THE SECRET ADVERSARY. Agatha Christie

he murmured. “Does this imbecile of a man want to be arrested?”

      Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief.

      “You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?”

      “Pardon me,” interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, “you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon.”

      “Have you anyone who can testify to that?”

      “You have my word,” said Inglethorp haughtily.

      The Coroner did not trouble to reply.

      “There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp.”

      “Those witnesses were mistaken.”

      I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp’s guilt?

      “Mr. Inglethorp,” said the Coroner, “you have heard your wife’s dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?”

      “Certainly I can.”

      “You can?”

      “It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me.”

      “Ah!” murmured Poirot to himself. “But it is an idea, that!”

      “You think it is true?” I whispered.

      “I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition.”

      “You read my wife’s last words as an accusation”—Inglethorp was continuing—“they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me.”

      The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:

      “I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?”

      “I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the coffee on the hall table. When I came through the hall again a few minutes later, it was gone.”

      This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample time to introduce the poison.

      At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who were sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp, dark, ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.

      I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my ear.

      “Do you know who that little man is?”

      I shook my head.

      “That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard—Jimmy Japp. The other man is from Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my friend.”

      I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the policeman about them. I should never have suspected them of being official personages.

      I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict being given: “Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown.”

      Chapter 7 POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS

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      As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.

      In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.

      “I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp.”

      “Why, if it isn’t Mr. Poirot!” cried the Inspector. He turned to the other man. “You’ve heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together—the Abercrombie forgery case—you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember ‘Baron’ Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him in Antwerp—thanks to Mr. Poirot here.”

      As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn, introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.

      “I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen,” remarked Poirot.

      Japp closed one eye knowingly.

      “No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say.”

      But Poirot answered gravely:

      “There I differ from you.”

      “Oh, come!” said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time. “Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man’s caught red-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!”

      But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.

      “Hold your fire, Summerhaye,” he remarked jocularly. “Me and Moosier here have met before—and there’s no man’s judgment I’d sooner take than his. If I’m not greatly mistaken, he’s got something up his sleeve. Isn’t that so, moosier?”

      Poirot smiled.

      “I have drawn certain conclusions—yes.”

      Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical, but Japp continued his scrutiny of Poirot.

      “It’s this way,” he said, “so far, we’ve only seen the case from the outside. That’s where the Yard’s at a disadvantage in a case of this kind, where the murder’s only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lot depends on being on the spot first thing, and that’s where Mr. Poirot’s had the start of us. We shouldn’t have been here as soon as this even, if it hadn’t been for the fact that there was a smart doctor on the spot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you’ve been on the spot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I’d laugh in his face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn’t bring it in Wilful Murder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn’t been for the Coroner—he seemed to be holding them back.”

      “Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his arrest in your pocket now,” suggested Poirot.

      A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down from Japp’s expressive countenance.

      “Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven’t,” he remarked dryly.

      Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

      “I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not be arrested.”

      “I dare say,” observed Summerhaye sarcastically.

      Japp was regarding Poirot with comical perplexity.

      “Can’t you go a little further, Mr. Poirot? A wink’s as good as a nod—from you. You’ve been on the spot—and the Yard doesn’t want to make any mistakes, you know.”

      Poirot nodded gravely.

      “That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use your warrant: Arrest Mr. Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos—the case against him will be dismissed at once! Comme ca!” And he snapped his fingers expressively.

      Japp’s