Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [17]
‘That’s an outrageous suggestion,’ Richard declared heatedly. He looked around at the others. ‘I say we should all be searched. I’m certainly willing.’
‘So am I, of course,’ Edward Raynor made haste to announce.
Richard Amory looked pointedly at Dr Carelli. The Italian smiled and shrugged his shoulders. ‘And I.’
Richard’s glance moved to his aunt. ‘Very well, if we must, we must,’ Miss Amory grumbled.
‘Lucia?’ Richard asked, turning to his wife.
‘No, no, Richard,’ Lucia replied breathily. ‘Your father’s plan is best.’
Richard looked at her in silence for a moment.
‘Well, Richard?’ queried Sir Claud.
A heavy sigh was at first his only reply, and then, ‘Very well, I agree.’ He looked at his cousin Barbara who gave a gesture of assent.
Sir Claud leaned back in his chair, wearily, and spoke in a slow, dragging voice. ‘The taste of that coffee is still in my mouth,’ he said, and then yawned.
The clock on the mantelpiece began to strike, and there was complete silence as all turned to listen. Sir Claud turned slowly in his chair and looked steadily at his son Richard. On the last stroke of nine, the lights suddenly went out and the room was plunged into darkness.
There were a few gasps, and some stifled exclamations from the women, and then Miss Amory’s voice rang out clearly. ‘I don’t care for this at all.’
‘Do be quiet, Aunt Caroline,’ Barbara ordered her. ‘I’m trying to listen.’
For a few seconds there was absolute silence, followed by the sounds of heavy breathing, and then a rustling of paper. Silence again, before they all heard a kind of metallic clink, the sound of something tearing, and a loud bang, which must surely have been a chair being knocked over.
Suddenly, Lucia screamed. ‘Sir Claud! Sir Claud! I can’t bear it. I must have light. Somebody, please!’
The room remained in darkness. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a loud knock at the door leading to the hall. Lucia screamed again. As though in response, the lights suddenly came on again.
Richard was now standing by the door, apparently unable to decide whether or not to attempt to open it. Edward Raynor was on his feet by his chair, which had overturned. Lucia lay back in her chair, as though about to faint.
Sir Claud sat absolutely still in his arm-chair, with his eyes closed. His secretary suddenly pointed to the table beside his employer. ‘Look,’ he exclaimed. ‘The formula.’
On the table beside Sir Claud was a long envelope, of the type he had earlier described.
‘Thank God!’ cried Lucia. ‘Thank God!’
There was another knock at the door, which now opened slowly. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the doorway, as Tredwell ushered in a stranger, and then withdrew.
The assembled company stared at the stranger. What they saw was an extraordinary-looking little man, hardly more than five feet four inches in height, who carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he carried it at a slight angle, like an enquiring terrier. His moustache was distinctly stiff and military. He was very neatly dressed.
‘Hercule Poirot, at your service,’ said the stranger, and bowed.
Richard Amory held out a hand. ‘Monsieur Poirot,’ he said as they shook hands.
‘Sir Claud?’ asked Poirot. ‘Ah, no, you are too young, of course. You are his son, perhaps?’ He moved past Richard into the centre of the room. Behind him, another man, tall, middle-aged and of military bearing, had unobtrusively entered. As he moved to Poirot’s side, the detective announced, ‘My colleague, Captain Hastings.’
‘What a delightful room,’ Hastings observed as he shook hands with Richard Amory.
Richard turned back to Poirot. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot,’ he said, ‘but I fear we have brought you down here under a misapprehension. The need for your services has passed.’
‘Indeed?’ replied Poirot. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Richard continued. ‘It’s too bad, dragging you all the way down here from London. Of course, your fee – and expenses – I mean – er, that’ll be all right, of course