room.”
“Just before she left the room, eh?” said Poirot. “How curious.” He put the bag down on the settee, frowned perplexedly, and stood there, apparently lost in thought.
“About locking the doors, sir,” Tredwell continued after a brief pause. “The master told me -”
Suddenly starting out of his reverie, Poirot interrupted the butler. “Yes, yes, I must hear all about that. Let us go through here,” he suggested, indicating the door nearer to the front of the house.
Tredwell went to the door, followed by Poirot. Hastings, however, declared rather importantly, “I think I'll stay here.”
Poirot turned, and regarded Hastings quizzically. “No, no, please come with us,” he requested his colleague.
“But don't you think it better -” Hastings began, when Poirot interrupted him, now speaking solemnly and meaningfully.
“I need your co-operation, my friend,” he said.
“Oh, well, of course, in that case -”
The three men left the room together, closing the door behind them. No more than a few seconds later, the other door leading to the hallway was opened cautiously and Lucia entered surreptitiously. After a hurried glance around the room, as though to assure herself that there was no one there, she approached the round table in the center of the room and picked up Sir Claud's coffee-cup. A shrewd, hard look came into her eyes which belied their customary innocent appearance, and she looked suddenly a good deal older.
Lucia was still standing with the cup in her hand, as though undecided what to do, when the other door leading to the front of the house opened and Poirot entered the library alone.
“Permit me, madame,” said Poirot, causing Lucia to start violently. He moved across to her and took the cup from her hand with the air of one indulging in a gesture of simple politeness.
“I - I - came back for my bag,” Lucia gasped.
“Ah, yes,” said Poirot. “Now, let me see, where did I observe a lady's handbag? Ah yes, over here.” He went to the settee, picked up the bag, and handed it to Lucia.
“Thank you so much,” she said, glancing around distractedly as she spoke.
“Not at all, madame.”
After a brief nervous smile at Poirot, Lucia quickly left the room. When she had gone, Poirot stood quite still for a moment or two, and then picked up the coffee-cup. After smelling it cautiously, he took from his pocket a test-tube, poured some of the dregs from Sir Claud's cup into it, and sealed the tube. Replacing it in his pocket, he then proceeded to look around the room, counting the cups aloud. “One, two, three, four, five, six. Yes, six coffee-cups.”
A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot's brows, when suddenly his eyes shone with that green light that always betokened inward excitement. Moving swiftly to the door through which he had recently entered, he opened it and slammed it noisily shut again, and then darted to the French windows, concealing himself behind the curtains. After a few moments the other door to the hallway opened once more, and Lucia entered again, this time even more cautiously than before, appearing to be very much on her guard. Looking about her in an attempt to keep both doors in her sight, she snatched up the coffee-cup from which Sir Claud had drunk and surveyed the entire room.
Her eye alighted on the small table near the door to the hall, on which there stood a large bowl containing a house plant. Moving to the table, Lucia thrust the coffee-cup upside down into the bowl. Then, still watching the door, she took one of the other coffee-cups and placed it near Sir Claud's body. She then moved quickly to the door, but as she reached it, the door opened and her husband Richard entered with a very tall, sandy-haired man in his early thirties, whose countenance, though amiable, had an air of authority about it. The newcomer was carrying a Gladstone bag.
“Lucia!” Richard exclaimed, startled. “What are you doing
“Just before she left the room, eh?” said Poirot. “How curious.” He put the bag down on the settee, frowned perplexedly, and stood there, apparently lost in thought.
“About locking the doors, sir,” Tredwell continued after a brief pause. “The master told me -”
Suddenly starting out of his reverie, Poirot interrupted the butler. “Yes, yes, I must hear all about that. Let us go through here,” he suggested, indicating the door nearer to the front of the house.
Tredwell went to the door, followed by Poirot. Hastings, however, declared rather importantly, “I think I'll stay here.”
Poirot turned, and regarded Hastings quizzically. “No, no, please come with us,” he requested his colleague.
“But don't you think it better -” Hastings began, when Poirot interrupted him, now speaking solemnly and meaningfully.
“I need your co-operation, my friend,” he said.
“Oh, well, of course, in that case -”
The three men left the room together, closing the door behind them. No more than a few seconds later, the other door leading to the hallway was opened cautiously and Lucia entered surreptitiously. After a hurried glance around the room, as though to assure herself that there was no one there, she approached the round table in the center of the room and picked up Sir Claud's coffee-cup. A shrewd, hard look came into her eyes which belied their customary innocent appearance, and she looked suddenly a good deal older.
Lucia was still standing with the cup in her hand, as though undecided what to do, when the other door leading to the front of the house opened and Poirot entered the library alone.
“Permit me, madame,” said Poirot, causing Lucia to start violently. He moved across to her and took the cup from her hand with the air of one indulging in a gesture of simple politeness.
“I - I - came back for my bag,” Lucia gasped.
“Ah, yes,” said Poirot. “Now, let me see, where did I observe a lady's handbag? Ah yes, over here.” He went to the settee, picked up the bag, and handed it to Lucia.
“Thank you so much,” she said, glancing around distractedly as she spoke.
“Not at all, madame.”
After a brief nervous smile at Poirot, Lucia quickly left the room. When she had gone, Poirot stood quite still for a moment or two, and then picked up the coffee-cup. After smelling it cautiously, he took from his pocket a test-tube, poured some of the dregs from Sir Claud's cup into it, and sealed the tube. Replacing it in his pocket, he then proceeded to look around the room, counting the cups aloud. “One, two, three, four, five, six. Yes, six coffee-cups.”
A perplexed frown was beginning to gather between Poirot's brows, when suddenly his eyes shone with that green light that always betokened inward excitement. Moving swiftly to the door through which he had recently entered, he opened it and slammed it noisily shut again, and then darted to the French windows, concealing himself behind the curtains. After a few moments the other door to the hallway opened once more, and Lucia entered again, this time even more cautiously than before, appearing to be very much on her guard. Looking about her in an attempt to keep both doors in her sight, she snatched up the coffee-cup from which Sir Claud had drunk and surveyed the entire room.
Her eye alighted on the small table near the door to the hall, on which there stood a large bowl containing a house plant. Moving to the table, Lucia thrust the coffee-cup upside down into the bowl. Then, still watching the door, she took one of the other coffee-cups and placed it near Sir Claud's body. She then moved quickly to the door, but as she reached it, the door opened and her husband Richard entered with a very tall, sandy-haired man in his early thirties, whose countenance, though amiable, had an air of authority about it. The newcomer was carrying a Gladstone bag.
“Lucia!” Richard exclaimed, startled. “What are you doing
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