Lord Edgware Dies - Агата Кристи

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was something strangely likeable about the young man. He had a round face and an absurdly small black moustache that gave one the impression of being marooned in the middle of a desert.

      Carlotta Adams, I noticed, had an eye on him, and it was after a glance in his direction that she rose and broke up the party.

      ‘It was just sweet of you to come up here,’ said Jane. ‘I do so love doing things on the spur of the moment, don’t you?’

      ‘No,’ said Miss Adams. ‘I’m afraid I always plan a thing out very carefully before I do it. It saves—worry.’

      There was something faintly disagreeable in her manner.

      ‘Well, at any rate the results justify you,’ laughed Jane. ‘I don’t know when I enjoyed anything so much as I did your show tonight.’

      The American girl’s face relaxed.

      ‘Well, that’s very sweet of you,’ she said warmly. ‘And I guess I appreciate your telling me so. I need encouragement. We all do.’

      ‘Carlotta,’ said the young man with the black moustache. ‘Shake hands and say thank you for the party to Aunt Jane and come along.’

      The way he walked straight through the door was a miracle of concentration. Carlotta followed him quickly.

      ‘Well,’ said Jane, ‘what was that that blew in and called me Aunt Jane? I hadn’t noticed him before.’

      ‘My dear,’ said Mrs Widburn. ‘You mustn’t take any notice of him. Most brilliant as a boy in the O.U.D.S. You’d hardly think so now, would you? I hate to see early promise come to nothing. But Charles and I positively must toddle.’

      The Widburns duly toddled and Bryan Martin went with them.

      ‘Well, M. Poirot?’

      He smiled at her.

      ‘Eh bien, Lady Edgware?’

      ‘For goodness’ sake, don’t call me that. Let me forget it! If you aren’t the hardest-hearted little man in Europe!’

      ‘But no, but no, I am not hard-hearted.’

      Poirot, I thought, had had quite enough champagne, possibly a glass too much.

      ‘Then you’ll go and see my husband? And make him do what I want?’

      ‘I will go and see him,’ Poirot promised cautiously.

      ‘And if he turns you down—as he will—you’ll think of a clever plan. They say you’re the cleverest man in England, M. Poirot.’

      ‘Madame, when I am hard-hearted, it is Europe you mention. But for cleverness you say only England.’

      ‘If you put this through I’ll say the universe.’

      Poirot raised a deprecating hand.

      ‘Madame, I promise nothing. In the interests of the psychology I will endeavour to arrange a meeting with your husband.’

      ‘Psycho-analyse him as much as you like. Maybe it would do him good. But you’ve got to pull it off—for my sake. I’ve got to have my romance, M. Poirot.’

      She added dreamily: ‘Just think of the sensation it will make.’

       CHAPTER 3

       The Man with the Gold Tooth

      It was a few days later, when we were sitting at breakfast, that Poirot flung across to me a letter that he had just opened.

      ‘Well, mon ami,’ he said. ‘What do you think of that?’

      The note was from Lord Edgware and in stiff formal language it made an appointment for the following day at eleven.

      I must say that I was very much surprised. I had taken Poirot’s words as uttered lightly in a convivial moment, and I had had no idea that he had actually taken steps to carry out his promise.

      Poirot, who was very quick-witted, read my mind and his eyes twinkled a little.

      ‘But yes, mon ami, it was not solely the champagne.’

      ‘I didn’t mean that.’

      ‘But yes—but yes—you thought to yourself, the poor old one, he has the spirit of the party, he promises things that he will not perform—that he has no intention of performing. But, my friend, the promises of Hercule Poirot are sacred.’

      He drew himself up in a stately manner as he said the last words. ‘Of course. Of course. I know that,’ I said hastily. ‘But I thought that perhaps your judgment was slightly—what shall I say—influenced.’

      ‘I am not in the habit of letting my judgment be “influenced” as you call it, Hastings. The best and driest of champagne, the most golden-haired and seductive of women—nothing influences the judgment of Hercule Poirot. No, mon ami, I am interested—that is all.’

      ‘In Jane Wilkinson’s love affair?’

      ‘Not exactly that. Her love affair, as you call it, is a very commonplace business. It is a step in the successful career of a very beautiful woman. If the Duke of Merton had neither a title nor wealth his romantic likeness to a dreamy monk would no longer interest the lady. No, Hastings, what intrigues me is the psychology of the matter. The interplay of character. I welcome the chance of studying Lord Edgware at close quarters.’

      ‘You do not expect to be successful in your mission?’

      ‘Pourquoi pas? Every man has his weak spot. Do not imagine, Hastings, that because I am studying the case from a psychological standpoint, I shall not try my best to succeed in the commission entrusted to me. I always enjoy exercising my ingenuity.’

      I had feared an allusion to the little grey cells and was thankful to be spared it.

      ‘So we go to Regent Gate at eleven tomorrow?’ I said.

      ‘We?’ Poirot raised his eyebrows quizzically.

      ‘Poirot!’ I cried. ‘You are not going to leave me behind. I always go with you.’

      ‘If it were a crime, a mysterious poisoning case, an assassination—ah! these are the things your soul delights in. But a mere matter of social adjustment?’

      ‘Not another word,’ I said determinedly. ‘I’m coming.’

      Poirot laughed gently, and at that moment we were told that a gentleman had called.

      To our great surprise our visitor proved to be Bryan Martin.

      The actor looked older by daylight. He was still handsome, but it was a kind of ravaged handsomeness. It flashed across my mind that he might conceivably take drugs. There was a kind of nervous tension about him that suggested the possibility.

      ‘Good morning, M. Poirot,’ he said in a cheerful manner. ‘You and Captain Hastings breakfast at a reasonable hour, I am glad to see. By the way, I suppose you are very busy just now?’

      Poirot smiled at him amiably.

      ‘No,’ he said. ‘At the moment I have practically no business of importance on hand.’

      ‘Come now,’ laughed Bryan. ‘Not called in by Scotland Yard? No delicate matters to investigate for Royalty? I can hardly believe it.’

      ‘You confound fiction with reality, my friend,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I am, I assure you, at the moment completely out of work, though not yet on the dole. Dieu merci.’

      ‘Well, that’s luck for me,’ said Bryan with another laugh. ‘Perhaps

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