Miss Rider's 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 time-the 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.
'Well,' said the inspector, refastening his notebook. 'The 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 man's pocket-book by any chance?'
As Poirot had said, the late Foscatini was an orderly man. Neatly written in small, precise handwriting was the inscription, 'Signor Paolo Ascanio, Grosvenor Hotel.'
The inspector busied himself with the telephone, then turned to us with a grin.
'Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the Continent. Well, gentlemen, that's about all we can do here. It's a bad business, but straightforward enough. One of these Italian vendetta things, as likely as not.'
Thus airily dismissed, we found our way downstairs. Dr Hawker was full of excitement.
'Like the beginning of a novel, eh? Real exciting stuff. Wouldn't believe it if you read about it.'
Poirot did not speak. He was very thoughtful. All the evening he had hardly opened his lips.
'What says the master detective, eh?' asked Hawker, clapping him on the back. 'Nothing to work your grey cells over this time.'
'You think not?'
'What could there be?'
'Well, for example, there is the window.'
'The window? But it was fastened. Nobody could have got out or in that way. I noticed it specially.'
'And why were you able to notice it?'
The doctor looked puzzled. Poirot hastened to explain.
'It is to the curtains I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that. And then there was the coffee. It was very black coffee.'
'Well, what of it?'
'Very black,' repeated Poirot. 'In conjunction with that let us remember that very little of the rice souffle was eaten, and we get – what?'
'Moonshine,' laughed the doctor. 'You're pulling my leg.'
'Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly serious.'
'I don't know what you are getting at, all the same,' I confessed. 'You don't suspect the manservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang, and put some dope in the coffee. I suppose they'll test his alibi?'
'Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me.'
'You think he has an alibi?'
'That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be enlightened on that point.'
The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant with succeeding events.
Signor Ascanio was arrested and charged with the murder of Count Foscatini. When arrested, he denied knowing the Count, and declared he had never been near Regent's Court either on the evening of the crime or on the previous morning. The younger man had disappeared entirely. Signor Ascanio had arrived alone at the Grosvenor Hotel from the Continent two days before the murder. All efforts to trace the second man failed.
Ascanio, however, was not sent for trial. No less a personage than the Italian Ambassador himself came forward and testified at the police-court proceedings that Ascanio had been with him at the Embassy from eight till nine that evening. The prisoner was discharged. Naturally, a lot of people thought that the crime was a political one, and was being deliberately hushed up.
Poirot had taken a keen interest in all these points. Nevertheless, I was somewhat surprised when he suddenly informed me one morning that he was expecting a visitor at eleven o'clock, and that that visitor was none other than Ascanio himself.
'He wishes to consult you?'
'Du tout, Hastings. I wish to consult him.'
'What about?'
'The Regent's Court murder.'
'You are going to prove that he did it?'
'A man cannot be tried twice for murder, Hastings. Endeavour to have the common sense. Ah, that is our friend's ring.'
A few minutes later Signor Ascanio was ushered in – a small, thin man with a secretive and furtive glance in his eyes. He remained standing, darting suspicious glances from one to the other of us.
'Monsieur Poirot?'
My little friend tapped himself gently on the chest.
'Be seated, signor. You received my note. I am determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. In some small measure you can aid me. Let us commence. You – in company with a friend – visited the late Count Foscatini on the morning of Tuesday the 9th -'
The Italian made an angry gesture.
'I did nothing of the sort. I have sworn in court -'
'Precisement – and I have a little idea that you have sworn falsely.'
'You threaten me? Bah! I have nothing to fear from you. I have been acquitted.'
'Exactly; and as I am not an imbecile, it is not with the gallows I threaten you – but with publicity. Publicity! I see that you do nor like the word. I had an idea that you would not. My little ideas, you know, they are very valuable to me. Come, signor, your only chance is to be frank with me. I do not ask to know whose indiscretions brought you to England. I know this much, you came for the especial purpose of seeing Count Foscatini.'
'He was not a count,' growled the Italian.
'I have already noted the fact that his name does not appear in the Almanach de Gotha. Never mind, the title of count is often useful in the profession of blackmailing.'
'I suppose I might as well be frank. You seem to know a good deal.'
'I have employed my grey cells to some advantage. Come, Signor Ascanio, you visited the dead man on the Tuesday morning – that is so, is it not?'
'Yes, but I never went there on the following evening. There was no need. I will tell you all. Certain information concerning a man of great position in Italy had come into this scoundrel's possession. He demanded a big sum of money in return for the papers. I came over to England to arrange the matter. I called upon him by appointment that morning. One of the young secretaries of the Embassy was with me. The Count was more reasonable than I had hoped, although even then the sum of money I paid him was a huge one.'
'Pardon, how was it paid?'
'In Italian notes of comparatively small denomination. I paid over the money then and there. He handed me the incriminating papers. I never saw him again.'
'Why did you not say all this when you were arrested?'
'In my delicate position I was forced to deny any association with the man.'
'And how do you account for the events of the evening, then?'
'I can only think that some one must have deliberately impersonated me. I understand that no money was found in the flat.'
Poirot looked at him and shook his head.
'Strange,' he murmured. 'We all have the little grey cells. And so few of us know how to use them. Good morning, Signor Ascanio. I believe your story. It is very much as I had imagined. But I had to make sure.'
After bowing his guest out, Poirot returned to his armchair and smiled at me.
'Let us hear M. le Capitaine Hastings on the case?'
'Well, I suppose Ascanio is right – somebody impersonated him.'
'Never, never will you use the brains the good God has given you. Recall to yourself some words I uttered after leaving the flat that night. I referred to the window-curtains not being drawn. We are in the month of June. It is still light at eight o'clock. The light is failing by half-past. Ca vous dit quelque chose? I perceive a struggling impression that you will arrive some day. Now let us continue. The coffee was, as I said, very black. Count
