not say anything when the word Paris was mentioned? Did he show no emotion?”
“I do seem to remember that he drew in his breath rather sharply.”
“And his manner when he spoke to you afterwards. Was it bewildered? Confused?”
“That absolutely describes it.”
“Précisément. An idea has come to him. He thinks it preposterous! Absurd! And yet—he hesitates to voice it. First he will speak to me. But alas! when he has made up his mind, I am already departed.”
“If he had only said a little more to me,” I lamented.
“Yes. If only—Who was near you at the time?”
“Well, everybody, more or less. They were saying good-bye to Mrs. Widburn. I didn’t notice particularly.”
Poirot got up again.
“Have I been all wrong?” he murmured as he began once more to pace the floor. “All the time, have I been wrong?”
I looked at him with sympathy. Exactly what the ideas were that passed through his head I did not know. “Close as an oyster” Japp had called him, and the Scotland Yard inspector’s words were truly descriptive. I only know that now, at this moment, he was at war with himself.
“At any rate,” I said, “this murder cannot be put down to Ronald Marsh.”
“It is a point in his favour,” my friend said absentmindedly. “But that does not concern us for the moment.”
Abruptly, as before, he sat down.
“I cannot be entirely wrong. Hastings, do you remember that I once posed to myself five questions?”
“I seem to remember dimly something of the sort.”
“They were: Why did Lord Edgware change his mind on the subject of divorce? What is the explanation of the letter he said he wrote to his wife and which she said she never got? Why was there that expression of rage on his face when we left his house that day? What were a pair of pince-nez doing in Carlotta Adams’ handbag? Why did someone telephone to Lady Edgware at Chiswick and immediately
ring off?”
“Yes, these were the questions,” I said. “I remember now.”
“Hastings, I have had in mind all along a certain little idea. An idea as to who the man was—the man behind. Three of those questions I have answered—and the answers accord with my little idea. But two of the questions, Hastings, I cannot answer.
“You see what that means. Either I am wrong as to the person, and it cannot be that person. Or else the answer to the two questions that I cannot answer is there all the time. Which is it, Hastings? Which is it?”
Rising, he went to his desk, unlocked it and took out the letter Lucie Adams had sent him from America. He had asked Japp to let him keep it a day or two and Japp had agreed. Poirot laid it on the table in front of him and pored over it.
The minutes went by. I yawned and picked up a book. I did not think that Poirot would get much result from his study. We had already gone over and over the letter. Granted that it was not Ronald Marsh who was referred to, there was nothing whatever to show who else it might be.
I turned the pages of my book….
Possibly dozed off….
Suddenly Poirot uttered a low cry. I sat up abruptly.
He was looking at me with an indescribable expression, his eyes green and shining.
“Hastings, Hastings.”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Do you remember I said to you that if the murderer had been a man of order and method he would have cut this page, not torn it?”
“Yes?”
“I was wrong. There is order and method throughout this crime. The page had to be torn, not cut. Look for yourself.”
I looked.
“Eh bien, you see?”
I shook my head.
“You mean he was in a hurry?”
“Hurry or no hurry it would be the same thing. Do you not see, my friend? The page had to be torn….”
I shook my head.
In a low voice Poirot said:
“I have been foolish. I have been blind. But now—now—we shall get on!”
Twenty-seven
CONCERNING PINCE-NEZ
A minute later his mood had changed. He sprang to his feet.