Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [47]
‘Oh, thank you so much,’ Miss Amory continued. ‘A remarkable man, Dr Carelli. My father, I mean. Such a remarkable man. He always slept in a four-poster feather bed; and the windows of his bedroom were never opened. The night air, he used to say, was most injurious. Unfortunately, when he had an attack of gout he was nursed by a young woman who insisted on the window being opened at the top, and my poor father died of it.’
She dropped the ball of wool yet again. This time, after picking it up, Carelli planted it firmly in her hand and led her to the door. Miss Amory moved slowly, talking all the time. ‘I do not care at all for hospital nurses, Dr Carelli,’ she informed him. ‘They gossip about their cases, they drink far too much tea, and they always upset the servants.’
‘Very true, dear lady, very true,’ Carelli agreed hastily, opening the door for her.
‘Thank you so much,’ Miss Amory said as he propelled her out of the room. Shutting the door after her, Carelli moved quickly to the desk and lifted the telephone receiver. After a pause, he spoke into it softly but urgently. ‘This is Market Cleve three-one-four. I want London . . . Soho double eight-five-three . . . no, five-three, that’s right . . . Eh? . . . Will you call me? . . . Right.’
He replaced the receiver, and then stood, biting his nails impatiently. After a moment, he crossed to the door of the study, opened it, and entered the room. Hardly had he done so, when Edward Raynor came into the library from the hall. Glancing around, Raynor strolled casually to the fireplace. He touched the vase of spills on the mantelpiece and, as he did so, Carelli came back into the room from the study. As Carelli closed the study door, Raynor turned and saw him.
‘I didn’t know you were in here,’ said the secretary.
‘I’m waiting for a phone call,’ Carelli explained. ‘Oh!’
After a pause, Carelli spoke again. ‘When did the police inspector come?’
‘About twenty minutes ago, I believe. Have you seen him?’
‘Only in the distance,’ replied Carelli.
‘He’s a Scotland Yard man,’ Raynor informed him. ‘Apparently, he happened to be down in the neighbour-hood clearing up some other case, so he was called in by the local police.’
‘That was a piece of luck, eh?’ observed Carelli.
‘Wasn’t it?’ The telephone rang, and Raynor moved towards it. Walking quickly ahead of him to the phone, Carelli said, ‘I think that will be my call.’ He looked at Raynor. ‘I wonder if you’d mind –’
‘Certainly, my dear fellow,’ the secretary assured him. ‘I’ll clear out.’
Raynor left the room, and Carelli lifted the receiver. He spoke quietly. ‘Hello? . . . Is that Miguel? . . . Yes? . . . No, damn it, I haven’t. It’s been impossible . . . No, you don’t understand, the old gentleman died last night . . . I’m leaving at once . . . Japp’s here . . . Japp. You know, the Scotland Yard man . . . No, I’ve not met him yet . . . I hope so, too . . . At the usual place, nine-thirty tonight . . . Right.’
Replacing the receiver, Carelli moved to the recess, picked up his suitcase, put on his hat, and went towards the french windows. At that moment, Hercule Poirot entered from the garden, and he and Carelli collided. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said the Italian.
‘Not at all,’ replied Poirot politely, continuing to block the way out.
‘If you would allow me to pass –’
‘Impossible,’ said Poirot, mildly. ‘Quite impossible.’
‘I insist.’
‘I shouldn’t,’ murmured Poirot, with a friendly smile. Suddenly, Carelli charged at Poirot. The little detective stepped briskly aside, tripping Carelli up neatly with an unexpected movement, and taking the Italian doctor’s suitcase from him at the same time. At that moment, Japp slid into the room behind Poirot, and Carelli fell into the Inspector’s arms.
‘Hello, what’s all this?’ exclaimed Inspector Japp. ‘Why, bless me if it isn’t Tonio!’
‘Ah!’ Poirot gave a little laugh as he moved away from them both. ‘I thought, my dear Japp, that you would probably be able to give a name to this gentleman.’
‘Oh, I know all about him,’ Japp affirmed.