LITMIR.BIZ

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good two hours. As to what brings me to see you—well, it’s murder.’

      ‘Murder?’

      Japp nodded.

      ‘Lord Edgware was killed at his house in Regent Gate last night. Stabbed in the neck by his wife.’

      ‘By his wife?’ I cried.

      In a flash I remembered Bryan Martin’s words on the previous morning. Had he had a prophetic knowledge of what was going to happen? I remembered, too, Jane’s easy reference to ‘bumping him off’. Amoral, Bryan Martin had called her. She was the type, yes. Callous, egotistical and stupid. How right he had been in his judgment.

      All this passed through my mind while Japp went on:

      ‘Yes. Actress, you know. Well known. Jane Wilkinson. Married him three years ago. They didn’t get on. She left him.’

      Poirot was looking puzzled and serious.

      ‘What makes you believe that it was she who killed him?’

      ‘No belief about it. She was recognized. Not much concealment about it, either. She drove up in a taxi—’

      ‘A taxi—’ I echoed involuntarily, her words at the Savoy that night coming back to me.

      ‘—rang the bell, asked for Lord Edgware. It was ten o’clock. Butler said he’d see. “Oh!” she says cool as a cucumber. “You needn’t. I am Lady Edgware. I suppose he’s in the library.” And with that she walks along and opens the door and goes in and shuts it behind her.

      ‘Well the butler thought it was queer, but all right. He went downstairs again. About ten minutes later he heard the front door shut. So, anyway, she hadn’t stayed long. He locked up for the night about eleven. He opened the library door, but it was dark, so he thought his master had gone to bed. This morning the body was discovered by a housemaid. Stabbed in the back of the neck just at the roots of the hair.’

      ‘Was there no cry? Nothing heard?’

      ‘They say not. That library’s got pretty well sound-proof doors, you know. And there’s traffic passing, too. Stabbed in that way, death results amazingly quickly. Straight through the cistern into the medulla, that’s what the doctor said—or something very like it. If you hit on exactly the right spot it kills a man instantaneously.’

      ‘That implies a knowledge of exactly where to strike. It almost implies medical knowledge.’

      ‘Yes—that’s true. A point in her favour as far as it goes. But ten to one it was a chance. She just struck lucky. Some people do have amazing luck, you know.’

      ‘Not so lucky if it results in her being hanged, mon ami,’ observed Poirot.

      ‘No. Of course she was a fool—sailing in like that and giving her name and all.’

      ‘Indeed, very curious.’

      ‘Possibly she didn’t intend mischief. They quarrelled and she whipped out a penknife and jabbed him one.’

      ‘Was it a penknife?’

      ‘Something of that kind, the doctor says. Whatever it was, she took it away with her. It wasn’t left in the wound.’

      Poirot shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.

      ‘No, no, my friend, it was not like that. I know the lady. She would be quite incapable of such a hot-blooded impulsive action. Besides, she would be most unlikely to have a penknife with her. Few women have—and assuredly not Jane Wilkinson.’

      ‘You know her, you say, M. Poirot?’

      ‘Yes. I know her.’

      He said no more for the moment. Japp was looking at him inquisitively.

      ‘Got something up your sleeve, M. Poirot?’ he ventured at last.

      ‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘That reminds me. What has brought you to me? Eh? It is not merely to pass the time of day with an old comrade? Assuredly not. You have here a nice straightforward murder. You have the criminal. You have the motive—what exactly is the motive, by the way?’

      ‘Wanted to marry another man. She was heard to say so not a week ago. Also heard to make threats. Said she meant to call round in a taxi and bump him off.’

      ‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘You are very well informed—very well informed. Someone has been very obliging.’

      I thought his eyes looked a question, but if so, Japp did not respond.

      ‘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

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