Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘I await a visitor,’ he explained. ‘It cannot be – surely it cannot be that I am mistaken? No, here she is.’

To my utter astonishment, in another minute Miss Clegg walked into the room. She was less calm than usual, and was breathing hard as though she had been running. I saw the fear in her eyes as she looked at Poirot.

‘Sit down, mademoiselle,’ he said kindly. ‘I guessed rightly, did I not?’

For answer she burst into tears.

‘Why did you do it?’ asked Poirot gently. ‘Why?’

‘I loved him so,’ she answered. ‘I was nursemaid to him when he was a little boy. Oh, be merciful to me!’

‘I will do all I can. But you understand that I cannot permit an innocent man to hang – even though he is an unpleasing scoundrel.’

She sat up and said in a low voice: ‘Perhaps in the end I could not have, either. Do whatever must be done.’

Then, rising, she hurried from the room.

‘Did she shoot him?’ I asked utterly bewildered.

Poirot smiled and shook his head.

‘He shot himself. Do you remember that he carried his handkerchief in his right sleeve? That showed me that he was left-handed. Fearing exposure, after his stormy interview with Mr Parker, he shot himself. In the morning Miss Clegg came to call him as usual and found him lying dead. As she has just told us, she had known him from a little boy upward, and was filled with fury against the Parkers, who had driven him to this shameful death. She regarded them as murderers, and then suddenly she saw a chance of making them suffer for the deed they had inspired. She alone knew that he was left-handed. She changed the pistol to his right hand, closed and bolted the window, dropped the bit of cuff-link she had picked up in one of the downstairs rooms, and went out, locking the door and removing the key.’

‘Poirot,’ I said, in a burst of enthusiasm, ‘you are magnificent. All that from the one little clue of the handkerchief.’

‘And the cigarette-smoke. If the window had been closed, and all those cigarettes smoked, the room ought to have been full of stale tobacco. Instead, it was perfectly fresh, so I deduced at once that the window must have been open all night, and only closed in the morning, and that gave me a very interesting line of speculation. I could conceive of no circumstances under which a murderer could want to shut the window. It would be to his advantage to leave it open, and pretend that the murderer had escaped that way, if the theory of suicide did not go down. Of course, the tramp’s evidence, when I heard it, confirmed my suspicions. He could never have overheard that conversation unless the window had been open.’

‘Splendid!’ I said heartily. ‘Now, what about some tea?’

‘Spoken like a true Englishman,’ said Poirot with a sigh. ‘I suppose it is not likely that I could obtain here a glass of sirop?’

17 The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman (#ulink_cadba5f5-77f9-550c-921e-db9b42d6dc9c)

‘The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman’ was first published in The Sketch, 24 October 1923.

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 one is particularly pressed for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon bowling along in the direction of Regent’s Park. Regent’s Court was a new block of flats, situated just off St John’s Wood Road. They had only recently been built, and contained the latest service devices.

There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift-bell impatiently, and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply.

‘Flat 11. Count Foscatini. There’s been an accident there, I understand.’

The man stared at him.

‘First I’ve heard of it. Mr Graves – that’s Count Foscatini’s man – went out about half an hour ago, and he said nothing.’

‘Is the Count alone in the flat?’

‘No, sir, he’s got two gentlemen dining with him.’

‘What are they like?’ I asked eagerly.

We were in the lift now, ascending rapidly to the second floor, on which Flat 11 was situated.

‘I didn’t see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were foreign gentlemen.’

He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing. No 11 was opposite to us. The doctor rang the bell. There was no reply, and we could hear no sound from within. The doctor rang again and again; we could hear the bell trilling within, but no sign of life rewarded us.

‘This is getting serious,’ muttered the doctor. He turned to the lift attendant.

‘Is there any pass-key to this door?’

‘There is one in the porter’s office downstairs.’

‘Get it, then, and, look here, I think you’d better send for the police.’

Poirot approved with a nod of the head.

The man returned shortly; with him came the manager.

‘Will you tell me, gentlemen, what is the meaning of all this?’

‘Certainly. I received a telephone message from Count Foscatini stating that he had been attacked and was dying. You can understand that we must lose no time – if we are not already too late.’

The manager produced the key without more ado, and we all entered the flat.

We passed first into the small square lounge hall. A door on the right of it was half open. The manager indicated it with a nod.