Problem at Pollensa Bay - Agatha Christie [10]
He led the way out into the hall, past the staircase, past the great clock, past the recess in which stood the gong. Exactly opposite that recess was a closed door.
He tapped on it, first gently, then with increasing violence. But there was no reply. Very nimbly he dropped to his knees and applied his eye to the keyhole. He rose and looked round.
‘Messieurs,’ he said, ‘we must break open this door. Immediately!’
As before no one questioned his authority. Geoffrey Keene and Gregory Barling were the two biggest men. They attacked the door under Poirot’s directions. It was no easy matter. The doors of Lytcham Close were solid affairs–no modern jerry-building here. It resisted the attack valiantly, but at last it gave before the united attack of the men and crashed inward.
The house party hesitated in the doorway. They saw what they had subconsciously feared to see. Facing them was the window. On the left, between the door and the window, was a big writing table. Sitting, not at the table, but sideways to it, was a man–a big man–slouched forward in the chair. His back was to them and his face to the window, but his position told the tale. His right hand hung limply down and below it, on the carpet, was a small shining pistol.
Poirot spoke sharply to Gregory Barling.
‘Take Mrs Lytcham Roche away–and the other two ladies.’
The other nodded comprehendingly. He laid a hand on his hostess’s arm. She shivered.
‘He has shot himself,’ she murmured. ‘Horrible!’ With another shiver she permitted him to lead her away. The two girls followed.
Poirot came forward into the room, the two young men behind him.
He knelt down by the body, motioning them to keep back a little.
He found the bullet hole on the right side of the head. It had passed out the other side and had evidently struck a mirror hanging on the left-hand wall, since this was shivered. On the writing table was a sheet of paper, blank save for the word Sorry scrawled across it in hesitating, shaky writing.
Poirot’s eyes darted back to the door.
‘The key is not in the lock,’ he said. ‘I wonder–’
His hand slid into the dead man’s pocket.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘At least I think so. Have the goodness to try it, monsieur?’
Geoffrey Keene took it from him and tried it in the lock.
‘That’s it, all right.’
‘And the window?’
Harry Dalehouse strode across to it.
‘Shut.’
‘You permit?’ Very swiftly, Poirot scrambled to his feet and joined the other at the window. It was a long French window. Poirot opened it, stood a minute scrutinizing the grass just in front of it, then closed it again.
‘My friends,’ he said, ‘we must telephone for the police. Until they have come and satisfied themselves that it is truly suicide nothing must be touched. Death can only have occurred about a quarter of an hour ago.’
‘I know,’ said Harry hoarsely. ‘We heard the shot.’
‘Comment? What is that you say?’
Harry explained with the help of Geoffrey Keene. As he finished speaking, Barling reappeared.
Poirot repeated what he had said before, and while Keene went off to telephone, Poirot requested Barling to give him a few minutes’ interview.
They went into a small morning room, leaving Digby on guard outside the study door, while Harry went off to find the ladies.
‘You were, I understand, an intimate friend of M. Lytcham Roche,’ began Poirot. ‘It is for that reason that I address myself to you primarily. In etiquette, perhaps, I should have spoken first to madame, but at the moment I do not think that is pratique.’
He paused.
‘I am, see you, in a delicate situation. I will lay the facts plainly before you. I am, by profession, a private detective.’
The financier smiled a little.
‘It is not necessary to tell me that, M. Poirot. Your name is, by now, a household word.’
‘Monsieur is too amiable,’ said Poirot, bowing. ‘Let us, then, proceed. I receive, at my London address, a letter from this M. Lytcham Roche. In it he says that he has reason to believe that he is being swindled of