Poirot investigates - Agatha Christie [62]
‘Billy Kellett? But he’s known to the police!’
‘Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn–he was creating the character of Billy Kellett, “doing three months”, so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune, as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only–’
‘Yes?’
‘Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy–it invites detection! He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He went to the boathouse, donned his “tramp” clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!’
‘It’s impossible,’ murmured Japp.
‘Ask Madame,’ said my friend, smiling.
The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot’s plate. He opened it and a five-pound note fluttered out. My friend’s brow puckered.
‘Ah, sacré! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre Japp? Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child–mille tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?’
Part 10
The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman
Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of an informal nature. Amongst these was to be numbered Dr Hawker, a near neighbour of ours, and a member of the medical profession. It was the genial doctor’s habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and have a chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was an ardent admirer. The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last degree, admired the talents so far removed from his own.
On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half past eight and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. It must have been about a quarter of an hour later when the door of our sitting room flew open, and a distracted female precipitated herself into the room.
‘Oh, doctor, you’re wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed.’
I recognized in our new visitor Dr Hawker’s housekeeper, Miss Rider. The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on incoherence.
‘What terrible voice? Who is it, and what’s the trouble?’
‘It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it–and a voice spoke. “Help,” it said. “Doctor–help. They’ve killed me!” Then it sort of tailed away. “Who’s speaking?” I said. “Who’s speaking?” Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, “Foscatine”–something like that–“Regent’s Court”.’
The doctor uttered an exclamation.
‘Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent’s Court. I must go at once. What can have happened?’
‘A patient of yours?’ asked Poirot.
‘I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless–’ He hesitated.
‘I perceive the thought in your mind,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I shall be delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi.’
Taxis always make themselves sought for when