Vintage Murder Mysteries - Ultimate Anthology. Эдгар Аллан По

my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a “funny dear.”

      “It’s perfectly sweet of you,” she said, “but you know you don’t want to!”

      “Yes, I do. I’ve got—”

      “Never mind what you’ve got. You don’t really want to—and I don’t either.”

      “Well, of course, that settles it,” I said stiffly. “But I don’t see anything to laugh at. There’s nothing funny about a proposal.”

      “No, indeed,” said Cynthia. “Somebody might accept you next time. Good-bye, you’ve cheered me up very much.”

      And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.

      Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.

      It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the “Apartments” card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.

      An old woman came and opened it.

      “Good afternoon,” I said pleasantly. “Is Dr. Bauerstein in?”

      She stared at me.

      “Haven’t you heard?”

      “Heard what?”

      “About him.”

      “What about him?”

      “He’s took.”

      “Took? Dead?”

      “No, took by the perlice.”

      “By the police!” I gasped. “Do you mean they’ve arrested him?”

      “Yes, that’s it, and—”

      I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.

      Chapter 10

       THE ARREST

       Table of Contents

      To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.

      I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?

      I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated—otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.

      Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein’s arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?

      In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.

      After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.

      He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.

      “Great Scot! You were right, then. I couldn’t believe it at the time.”

      “No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow.”

      John reflected.

      “Never mind,” he said at last, “we won’t say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough.”

      But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about “The Styles Poisoning Case,” but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.

      After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:

      “Bon jour, mon ami!”

      “Poirot,” I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. “I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?”

      “My friend,” replied Poirot, “I do not know what you are talking about.”

      “Dr. Bauerstein’s arrest, of course,” I answered impatiently.

      “Is Bauerstein arrested, then?”

      “Did you not know it?”

      “Not the least in the world.” But, pausing a moment, he added: “Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast.”

      “The coast?” I asked, puzzled. “What has that got to do with it?”

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

      “Surely, it is obvious!”

      “Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp.”

      “Nothing at all, of course,” replied Poirot, smiling. “But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein.”

      “Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp——”

      “What?” cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. “Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?”

      “Yes.”

      “Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?”

      “Well, no one exactly told me,” I confessed. “But he is arrested.”

      “Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon ami.”

      “Espionage?” I gasped.

      “Precisely.”

      “Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?”

      “Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses,” replied Poirot placidly.

      “But—but I thought you thought so too?”

      Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.

      “Do you mean to say,” I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, “that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?”

      Poirot nodded.

      “Have you never suspected it?”

      “It never entered my head.”

      “It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and