Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [55]
‘This is a valuable antique, I fancy,’ Poirot remarked, picking up a jug.
‘Is it?’ was Raynor’s uninterested comment. ‘I don’t know much about that kind of thing. Come and have a drink,’ he suggested as he set his tray down on the coffee table.
‘Thank you,’ murmured Poirot, joining him there.
‘Well, here’s luck,’ said Raynor, taking a glass and drinking.
With a bow, Poirot raised the other glass to his lips. ‘To you, my friend. And now let me tell you of my suspicions. I first realized that –’
He broke off suddenly, jerking his head over his shoulder as though some sound had caught his ear. Looking first at the door and then at Raynor, he put his finger to his lips, indicating that he thought someone might be eavesdropping.
Raynor nodded in comprehension. The two men crept stealthily up to the door, and Poirot gestured to the secretary to remain in the room. Poirot opened the door sharply and bounced outside, but returned immediately looking extremely crestfallen. ‘Surprising,’ he admitted to Raynor. ‘I could have sworn I heard something. Ah well, I made a mistake. It does not happen very often. A votre santé, my friend.’ He drained the contents of his glass.
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Raynor, as he also drank.
‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Poirot.
‘Nothing. A load off my mind, that is all.’
Poirot moved to the table and put his glass down. ‘Do you know, Monsieur Raynor,’ he confided, ‘to be absolutely honest with you, I have never become quite used to your English national drink, the whisky. The taste, it pleases me not. It is bitter.’ He moved to the arm-chair and sat.
‘Really? I’m so sorry. Mine didn’t taste at all bitter.’ Raynor put his glass down on the coffee table, and continued, ‘I think you were about to tell me something just now, were you not?’
Poirot looked surprised. ‘Was I? What can it have been? Can I have forgotten already? I think that perhaps I wanted to explain to you how I proceed in an investigation. Voyons! One fact leads to another, so we continue. Does the next one fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact – no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing – a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that perhaps paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!’ Poirot made an extravagant gesture to his head with his hand. ‘It is significant! It is tremendous!’
‘Y-es, I see,’ Raynor murmured dubiously.
Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely in Raynor’s face that the secretary almost quailed before it. ‘Ah, beware! Peril to the detective who says, “It is so small – it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.” That way lies confusion! Everything matters.’ Poirot suddenly stopped, and tapped his head. ‘Ah! Now I remember what I wanted to talk to you about. It was one of those small, unimportant little facts. I wanted to talk to you, Monsieur Raynor, about dust.’
Raynor smiled politely. ‘Dust?’
‘Precisely. Dust,’ Poirot repeated. ‘My friend Hastings, he reminded me just now that I am a detective and not a housemaid. He thought himself very clever to make such a remark, but I am not so sure. The housemaid and the detective, after all, have something in common. The housemaid, what does she do? She explores all the dark corners with her broom. She brings into the light of day all the hidden things that have rolled conveniently out of sight. Does not the detective do much the same?’
Raynor looked bored, but murmured, ‘Very interesting, Monsieur Poirot.’ He moved to the chair by the table and sat, before asking, ‘But – is that all you were intending to say?’
‘No, not quite,’ replied Poirot. He leaned forward. ‘You did not throw dust in my eyes, Monsieur Raynor, because there was no dust. Do you understand?’
The secretary