Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [40]
‘Never! Who is she?’ asked Lucia.
‘She died – in Genoa – last November,’ Poirot informed her.
‘Indeed?’
‘Perhaps you met her there,’ Poirot remarked, replacing the letter in his pocket. ‘In fact, I think you did.’
‘I was never in Genoa in my life,’ Lucia insisted, sharply.
‘Then, if anyone were to say that they had seen you there?’
‘They would – they would be mistaken.’
Poirot persisted. ‘But I understand, madame, that you first met your husband in Genoa?’
‘Did Richard say that? How stupid of him! We met first in Milan.’
‘Then the woman you were with in Genoa –’
Lucia interrupted him angrily. ‘I tell you I was never in Genoa!’
‘Ah, pardon!’ exclaimed Poirot. ‘Of course, you said so just now. Yet it is odd!’
‘What is odd?’
Poirot closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. His voice came purringly from between his lips. ‘I will tell you a little story, madame,’ he announced, taking out a pocket book. ‘I have a friend who does the photography for certain London journals. He takes – how do you say? – the snapshots of contessas and other fashionable ladies who bathe themselves on the Lido. That sort of thing.’ Poirot searched in the pocket book before continuing, ‘Last November, this friend of mine, he finds himself in Genoa, and he recognizes a very notorious lady. The Baronne de Giers, she calls herself at this time, and she is the chère amie of a very noted French diplomat. The world talks, but that does not matter to the lady, because the diplomat, he talks also, and that is what she wants. He is more amorous than discreet, you understand –’ Poirot broke off with an innocent air. ‘I do not bore you, I hope, madame?’
‘Not at all, but I hardly see the point of this story.’
Looking through the contents of his pocket book, Poirot continued. ‘I am arriving at the point, I assure you, madame. My friend, he shows me a snapshot he has taken. We agree with each other that the Baronne de Giers is une très belle femme, and we are not at all surprised at the behaviour of the diplomat.’
‘Is that all?’
‘No, madame. You see, the lady was not alone. She was photographed walking with her daughter, and that daughter, madame, had a very beautiful face, and one, moreover, that it would not be at all easy to forget.’ Poirot rose, made his most gallant bow, and closed his pocket book. ‘Of course, I recognized that face as soon as I arrived here.’
Lucia looked at Poirot, and drew her breath in, sharply. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. After a moment, she pulled herself together, and laughed. ‘My dear Monsieur Poirot, what a curious mistake. Of course, I see the point of all your questions now. I remember the Baronne de Giers perfectly, and her daughter as well. The daughter was rather a dull girl, but the mother fascinated me. I was quite romantic about her, and went out walking with her on several occasions. I think my devotion amused her. That was doubtless how the mistake arose. That is how someone thought that I must be the woman’s daughter.’ Lucia sank back in her chair.
Poirot nodded slow appreciation, at which Lucia appeared visibly to relax. Then suddenly, leaning over the table towards her, the detective remarked, ‘But I thought you had never been to Genoa.’
Taken unawares, Lucia gasped. She stared at Poirot as he put his pocket book back in an inner pocket of his jacket. ‘You have no photograph,’ she said. It was half question, half statement.
‘No,’ Poirot confessed. ‘I have no photograph, madame. I knew the name that Selma Goetz passed under in Genoa. The rest – my friend and his photography – all of that was a harmless little invention of mine!’
Lucia leapt to her feet, her eyes blazing with anger. ‘You set a trap for me!’ she exclaimed furiously.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘Yes, madame,’ he affirmed. ‘I fear I had no alternative.’
‘What has all this to do with Sir Claud’s death?’ Lucia muttered as though to herself, looking wildly about the room.
Poirot affected a tone of indifference as, instead of answering, he posed another question. ‘Madame,’ he asked, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from