Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [52]
Hastings’ sheepish grin faded, to be replaced by a blush of embarrassment. ‘I say, I’m awfully sorry, Poirot,’ he exclaimed. ‘I just stepped outside for a second, and then I saw you through the window, coming into the room, so I thought it didn’t matter.’
‘You mean you thought it better not to return to face me,’ declared Poirot. ‘Well, my dear Hastings, you may have done the most irreparable damage. I found Carelli in here. The good Lord alone knows what he was doing, or what evidence he was tampering with.’
‘I say, Poirot, I really am sorry,’ Hastings apologized again. ‘I’m most awfully sorry.’
‘If you have not done the damage irreparable, it is more by good luck than for any other reason. But now, mon ami, the moment has come when we must employ our little grey cells.’ Pretending to smack Hastings on the cheek, Poirot in fact gave his colleague an affectionate pat.
‘Ah, good! Let’s get to work,’ Hastings exclaimed. ‘No, it is not good, my friend,’ Poirot told him. ‘It is bad. It is obscure.’ His face wore a troubled look as he continued, ‘It is dark, as dark as it was last night.’ He thought for a moment, and then added, ‘But – yes – I think there is perhaps an idea. The germ of an idea. Yes, we will start there!’
Looking completely mystified, Hastings asked, ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
The tone of Poirot’s voice changed. He spoke gravely and thoughtfully. ‘Why did Sir Claud die, Hastings? Answer me that. Why did Sir Claud die?’
Hastings stared at him. ‘But we know that,’ he exclaimed.
‘Do we?’ asked Poirot. ‘Are you so very sure?’
‘Er – yes,’ Hastings responded, though somewhat uncertainly. ‘He died – he died because he was poisoned.’
Poirot made an impatient gesture. ‘Yes, but why was he poisoned?’
Hastings thought carefully before replying. Then, ‘Surely it must have been because the thief suspected –’ he began.
Poirot slowly shook his head as Hastings continued, ‘because the thief suspected – that he had been discovered –’ He broke off again as he observed Poirot continuing to shake his head.
‘Suppose, Hastings –’ Poirot murmured, ‘just suppose that the thief did not suspect?’
‘I don’t quite see,’ Hastings confessed.
Poirot moved away, and then turned back with his arm raised in a gesture that seemed intended to hold his friend’s attention. He paused and cleared his throat. ‘Let me recount to you, Hastings,’ he declared, ‘the sequence of events as they might have gone, or rather as I think they were meant to go.’
Hastings sat in the chair by the table as Poirot continued.
‘Sir Claud dies in his chair one night.’ Poirot moved to the arm-chair, sat, and paused for a moment before repeating thoughtfully, ‘Yes, Sir Claud dies in his chair. There are no suspicious circumstances attending that death. In all probability it will be put down to heart failure. It will be some days before his private papers are examined. His will is the only document that will be searched for. After the funeral, in due course, it will be discovered that his notes on the new explosive are incomplete. It may never be known that the exact formula existed. You see what that gives to our thief, Hastings?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’ asked Poirot.
Hastings looked puzzled. ‘What?’ he repeated.
‘Security. That is what it gives the thief. He can dispose of his booty quite safely, whenever he wishes to. There is no pressure upon him. Even if the existence of the formula is known, he will have had plenty of time to cover his tracks.’
‘Well, it’s an idea – yes, I suppose so,’ Hastings commented in a dubious tone.
‘But naturally it is an idea!’ Poirot cried. ‘Am I not Hercule Poirot? But see now where this idea leads us. It tells us that the murder of Sir Claud was not a chance