Black Coffee by Agatha Christie
The room remained in darkness. There was a sharp intake of breath, and then a loud knock at the door leading to the hall. Lucia screamed again. As though in response, the lights suddenly came on again.
Richard was now standing by the door, apparently unable to decide whether or not to attempt to open it. Edward Raynor was on his feet by his chair, which had overturned. Lucia lay back in her chair, as though about to faint.
Sir Claud sat absolutely still in his arm-chair, with his eyes closed. His secretary suddenly pointed to the table beside his employer. ‘Look,’ he exclaimed. ‘The formula.’
On the table beside Sir Claud was a long envelope, of the type he had earlier described.
‘Thank God!’ cried Lucia. ‘Thank God!’
There was another knock at the door, which now opened slowly. Everyone’s attention was fixed on the doorway, as Tredwell ushered in a stranger, and then withdrew.
The assembled company stared at the stranger. What they saw was an extraordinary-looking little man, hardly more than five feet four inches in height, who carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he carried it at a slight angle, like an enquiring terrier. His moustache was distinctly stiff and military. He was very neatly dressed.
‘Hercule Poirot, at your service,’ said the stranger, and bowed.
Richard Amory held out a hand. ‘Monsieur Poirot,’ he said as they shook hands.
‘Sir Claud?’ asked Poirot. ‘Ah, no, you are too young, of course. You are his son, perhaps?’ He moved past Richard into the centre of the room. Behind him, another man, tall, middle-aged and of military bearing, had unobtrusively entered. As he moved to Poirot’s side, the detective announced, ‘My colleague, Captain Hastings.’
‘What a delightful room,’ Hastings observed as he shook hands with Richard Amory.
Richard turned back to Poirot. ‘I’m sorry, Monsieur Poirot,’ he said, ‘but I fear we have brought you down here under a misapprehension. The need for your services has passed.’
‘Indeed?’ replied Poirot. ‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ Richard continued. ‘It’s too bad, dragging you all the way down here from London. Of course, your fee – and expenses – I mean – er, that’ll be all right, of course –’
‘I comprehend perfectly,’ said Poirot, ‘but for the moment it is neither my fee nor my expenses which interests me.’
‘No? Then what – er –?’
‘What does interest me, Mr Amory? I will tell you. It is just a little point, of no consequence, of course. But it was your father who sent for me to come. Why is it not he who tells me to go?’
‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry,’ said Richard, turning towards Sir Claud. ‘Father, would you please tell Monsieur Poirot that we no longer have any need of his services?’
Sir Claud did not answer.
‘Father!’ Richard exclaimed, moving quickly to Sir Claud’s arm-chair. He bent over his father, and then turned around wildly. ‘Dr Carelli,’ he called.
Miss Amory rose, white-faced. Carelli swiftly crossed to Sir Claud, and felt his pulse. Frowning, he placed his hand over Sir Claud’s heart, and then shook his head.
Poirot moved slowly to the arm-chair, and stood looking down at the motionless body of the scientist. ‘Ye-es – I fear –,’ he murmured, as though to himself, ‘I very much fear –’
‘What do you fear?’ asked Barbara, moving towards him.
Poirot looked at her. ‘I fear that Sir Claud has sent for me too late, mademoiselle.’
Chapter 6
Stunned silence followed Hercule Poirot’s statement. Dr Carelli continued his examination of Sir Claud for a few moments before straightening himself and turning to the others. Addressing Richard Amory, ‘I am afraid your father is dead,’ he confirmed.
Richard stared at him in disbelief, as though he were unable to take in the Italian doctor’s words. Then, ‘My God – what was it? Heart failure?’ he asked.
‘I – I suppose so,’ replied Carelli somewhat doubtfully.
Barbara moved to her aunt to comfort her, for Miss Amory seemed about to faint. Edward Raynor joined them, helping to support Miss Amory, and whispering to Barbara as he did so, ‘I suppose that fellow is a real doctor?’
‘Yes, but only an Italian one,’ Barbara murmured in reply, as between them they settled Miss Amory into a chair. Overhearing Barbara’s remark, Poirot shook his head energetically. Then, stroking his luxuriant moustache with exquisite care, he smiled as he commented, softly, ‘Me, I am a detective – but only a Belgian one. Nevertheless, mademoiselle, we foreigners do arrive at the correct answer occasionally.’
Barbara had the grace to look at least a trifle embarrassed. She and Raynor remained in conversation for a few moments, but then Lucia approached Poirot, taking his arm and drawing him aside from the others.
‘Monsieur Poirot,’ she urged him breathlessly, ‘you must stay! You must not let them send you away.’
Poirot regarded her steadily. His face remained quite impassive as he asked her, ‘Is it that you wish me to stay, madame?’
‘Yes, yes,’ replied Lucia, glancing anxiously towards the body of Sir Claud still seated in its upright position in the arm-chair. ‘There’s something wrong about all this. My father-in-law’s heart was perfectly all right. Perfectly, I tell you. Please, Monsieur Poirot, you must find out what has happened.’
Dr Carelli and Richard Amory continued to hover near the body of Sir Claud. Richard, in an agony of indecision, appeared to be almost petrified into immobility. ‘I would suggest, Mr Amory,’ Dr Carelli urged him, ‘that you send for your father’s own physician. I assume he had one?’
Richard roused himself with an effort. ‘What? Oh yes,’ he responded. ‘Dr Graham. Young Kenneth Graham. He has a practice in the village. In fact, he’s rather keen on my cousin Barbara. I mean – sorry, that’s irrelevant, isn’t it?’ Glancing across the room at Barbara, he called to her. ‘What’s Kenneth Graham’s phone number?’
‘Market Cleve five,’ Barbara told him. Richard moved to the phone, lifted the receiver and asked for the number. While he was waiting to be connected, Edward Raynor, recalling his secretarial duties, asked Richard, ‘Do you think I should order the car for Monsieur Poirot?’
Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. He was about to speak when Lucia forestalled him. ‘Monsieur Poirot is remaining – at my request,’ she announced to the company in general.
Still holding the telephone receiver to his ear, Richard turned, startled. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked his wife tersely.
‘Yes, yes, Richard, he must stay,’ Lucia insisted. Her voice sounded almost hysterical.
Miss Amory looked up in consternation, Barbara and Edward Raynor exchanged worried glances, Dr Carelli stood looking down thoughtfully at the lifeless body of the great scientist, while Hastings, who had been absent-mindedly examining the books on the library shelves, turned to survey the gathering.
Richard was about to respond to Lucia’s outburst when his attention was claimed by the telephone he was holding. ‘Oh what . . . Is that Dr Graham?’ he asked. ‘Kenneth, it’s Richard Amory speaking. My father has had a heart attack. Can you come up at once? . . . Well, actually, I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done . . . Yes, he’s dead . . . No . . . I’m afraid so . . . Thank you.’ Replacing the receiver, he crossed the room to his wife and, in a low, agitated voice, muttered, ‘Lucia, are you mad? What have you done? Don’t you realize we must get rid of this detective?’
Astonished, Lucia rose from her chair. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked Richard.
Their exchange continued quietly but urgently. ‘Didn’t you hear what father said?’ His tone fraught with meaning, he murmured, ‘“The coffee is very bitter.”’
At first, Lucia seemed not to understand. ‘The coffee is very bitter?’ she repeated. She looked at Richard uncomprehendingly for a moment, and then suddenly uttered a cry of horror which she quickly stifled.
‘You see? Do you under
‘Oh, my God,’ murmured Lucia, staring straight in front of her. ‘Oh, merciful God.’
Turning away from her, Richard approached Poirot. ‘Monsieur Poirot –’ he began, and then hesitated.
‘M’sieur?’ Poirot queried, politely.
Summoning up his determination, Richard continued, ‘Monsieur Poirot, I’m afraid I do not quite understand what it is that my wife has asked you to investigate.’
Poirot considered for a moment before replying. Then, smiling pleasantly, he answered, ‘Shall we say, the theft of a document? That, mademoiselle tells me,’ he continued, gesturing towards Barbara, ‘is what I was called down for.’
Casting a glance of reproach at Barbara, Richard told Poirot, ‘The document in question has been – returned.’
‘Has it?’ asked Poirot, his smile becoming rather enigmatic. The little detective suddenly had the attention of everyone present, as he moved to the table in the centre of the room and looked at the envelope still lying on it, which had been generally forgotten in the excitement and commotion caused by the discovery of Sir Claud’s death.
‘What do you mean?’ Richard Amory asked Hercule Poirot.
Poirot gave a flamboyant twist to his moustache, and carefully brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. Then, ‘It is just a – no doubt foolish – idea of mine,’ the little detective finally replied. ‘You see, someone told me the other day a most amusing story. The story of the empty bottle – there was nothing in it.’
‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand you,’ Richard Amory declared.
Picking up the envelope from the table, Poirot murmured, ‘I just wondered . . .’ He glanced at Richard, who took the envelope from him, and looked inside.
‘It’s empty!’ Richard exclaimed. Screwing up the envelope, he threw it on the table and looked searchingly at Lucia, who moved away from him. ‘Then,’ he continued uncertainly, ‘I suppose we must be searched – we . . .’
Richard’s voice trailed away, and he looked around the room as though seeking guidance. He was met with looks of confusion from Barbara and her aunt, indignation from Edward Raynor and blandness from Dr Carelli. Lucia continued to avoid his eye.
‘Why do you not take my advice, monsieur?’ Poirot suggested. ‘Do nothing until the doctor comes. Tell me,’ he asked, pointing towards the study, ‘that doorway, where does he go?’
‘That’s my father’s study in there,’ Richard told him. Poirot crossed the room to the door, put his head around it to look into the study, and then turned back into the library, nodding as though satisfied.
‘I see,’ he murmured. Then, addressing Richard, he added, ‘Eh bien, monsieur. I see no need why any of you should remain in this room if you would prefer not to.’
There was a general stir of relief. Dr Carelli was the first to move. ‘It is understood, of course,’ Poirot announced, looking at the Italian doctor, ‘that no one should leave the house.’
‘I will hold myself responsible for that,’ Richard declared as Barbara and Raynor left together, followed by Carelli. Caroline Amory lingered by her brother’s chair. ‘Poor dear Claud,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Poor dear Claud.’
Poirot approached her. ‘You must have courage, mademoiselle,’ he told her. ‘The shock to you has been great, I know.’
Miss Amory looked at him with tears in her eyes. ‘I’m so glad that I ordered the cook to prepare fried sole tonight,’ she said. ‘It was one of my brother’s favourite dishes.’
With a brave attempt to look serious and to match the solemnity of her delivery, Poirot answered, ‘Yes, yes, that must be a real comfort to you, I am sure.’ He shepherded Miss Amory out of the room. Richard followed his aunt out and, after a moment’s hesitation, Lucia made a brisk exit. Poirot and Hastings were left alone in the room with the body of Sir Claud.
Chapter 7
As soon as the room was empty, Hastings addressed Poirot eagerly. ‘Well, what do you think?’ he asked.
‘Shut the door, please, Hastings,’ was the only reply he received. As his friend complied, Poirot shook his head slowly and looked around the room. He moved about, casting an eye over the furniture and occasionally looking down at the floor. Suddenly, he stooped down to examine the overturned chair, the chair in which the secretary Edward Raynor had been sitting when the lights had gone out. From beneath the chair Poirot picked up a small object.
‘What have you found?’
Hastings asked him. ‘A key,’ Poirot replied. ‘It looks to me as though it might be the key to a safe. I observed a safe in Sir Claud’s study. Will you have the goodness, Hastings, to try this key and tell me if it fits?’
Hastings took the key from Poirot, and went into the study with it. Meanwhile, Poirot approached the body of the scientist and, feeling in the trouser pocket, removed from it a bunch of keys, each of which he examined closely. Hastings returned, informing Poirot that, indeed, the key fitted the safe in the study. ‘I think I can guess what happened,’ Hastings continued. ‘I imagine Sir Claud must have dropped it, and – er –’
He broke off, and Poirot slowly shook his head, doubtfully. ‘No, no, mon ami, give me the key, please,’ he requested, frowning to himself as though perplexed. He took the key from Hastings and compared it with one of the keys on the bunch. Then, putting them back in the dead scientist’s pocket, he held up the single key. ‘This,’ he told Hastings, ‘is a duplicate. It is, indeed, clumsily made, but no doubt it served its purpose.’
In great excitement, Hastings exclaimed, ‘Then that means –’
He was stopped by a warning gesture from Poirot. The sound of a key being turned in the lock of the door which led to the front hall and the staircase to the upper floors of the house was heard. As the two men turned, it opened slowly, and Tredwell, the butler, stood in the doorway.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Tredwell as he came into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘The master told me to lock this door, as well as the other one leading from this room, until you arrived. The master . . .’ He stopped, on seeing the motionless figure of Sir Claud in the chair.
‘I am afraid your master is dead,’ Poirot told him. ‘May I ask your name?’
‘Tredwell, sir.’ The servant moved to the front of the desk, looking at the body of his master. ‘Oh dear. Poor Sir Claud!’ he murmured. Turning to Poirot, he added, ‘Do please forgive me, sir, but it’s such a shock. May I ask what happened? Is it – murder?’
‘Why should you ask that?’ said Poirot.
Lowering his voice, the butler replied, ‘There have been strange things happening this evening, sir.’
‘Oh?’ exclaimed Poirot, as he exchanged glances with Hastings. ‘Tell me about these strange things.’
‘Well, I hardly know where to begin, sir,’ Tredwell replied. ‘I – I think I first felt that something was wrong when the Italian gentleman came to tea.’
‘The Italian gentleman?’
‘Dr Carelli, sir.’
‘He came to tea unexpectedly?’ asked Poirot.
‘Yes, sir, and Miss Amory asked him to stay, seeing as how he was a friend of Mrs Richard’s. But if you ask me, sir –’
He stopped, and Poirot gently prompted him. ‘Yes?’
‘I hope you will understand, sir,’ said Tredwell, ‘that it is not my custom to gossip about the family. But seeing that the master is dead . . .’
He paused again, and Poirot murmured sympathetically, ‘Yes, yes, I understand. I am sure you were very attached to your master.’ Tredwell nodded, and Poirot continued, ‘Sir Claud sent for me in order to tell me something. You must tell me all you can.’
‘Well, then,’ Tredwell responded, ‘in my opinion, sir, Mrs Richard Amory did not want the Italian gentleman asked to dinner. I observed her face when Miss Amory gave the invitation.’
‘What is your own impression of Dr Carelli?’ asked Poirot.
‘Dr Carelli, sir,’ replied the butler rather haughtily, ‘is not one of us.’
Not quite understanding Tredwell’s remark, Poirot looked enquiringly at Hastings who turned away to hide a smile. Throwing his colleague a glance of mild reproof, Poirot turned again to Tredwell. The butler’s countenance remained perfectly serious.
‘Did you feel,’ Poirot queried, ‘that there was something odd about Dr Carelli’s coming to the house in the way that he did?’
‘Precisely, sir. It wasn’t natural, somehow. And it was after he arrived that the trouble began, with the master telling me earlier this evening to send for you, and giving orders about the doors being locked. Mrs Richard, too, hasn’t been herself all the evening. She had to leave the dinner-table. Mr Richard, he was very upset about it.’
‘Ah,’ said Poirot, ‘she had to leave the table? Did she come into this room?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Tredwell replied.
Poirot looked around the room. His eye alighted on the handbag which Lucia had left on the table. ‘One of the ladies has left her bag, I see,’ he observed, as he picked it up.
Moving closer to him to look at the handbag, Tredwell told Poirot, ‘That is Mrs Richard’s, sir.’
‘Yes,’ Hastings confirmed. ‘I noticed her laying it down there just before she left the room.’
‘Just before she left the room, eh?’ said Poirot. ‘How curious.’ He put the bag down on the settee, frowned perplexedly, and stood apparently lost in thought.
‘About locking the doors, sir,’ Tredwell continued after a brief pause. ‘The master told me –’
Suddenly starting out of his reverie, Poirot interrupted the butler. ‘Yes, yes, I must hear all about that. Let us go through here,’ he suggested, indicating the door to the front of the house.
Tredwell went to the door, followed by Poirot. Hastings, however, declared rather importantly, ‘I think I’ll stay here.’