Black Coffee - Agatha Christie [56]
‘There was no dust on that box of drugs. Mademoiselle Barbara commented on the fact. But there should have been dust. That shelf on which it stands’ – and Poirot gestured towards it as he spoke – ‘is thick with dust. It was then that I knew –’
‘Knew what?’
‘I knew,’ Poirot continued, ‘that someone had taken that box down recently. That the person who poisoned Sir Claud Amory would not need to go near the box last night, since he had on some earlier occasion helped himself to all the poison he needed, choosing a time when he knew he would not be disturbed. You did not go near the box of drugs last night, because you had already taken from it the hyoscine you needed. But you did handle the coffee, Monsieur Raynor.’
Raynor smiled patiently. ‘Dear me! Do you accuse me of murdering Sir Claud?’
‘Do you deny it?’ asked Poirot.
Raynor paused before replying. When he spoke again, a harsher tone had entered his voice. ‘Oh no,’ he declared, ‘I don’t deny it. Why should I? I’m really rather proud of the whole thing. It ought to have gone off without a hitch. It was sheer bad luck that made Sir Claud open the safe again last night. He’s never done such a thing before.’
Poirot sounded rather drowsy as he asked, ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Why not? You’re so sympathetic. It’s a pleasure to talk to you.’ Raynor laughed, and continued. ‘Yes, things very nearly went wrong. But that’s what I really pride myself on, turning a failure into a success.’ A triumphant expression appeared on his face. ‘To devise a hiding place on the spur of the moment was really rather creditable. Would you like me to tell you where the formula is now?’
His drowsiness now accentuated, Poirot seemed to find difficulty in speaking clearly. ‘I – I do not understand you,’ he whispered.
‘You made one little mistake, Monsieur Poirot,’ Raynor told him with a sneer. ‘You underestimated my intelligence. I wasn’t really taken in just now by your ingenious red herring about poor old Carelli. A man with your brains couldn’t seriously have believed that Carelli – why, it won’t bear thinking about. You see, I’m playing for big stakes. That piece of paper, delivered in the right quarters, means fifty thousand pounds to me.’ He leaned back. ‘Just think what a man of my ability can do with fifty thousand pounds.’
In a voice of increasing drowsiness, Poirot managed to reply, ‘I – I do not – like to think of it.’
‘Well, perhaps not. I appreciate that,’ Raynor conceded. ‘One has to allow for a different point of view.’
Poirot leaned forward, and appeared to be making an effort to pull himself together. ‘And it will not be so,’ he exclaimed. ‘I will denounce you. I, Hercule Poirot –’ He broke off suddenly.
‘Hercule Poirot will do nothing,’ declared Raynor, as the detective sank back in his seat. With a laugh which was close to a sneer, the secretary continued, ‘You never guessed, did you, even when you said that the whisky was bitter? You see, my dear Monsieur Poirot, I took not just one but several tubes of hyoscine from that box. If anything, you have had slightly more than I gave Sir Claud.’
‘Ah, mon Dieu,’ Poirot gasped, struggling to rise. In a weak voice he tried to call, ‘Hastings! Hast –’ His voice faded away, and he sank back into his chair. His eyelids closed.
Raynor got to his feet, pushed his chair aside, and moved to stand over Poirot. ‘Try to keep awake, Monsieur Poirot,’ he said. ‘Surely you’d like to see where the formula was hidden, wouldn’t you?’
He waited for a moment, but Poirot’s eyes remained closed. ‘A swift, dreamless sleep, and no awakening, as our dear friend Carelli puts it,’ Raynor commented dryly as he went to the mantelpiece, took the spills, folded them, and put them in his pocket. He moved towards the french windows, pausing only to call over his shoulder, ‘Goodbye, my dear Monsieur Poirot.’
He was about to step out into the garden when he was halted by the sound of Poirot’s voice, speaking cheerfully and naturally. ‘Would you not like the envelope as well?’
Raynor spun around,