Famous Detectives On Christmas Duty - Ultimate Murder Mysteries for Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

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      “Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial—J. or L.?”

      It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot’s attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson’s, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to “—(the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex.”

      “It might be T., or it might be L.,” I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. “It certainly isn’t a J.”

      “Good,” replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. “I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!”

      “Where did it come from?” I asked curiously. “Is it important?”

      “Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful.”

      “What did she mean by ‘On the top of the wardrobe’?”

      “She meant,” replied Poirot promptly, “that she found it on top of a wardrobe.”

      “A funny place for a piece of brown paper,” I mused.

      “Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye.”

      “Poirot,” I asked earnestly, “have you made up your mind about this crime?”

      “Yes—that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed.”

      “Ah!”

      “Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless——” With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: “Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s’il vous plait!”

      Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.

      “My good Dorcas, I have an idea—a little idea—if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp’s bell?”

      Dorcas looked very surprised.

      “Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don’t know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning.”

      With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.

      “See you, one should not ask for outside proof—no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!”

      And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.

      “What is your remarkable little friend doing?” asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. “What is it all about?”

      “Really, I can’t tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!”

      Mary laughed.

      “How ridiculous! He’s going out of the gate. Isn’t he coming back to-day?”

      “I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to guess what he’ll do next.”

      “Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?”

      “I honestly don’t know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness.”

      “I see.”

      In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.

      It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.

      “You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me.”

      I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn’t thought—But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind.

      “Mr. Hastings,” she said, “do you think I and my husband are happy together?”

      I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it’s not being my business to think anything of the sort.

      “Well,” she said quietly, “whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are not happy.”

      I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.

      She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.

      “You don’t know anything about me, do you?” she asked. “Where I come from, who I was before I married John—anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think—yes, I am sure you are kind.”

      Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man.

      “My father was English,” said Mrs. Cavendish, “but my mother was a Russian.”

      “Ah,” I said, “now I understand—”

      “Understand what?”

      “A hint of something foreign—different—that there has always been about you.”

      “My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don’t know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death—she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life—I loved it.”

      There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days.

      “Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire.” She shuddered. “You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad.” She paused a СКАЧАТЬ