The Best Detectives Murder Mysteries for Christmas Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

      Poirot looked at me curiously.

      “You are very sure of his guilt?”

      “Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly.”

      “On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “there are several points in his favour.”

      “Oh, come now!”

      “Yes.”

      “I see only one.”

      “And that?”

      “That he was not in the house last night.”

      ” ‘Bad shot!’ as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him.”

      “How is that?”

      “Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence.”

      “And that reason?” I asked sceptically.

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

      “How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel—but that does not of necessity make him a murderer.”

      I shook my head, unconvinced.

      “We do not agree, eh?” said Poirot. “Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?”

      “Well——” I considered. “One must look at it logically.”

      “True.”

      “I should put it this way. The doors were bolted—our own eyes have told us that—yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night some one entered the room. You agree so far?”

      “Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed.”

      “Well,” I said, encouraged, “as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband.”

      Poirot shook his head.

      “Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room—a most unusual proceeding on her part—she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit.”

      “But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?”

      “There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and bolted it then.”

      “Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?”

      “No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?”

      “I had forgotten that,” I said thoughtfully. “That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair.”

      “Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do.”

      “It is certainly curious,” I agreed. “Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account.”

      A groan burst from Poirot.

      “What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory—let the theory go.”

      “Well, we shall see,” I said, nettled.

      “Yes, we shall see.”

      We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.

      Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.

      Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was extraordinary—a curious mingling of terror and agitation.

      “Look, Poirot!” I said.

      He leant forward.

      “Tiens!” he said. “It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist’s shop. He is coming here.”

      The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.

      “A little minute,” cried Poirot from the window. “I come.”

      Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.

      “Oh, Mr. Poirot, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you’d just come back from the Hall?”

      “Yes, we have.”

      The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.

      “It’s all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say—” he lowered his voice cautiously—“that it’s poison?”

      Poirot’s face remained quite impassive.

      “Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace.”

      “Yes, exactly—of course——” The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: “Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn’t—it isn’t strychnine, is it?”

      I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot’s eyes met mine.

      “Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “He will have evidence to give at the inquest.”

      We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.

      “Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some disorder—which is not well.”

      For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.

      “It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet—no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles me. Me, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance.”

      “And what are they?”

      “The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is very important.”

      “But it was a glorious day!” I interrupted. “Poirot, you’re pulling my leg!”

      “Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget that, my friend. It is the key to the whole riddle!”

      “And the second point?” I asked.

      “The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses.”

      “Poirot, I cannot