Approaching him, Poirot handed Raynor the key that he had found, watching the secretary keenly as he did so.
'Have you ever seen this key before, Monsieur Raynor?' he asked.
Raynor took the key and turned it about in his hands with a puzzled air. 'It looks rather like the key of Sir Claud's safe,' he observed. 'But I understand from Mr Amory that Sir Claud's key was in its proper place on his chain.' He handed the key back to Poirot.
'Yes, this is a key to the safe in Sir Claud's study, but it is a duplicate key,' Poirot told him, adding slowly and with emphasis, 'a duplicate which was lying on the floor beside the chair you occupied last night.'
Raynor looked at the detective unflinchingly. 'If you think it was I who dropped it, you are mistaken,' he declared.
Poirot regarded him searchingly for a moment, and then nodded his head as if satisfied. 'I believe you,' he said.
Moving briskly to the settee, he sat and rubbed his hands together. 'Now, let us get to work, Monsieur Raynor. You were Sir Claud's confidential secretary, were you not?'
'That is correct.'
'Then you knew a lot about his work?'
'Yes. I have a certain amount of scientific training, and I occasionally helped him with his experiments.'
'Do you know anything,' asked Poirot, 'that can throw light upon this unfortunate affair?'
Raynor took a letter from his pocket. 'Only this,' he replied as he rose, moved across to Poirot and handed him the letter. 'One of my tasks was to open and sort out all of Sir Claud's correspondence. This came two days ago.'
Poirot took the letter and read it aloud. ''You are nourishing a viper in your bosom.' Bosom?' he queried, turning to Hastings before continuing, ''Beware of Selma Goetz and her brood. Your secret is known. Be on your guard.' It is signed 'Watcher.' H'm, very picturesque and dramatic. Hastings, you will enjoy this,' Poirot remarked, passing the letter to his friend.
'What I would like to know,' declared Edward Raynor, 'is this. Who is Selma Goetz?'
Leaning back and putting his fingertips together, Poirot announced, 'I think I can satisfy your curiosity, monsieur. Selma Goetz was the most successful international spy ever known. She was also a very beautiful woman. She worked for Italy, for France, for Germany, and eventually, I believe, for Russia. Yes, she was an extraordinary woman, Selma Goetz.'
Raynor stepped back a pace, and spoke sharply. 'Was?'
'She is dead,' Poirot declared. 'She died in Genoa, last November.' He retrieved the letter from Hastings, who had been shaking his head over it with a perplexed expression.
'Then this letter must be a hoax,' Raynor exclaimed.
'I wonder,' Poirot murmured. ''Selma Goetz and her brood,' it says. Selma Goetz left a daughter, Monsieur Raynor, a very beautiful girl. Since her mother's death she has disappeared completely.' He put the letter in his pocket.
'Could it be possible that -?' Raynor began, then paused.
'Yes? You were going to say something, monsieur?' Poirot prompted him.
Moving to the detective, Raynor spoke eagerly. 'Mrs Amory's Italian maid. She brought her from Italy with her, a very pretty girl. Vittoria Muzio, her name is. Could she possibly be this daughter of Selma Goetz?'
'Ah, it is an idea, that.' Poirot sounded impressed.
'Let me send her to you,' Raynor suggested, turning to go.
Poirot rose. 'No, no, a little minute. Above all, we must not alarm her. Let me speak to Madame Amory first. She will be able to tell me something about this girl.'
'Perhaps you are right,' Raynor agreed. 'I'll tell Mrs Amory at once.'
The secretary left the room with the air of a determined man, and Hastings approached Poirot in great excitement.
'That's it, Poirot! Carelli and the Italian maid in collusion, working for a foreign government. Don't you agree?'
Deep in thought, Poirot paid his colleague no heed.
'Poirot? Don't you think so? I said, it must be Carelli and the maid working together.'
'Ah, yes, that is exactly what you would say, my friend.'
Hastings looked affronted. 'Well, what is your idea?' he asked Poirot in an injured tone.
'There are several questions to be answered, my dear Hastings. Why was Madame Amory's necklace stolen two months ago? Why did she refuse to call in the police on that occasion? Why -?'
He broke off as Lucia Amory entered the room, carrying her handbag. 'I understand you wanted to see me, Monsieur Poirot. Is that correct?' she asked.
'Yes, madame. I would like simply to ask you a few questions.' He indicated a chair by the table. 'Won't you sit down?'
Lucia moved to the chair and sat, as Poirot turned to Hastings. 'My friend, the garden outside that window is very fine,' Poirot observed, taking Hastings by the arm and propelling him gently towards the French windows. Hastings looked distinctly reluctant to leave, but Poirot's insistence, though gentle, was firm. 'Yes, my friend. Observe the beauties of nature. Do not ever lose a chance of observing the beauties of nature.'
Somewhat unwillingly, Hastings allowed himself to be bundled out of doors. Then, the day being warm and sunny, he decided to make the best of his present situation and explore the Amorys' garden. Ambling across the lawn, he made his way towards a hedge beyond which a formal garden looked extremely inviting.
As he walked along the length of the hedge, Hastings became aware of voices quite close by, voices which, as he approached, he recognized as those of Barbara Amory and Dr Graham, who were, it seemed, enjoying a tete-а-tete on a bench, just the other side of the hedge. In the hope that he might overhear something relevant to Sir Claud Amory's death or the disappearance of the formula that would be useful for Poirot to know, Hastings stopped to listen.
'- perfectly clear that he thinks his beautiful young cousin can do better for herself than a country doctor. That seems to be the basis of his lack of enthusiasm for our seeing each other,' Kenneth Graham was saying.
'Oh, I know Richard can be an old stick-in-the-mud at times, and carry on like someone twice his age,' Barbara's voice replied. 'But I don't think you ought to allow yourself to be affected by it, Kenny. I certainly don't take any notice of him.'
'Well, I shan't either,' said Dr Graham. 'But look here, Barbara, I asked you to meet me out here because I wanted to talk to you privately, without being seen or heard by the family. First of all, I ought to tell you that there can be no doubt about it, your uncle was poisoned last night.'
'Oh, yes?' Barbara sounded bored.
'You don't seem at all surprised to hear that.'
'Oh, I suppose I'm surprised. After all, members of one's family don't get poisoned every day, do they? But I have to admit that I'm not particularly upset that he's dead. In fact, I think I'm glad.'
'Barbara!'
'Now, don't you start pretending you're surprised to hear that, Kenny. You've listened to me going on about the mean old so-and-so on countless occasions. He didn't really care for any of us, he was only interested in his mouldy old experiments. He treated Richard very badly, and he wasn't particularly welcoming to Lucia when Richard brought her back from Italy as his bride. And Lucia is so sweet, and so absolutely right for Richard.'
'Barbara, darling, I have to ask you this. Now, I promise that anything you say to me will go no further. I'll protect you if necessary. But tell me, do you know something – anything at all – about your uncle's death? Have you any reason to suspect that Richard, for example, might have felt so desperate about his financial situation that he would think of killing his father in order to get his hands now on what would eventually be his inheritance?'
'I don't want to continue this conversation, Kenny. I thought you asked me out here to whisper sweet nothings to me, not to accuse my cousin of murder.'
'Darling, I'm not accusing Richard of anything. But you must admit there's something wrong here. Richard doesn't seem to want a police investigation into his father's death. It's almost as though he were afraid of what it might reveal. There's no way he can stop the police from taking over, of course, but he's made it perfectly clear that he's furious with me for having instigated an official investigation. I was only doing my duty as a doctor, after all.
