Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories. Агата Кристи

the building. You order through this telephone, and the dishes are sent down in the lift, one course at a time. The dirty plates and dishes are sent up in the same manner. No domestic worries, you understand, and at the same time you avoid the wearying publicity of always dining in a restaurant.’

      Poirot nodded.

      ‘Then the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the kitchen. You permit that I mount there?’

      ‘Oh, certainly, if you like! Roberts, the lift man, will take you up and introduce you; but I’m afraid you won’t find anything that’s of any use. They’re handling hundreds of plates and dishes, and they’ll be all lumped together.’

      Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens and questioned the man who had taken the order from Flat 11.

      ‘The order was given from the à la carte menu – for three,’ he explained. ‘Soup julienne, filet de sole normande, tournedos of beef, and a rice soufflé. What time? Just about eight o’clock, I should say. No, I’m afraid the plates and dishes have been all washed up by now. Unfortunate. You were thinking of fingerprints, I suppose?’

      ‘Not exactly,’ said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. ‘I am more interested in Count Foscatini’s appetite. Did he partake of every dish?’

      ‘Yes; but of course I can’t say how much of each he ate. The plates were all soiled, and the dishes empty – that is to say, with the exception of the rice soufflé. There was a fair amount of that left.’

      ‘Ah!’ said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.

      As we descended to the flat again he remarked in a low tone:

      ‘We have decidedly to do with a man of method.’

      ‘Do you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?’

      ‘The latter was undoubtedly an orderly gentleman. After imploring help and announcing his approaching demise, he carefully hung up the telephone receiver.’

      I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries gave me the glimmering of an idea.

      ‘You suspect poison?’ I breathed. ‘The blow on the head was a blind.’

      Poirot merely smiled.

      We re-entered the flat to find the local inspector of police had arrived with two constables. He was inclined to resent our appearance, but Poirot calmed him with the mention of our Scotland Yard friend, Inspector Japp, and we were accorded a grudging permission to remain. It was a lucky thing we were, for we had not been back five minutes before an agitated middle-aged man came rushing into the room with every appearance of grief and agitation.

      This was Graves, valet-butler to the late Count Foscatini. The story he had to tell was a sensational one.

      On the previous morning, two gentlemen had called to see his master. They were Italians, and the elder of the two, a man of about forty, gave his name as Signor Ascanio. The younger was a well-dressed lad of about twenty-four.

      Count Foscatini was evidently prepared for their visit and immediately sent Graves out upon some trivial errand. Here the man paused and hesitated in his story. In the end, however, he admitted that, curious as to the purport of the interview, he had not obeyed immediately, but had lingered about endeavouring to hear something of what was going on.

      The conversation was carried on in so low a tone that he was not as successful as he had hoped; but he gathered enough to make it clear that some kind of monetary proposition was being discussed, and that the basis of it was a threat. The discussion was anything but amicable. In the end, Count Foscatini raised his voice slightly, and the listener heard these words clearly:

      ‘I have no time to argue further now, gentlemen. If you will dine with me tomorrow night at eight o’clock, we will resume the discussion.’

      Afraid of being discovered listening, Graves had then hurried out to do his master’s errand. This evening the two men had arrived punctually at eight. During dinner they had talked of indifferent matters – politics, the weather, and the theatrical world. When Graves had placed the port upon the table and brought in the coffee his master told him that he might have the evening off.

      ‘Was that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?’ asked the inspector.

      ‘No, sir; it wasn’t. That’s what made me think it must be some business of a very unusual kind that he was going to discuss with these gentlemen.’

      That finished Graves’s story. He had gone out about 8.30, and meeting a friend, had accompanied him to the Metropolitan Music Hall in Edgware Road.

      Nobody had seen the two men leave, but the time of the murder was fixed clearly enough at 8.47. A small clock on the writing-table had been swept off by Foscatini’s arm, and had stopped at that hour, which agreed with Miss Rider’s telephone summons.

      The police surgeon had made his examination of the body, and it was now lying on the couch. I saw the face for the first time – the olive complexion, the long nose, the luxuriant black moustache, and the full red lips drawn back from the dazzlingly white teeth. Not altogether a pleasant face.

      ‘Well,’ said the inspector, refastening his notebook. ‘The case seems clear enough. The only difficulty will be to lay our hands on this Signor Ascanio. I suppose his address is not in the dead man’s pocket-book by any chance?’

      As Poirot had said, the late Foscatini was an orderly man. Neatly written in small, precise handwriting was the inscription, ‘Signor Paolo Ascanio, Grosvenor Hotel.’

      The inspector busied himself with the telephone, then turned to us with a grin.

      ‘Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the Continent. Well, gentlemen, that’s about all we can do here. It’s a bad business, but straightforward enough. One of these Italian vendetta things, as likely as not.’

      Thus airily dismissed, we found our way downstairs. Dr Hawker was full of excitement.

      ‘Like the beginning of a novel, eh? Real exciting stuff. Wouldn’t believe it if you read about it.’

      Poirot did not speak. He was very thoughtful. All the evening he had hardly opened his lips.

      ‘What says the master detective, eh?’ asked Hawker, clapping him on the back. ‘Nothing to work your grey cells over this time.’

      ‘You think not?’

      ‘What could there be?’

      ‘Well, for example, there is the window.’

      ‘The window? But it was fastened. Nobody could have got out or in that way. I noticed it specially.’

      ‘And why were you able to notice it?’

      The doctor looked puzzled. Poirot hastened to explain.

      ‘It is to the curtains that I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that. And then there was the coffee. It was very black coffee.’

      ‘Well, what of it?’

      ‘Very black,’ repeated Poirot. ‘In conjunction with that let us remember that very little of the rice soufflé was eaten, and we get – what?’

      ‘Moonshine,’ laughed the doctor. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

      ‘Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly serious.’

      ‘I don’t know what you are getting at, all the same,’ I confessed. ‘You don’t suspect the manservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang, and put some dope in the coffee. I suppose they’ll test his alibi?’

      ‘Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me.’

      ‘You think he has an alibi?’

      ‘That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be enlightened