Poirot Investigates Agatha Christie (fb2 epub reader .txt) đ
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- Author: Agatha Christie
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âMon ami,â he replied, âyou miss the point. I am looking for something that I do not see.â
âWhat is that?â
âA mistakeâ âeven a little mistakeâ âon the part of the murderer.â
He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and shook his head.
âMonsieur,â he said to the manager, âexplain to me, I pray, your system of serving meals here.â
The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall.
âThis is the service lift,â he explained. âIt runs to the kitchens at the top of 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.â
Poirot nodded.
âThen the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the kitchen. You permit that I mount there?â
âOh, certainly, if you like! Roberts, the lift man, will take you up and introduce you; but Iâm afraid you wonât find anything thatâs of any use. Theyâre handling hundreds of plates and dishes, and theyâll be all lumped together.â
Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens and questioned the man who had taken the order from Flat 11.
âThe order was given from the Ă la carte menuâ âfor three,â he explained. âSoup julienne, filet de sole normande, tournedos of beef, and a rice soufflĂ©. What time? Just about eight oâclock, I should say. No, Iâm afraid the plates and dishes have been all washed up by now. Unfortunate. You were thinking of fingerprints, I suppose?â
âNot exactly,â said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. âI am more interested in Count Foscatiniâs appetite. Did he partake of every dish?â
âYes; but of course I canât say how much of each he ate. The plates were all soiled, and the dishes emptyâ âthat is to say, with the exception of the rice soufflĂ©. There was a fair amount of that left.â
âAh!â said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.
As we descended to the flat again he remarked in a low tone:
âWe have decidedly to do with a man of method.â
âDo you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?â
âThe latter was undoubtedly an orderly gentleman. After imploring help and announcing his approaching demise, he carefully hung up the telephone receiver.â
I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries gave me the glimmering of an idea.
âYou suspect poison?â I breathed. âThe blow on the head was a blind.â
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:
âI have no time to argue further now, gentlemen. If you will dine with me tomorrow night at eight oâclock, we will resume the discussion.â
Afraid of being discovered listening, Graves had then hurried out to do his masterâs errand. This evening the two men had arrived punctually at eight. During dinner they had talked of indifferent mattersâ âpolitics, 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.
âWas that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?â asked the inspector.
âNo, sir; it wasnât. Thatâs what made me think it must be some business of a very unusual kind that he was going to discuss with these gentlemen.â
That finished Gravesâs 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 Foscatiniâs arm, and had stopped at that hour, which agreed with Miss Riderâs 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 timeâ âthe 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.
âWell,â said the inspector, refastening his notebook. âThe 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 manâs pocketbook by any chance?â
As Poirot had said,
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