The Best Murder Mysteries in One Edition. Эдгар Аллан По

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?”

      “No,” I confessed, “I never thought of such a thing.”

      “He is, of course, a German by birth,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “though he has practiced so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man—a Jew, of course.”

      “The blackguard!” I cried indignantly.

      “Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself.”

      But I could not look at it in Poirot’s philosophical way.

      “And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!” I cried indignantly.

      “Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful,” remarked Poirot. “So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor’s passed unobserved.”

      “Then you think he never really cared for her?” I asked eagerly—rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.

      “That, of course, I cannot say, but—shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?”

      “Yes.”

      “Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!”

      “Do you really think so?” I could not disguise my pleasure.

      “I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why.”

      “Yes?”

      “Because she cares for some one else, mon ami.”

      “Oh!” What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate——

      My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:

      “On top of the wardrobe.” Then she hurriedly left the room.

      Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.

      “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,” СКАЧАТЬ