Lord Edgware Dies - Agatha Christie [84]
‘Then, the time having come, she walks in the direction of the Savoy Hotel. As soon as she sees the car pass, with (presumably) herself inside, she quickens her pace, enters at the same time and goes straight up the stairs. She is inconspicuously dressed in black. It is unlikely that anyone will notice her.
‘Upstairs she goes to her room. Carlotta Adams has just reached it. The maid has been told to go to bed – a perfectly usual proceeding. They again change clothes and then, I fancy, Lady Edgware suggests a little drink – to celebrate. In that drink is the veronal. She congratulates her victim, says she will send her the cheque tomorrow. Carlotta Adams goes home. She is very sleepy – tries to ring up a friend – possibly M. Martin or Captain Marsh, for both have Victoria numbers – but gives it up. She is too tried. The veronal is beginning to work. She goes to bed – and she never wakes again. The second crime has been carried through successfully.
‘Now for the third crime. It is at a luncheon party. Sir Montagu Corner makes a reference to a conversation he had with Lady Edgware on the night of the murder. That is easy. But Nemesis comes upon her later. There is a mention of the “judgement of Paris” and she takes Paris to be the only Paris she knows – the Paris of fashion and frills!
‘But opposite her is sitting a young man who was at the dinner at Chiswick – a young man who heard the Lady Edgware of that night discussing Homer and Greek civilization generally. Carlotta Adams was a cultured well-read girl. He cannot understand. He stares. And suddenly it comes to him. This is not the same woman. He is terribly upset. He is not sure of himself. He must have advice. He thinks of me. He speaks to Hastings.
‘But the lady overheard him. She is quick enough and shrewd enough to realize that in some way or other she has given herself away. She heard Hastings say that I will not be in till five. At twenty to five she goes to Ross’s maisonette. He opens the door, is very surprised to see her, but it does not occur to him to be afraid. A strong able-bodied young man is not afraid of a woman. He goes with her into the dining-room. She pours out some story to him. Perhaps she goes on her knees and flings her arms around his neck. And then, swift and sure, she strikes – as before. Perhaps he gives a choked cry – no more. He, too, is silenced.’
There was a silence. Then Japp spoke hoarsely.
‘You mean – she did it all the time?’
Poirot bowed his head.
‘But why, if he was willing to give her a divorce?’
‘Because the Duke of Merton is a pillar of the Anglo-Catholics. Because he would not dream of marrying a woman whose husband was alive. He is a young man of fanatical principles. As a widow, she was pretty certain to be able to marry him. Doubtless she had tentatively suggested divorce, but he had not risen to the bait.’
‘Then why send you to Lord Edgware?’
‘Ah! parbleu! ’ Poirot, from having been very correct and English, suddenly relapsed into his natural self. ‘To pull the cotton-wool over my eyes! To make me a witness to the fact that there was not motive for the murder! Yes, she dared to make me, Hercule Poirot, her cat’s-paw! Ma foi, she succeeded, too! Oh, that strange brain, childlike and cunning. She can act! How well she acted surprise at being told of the letter her husband had written her which she swore she had never received. Did she feel the slightest pang of remorse for any of her three crimes? I can swear she did not.’
‘I told you what she was like,’ cried Bryan Martin. ‘I told you. I knew she was going to kill him. I felt it. And I was afraid that somehow she’d get away with it. She’s clever – devilish clever in a kind of half-wit way. And I wanted her