Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [41]
Lucia glared at him. ‘Again I ask,’ her words emerging as though through clenched teeth, ‘what has that to do with Sir Claud’s death?’
Poirot spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘First a stolen necklace – then a stolen formula. Both would bring in a very large sum of money.’
‘What do you mean?’ Lucia gasped.
‘I mean, madame, that I would like you to answer this question. How much did Dr Carelli want – this time?’
Lucia turned away from Poirot. ‘I – I – I will not answer any more questions,’ she whispered.
‘Because you are afraid?’ asked Poirot, moving to her.
Lucia turned to face him again, flinging her head back in a gesture of defiance. ‘No,’ she asserted, ‘I’m not afraid. I simply don’t know what you are talking about! Why should Dr Carelli ask me for money?’
‘To buy his silence,’ Poirot replied. ‘The Amorys are a proud family, and you would not have wanted them to know that you are – the daughter of Selma Goetz!’
Lucia glared at Poirot for a moment without replying, and then, her shoulders sagging, she collapsed onto a stool, resting her head in her hands. At least a minute elapsed before she looked up with a sigh. ‘Does Richard know?’ she murmured.
‘He does not know yet, madame,’ Poirot replied slowly.
Lucia sounded desperate as she pleaded, ‘Don’t tell him, Monsieur Poirot! Please don’t tell him! He is so proud of his family name, so proud of his honour! I was wicked to have married him! But I was so miserable. I hated that life, that awful life I was forced to live with my mother. I felt degraded by it. But what could I do? And then, when Mama died, I was at last free! Free to be honest! Free to get away from that life of lies and intrigue. I met Richard. That was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. Richard came into my life. I loved him, and he wanted to marry me. How could I tell him who I was? Why should I tell him?’
‘And then,’ Poirot prompted her gently, ‘Carelli recognized you somewhere with Monsieur Amory, and began to blackmail you?’
‘Yes, but I had no money of my own,’ Lucia gasped. ‘I sold the necklace and paid him. I thought that was the end of it all. But yesterday he turned up here. He had heard of this formula that Sir Claud had invented.’
‘He wanted you to steal it for him?’
Lucia sighed. ‘Yes.’
‘And did you?’ asked Poirot, moving closer to her.
‘You won’t believe me – now,’ murmured Lucia, shaking her head sorrowfully.
Poirot contemplated the beautiful young woman with a look of sympathy. ‘Yes, yes, my child,’ he assured her. ‘I will still believe you. Have courage, and trust Papa Poirot, yes? Just tell me the truth. Did you take Sir Claud’s secret formula?’
‘No, no, I didn’t, I didn’t!’ Lucia declared vehemently. ‘But it’s true that I meant to. Carelli made a key to Sir Claud’s safe from an impression I took.’
Taking a key from his pocket and showing it to her, Poirot asked, ‘Is this it?’
Lucia looked at the key. ‘Yes, it was all quite easy. Carelli gave me that key. I was in the study, just steeling myself to open the safe when Sir Claud came in and found me. That’s the truth, I swear it!’
‘I believe you, madame,’ said Poirot. He returned the key to his pocket, moved to the arm-chair and sat, placing the tips of his fingers together, and pondering for a moment. ‘And yet you acquiesced eagerly in Sir Claud’s scheme of plunging the room into darkness?’
‘I didn’t want to be searched,’ Lucia explained. ‘Carelli had passed me a note at the same time as the key, and they were both in my dress.’
‘What did you do with them?’ Poirot asked her.
‘When the lights went out, I threw the key as far from me as I could. Over there.’ She pointed in the direction of the chair in which Edward Raynor had sat on the previous evening.
‘And the note that Carelli had passed to you?’ Poirot continued.
‘I didn’t know what to do with the note.’ Lucia rose and went to the table. ‘So I slipped it between the leaves of a book.’ Taking a book from the table, she searched in it. ‘Yes, it is still