Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [45]
‘I’m afraid I have to stay here,’ Hastings told her.
‘Why?’
‘I mustn’t leave this room.’
‘You know,’ Barbara observed, ‘you’ve got a complex about this room. Do you remember last night? There we all were, completely shattered by the disappearance of the formula, and in you strode, and produced the most marvellous anti-climax by saying in your best conversational manner, “What a delightful room, Mr Amory.” It was so funny when the two of you walked in. There was this extraordinary little man with you, no more than five feet four, but with an air of immense dignity. And you, being oh, so polite.’
‘Poirot is rather odd at first sight, I admit,’ Hastings agreed. ‘And he has all kinds of little foibles. For instance, he has an absolute passion for neatness of any kind. If he sees an ornament set crookedly, or a speck of dust, or even a slight disarray in someone’s attire, it’s absolute torture to him.’
‘You make such a wonderful contrast to each other,’ Barbara said, laughing.
‘Poirot’s methods of detection are very much his own, you know,’ Hastings continued. ‘Order and method are his gods. He has a great disdain for tangible evidence, things like footprints and cigarette ash, you know what I mean. In fact he maintains that, taken by themselves, they would never enable a detective to solve a problem. The true work, he says, is done from within. And then he taps that egg-shaped head of his, and remarks with great satisfaction, “The little grey cells of the brain – always remember the little grey cells, mon ami.”’
‘Oh, I think he’s a poppet,’ Barbara declared. ‘But not as sweet as you, with your “What a delightful room”!’
‘But it is a delightful room,’ Hastings insisted, sounding rather nettled.
‘Personally, I don’t agree with you,’ said Barbara. She took his hand and tried to pull him towards the open french windows. ‘Anyway, you’ve had quite enough of it for now. Come along.’
‘You don’t understand,’ Hastings declared, taking his hand away from her. ‘I promised Poirot.’
Barbara spoke slowly. ‘You promised Monsieur Poirot that you would not leave this room? But why?’
‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Oh!’ Barbara was silent for a moment or two, and then her manner changed. She moved behind Hastings and began to recite, in an exaggerated dramatic voice, ‘“The boy stood on the burning deck –”’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘“Whence all but he had fled.” Well, my pet?’
‘I simply cannot understand you,’ Hastings declared in exasperation.
‘Why should you understand me? Oh, you really are a delight,’ declared Barbara, slipping her arm through his. ‘Come and be vamped. Really, you know, I think you’re adorable.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘Not at all,’ Barbara insisted. ‘I’m crazy about you. You’re positively pre-war.’
She pulled him to the french windows, and this time Hastings allowed himself to yield to the pressure of her arm. ‘You really are an extraordinary person,’ he told her. ‘You’re quite different from any girl I’ve ever met.’
‘I’m delighted to hear it. That’s a very good sign,’ said Barbara, as they now stood, face to face, framed in the open windows.
‘A good sign?’
‘Yes, it makes a girl feel hopeful.’
Hastings blushed, and Barbara laughed light-heartedly as she dragged him out into the garden.
Chapter 16
After Barbara’s exit with Hastings into the garden, the library remained unoccupied for no longer than a moment or two. Then the door to the hall opened, and Miss Amory entered, carrying a small work-bag. She went over to the settee, put the bag down, knelt, and began to feel at the back of the seat. As she did so, Dr Carelli entered by the other door, carrying a hat and a small suitcase. Seeing Miss Amory, Carelli stopped and murmured a word of apology at having intruded upon her.
Miss Amory rose from the settee, looking a trifle flustered. ‘I was searching for a knitting needle,’ she explained unnecessarily, brandishing her discovery as she spoke. ‘It had slipped down behind the seat.’ Then, taking in the significance of his