doubtless how the mistake arose. That is how someone thought that I must be the woman's daughter.' Lucia sank back in her chair.
Poirot nodded slow appreciation, at which Lucia appeared visibly to relax. Then suddenly, leaning over the table towards her, the detective remarked, 'But I thought you had never been to Genoa.'
Taken unawares, Lucia gasped. She stared at Poirot as he put his pocket-book back in an inner pocket of his jacket. 'You have no photograph,' she said. It was half question, half statement.
'No,' Poirot confessed. 'I have no photograph, madame. I knew the name that Selma Goetz passed under in Genoa. The rest – my friend and his photography – all of that was a harmless little invention of mine!'
Lucia leaped to her feet, her eyes blazing with anger.
'You set a trap for me!' she exclaimed furiously.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'Yes, madame,' he affirmed. 'I fear I had no alternative.'
'What has all this to do with Sir Claud's death?' Lucia muttered as though to herself, looking wildly about the room.
Poirot affected a tone of indifference as, instead of answering, he posed another question. 'Madame,' he asked, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his jacket as he spoke, 'is it true that you lost a valuable diamond necklace a little time ago?'
Lucia glared at him. 'Again I ask,' her words emerging as though through clenched teeth, 'what has that to do with Sir Claud's death?'
Poirot spoke slowly and deliberately. 'First a stolen necklace – then a stolen formula. Both would bring in a very large sum of money.'
'What do you mean?' Lucia gasped.
'I mean, madame, that I would like you to answer this question. How much did Dr Carelli want – this time?' Lucia turned away from Poirot. 'I – I – I will not answer any more questions,' she whispered.
'Because you are afraid?' asked Poirot, moving to her.
Lucia turned to face him again, flinging her head back in a gesture of defiance.
'No,' she asserted, 'I'm not afraid. I simply don't know what you are talking about! Why should Dr Carelli ask me for money?'
'To buy his silence,' Poirot replied. 'The Amorys are a proud family, and you would not have wanted them to know that you are – the daughter of Selma Goetz!'
Lucia glared at Poirot for a moment without replying, and then, her shoulders sagging, she collapsed onto a chair, resting her head in her hands. At least a minute elapsed before she looked up with a sigh. 'Does Richard know?' she murmured.
'He does not know yet, madame,' Poirot replied slowly.
Lucia sounded desperate as she pleaded, 'Don't tell him, Monsieur Poirot! Please don't tell him! He is so proud of his family name, so proud of his honour! I was wicked to have married him! But I was so miserable. I hated that life, that awful life I was forced to live with my mother. I felt degraded by it. But what could I do? And then, when Mama died, I was at last free! Free to be honest! Free to get away from that life of lies and intrigue. I met Richard. That was the most wonderful thing that had ever happened to me. Richard came into my life. I loved him, and he wanted to marry me. How could I tell him who I was? Why should I tell him?'
'And then,' Poirot prompted her gently, 'Carelli recognized you somewhere with Monsieur Amory, and began to blackmail you?'
'Yes, but I had no money of my own,' Lucia gasped. 'I sold the necklace and paid him. I thought that was the end of it all. But yesterday he turned up here. He had heard of this formula that Sir Claud had invented.'
'He wanted you to steal it for him?'
Lucia sighed. 'Yes.'
'And did you?' asked Poirot, moving closer to her.
'You won't believe me – now,' murmured Lucia, shaking her head sorrowfully.
Poirot contemplated the beautiful young woman with a look of sympathy.
'Yes, yes, my child,' he assured her. 'I will still believe you. Have courage, and trust Papa Poirot, yes? Just tell me the truth. Did you take Sir Claud's secret formula?'
'No, no, I didn't, I didn't!' Lucia declared vehemently. 'But it's true that I meant to. Carelli made a key of Sir Claud's safe from an impression I took.'
Taking a key from his pocket and showing it to her, Poirot asked, 'Is this it?'
Lucia looked at the key. 'Yes, it was all quite easy. Carelli gave me that key. I was in the study, just steeling myself to open the safe when Sir Claud came in and found me. That's the truth, I swear it!'
'I believe you, madame,' said Poirot. He returned the key to his pocket, moved to the arm-chair and sat, placing the tips of his fingers together, and pondering for a moment.
'And yet you acquiesced eagerly in Sir Claud's scheme of plunging the room into darkness?'
'I didn't want to be searched,' Lucia explained. 'Carelli had passed me a note at the same time as the key, and they were both in my dress.'
'What did you do with them?' Poirot asked her.
'When the lights went out, I threw the key as far from me as I could. Over there.' She pointed in the direction of the chair in which Edward Raynor had sat on the previous evening.
'And the note that Carelli had passed to you?' Poirot continued.
'I didn't know what to do with the note.' Lucia rose and went to the table. 'So I slipped it between the leaves of a book.' Taking a book from the table, she searched in it. 'Yes, it is still here,' she declared as she removed a piece of paper from the book. 'Do you wish to see it?'
'No, madame, it is yours,' Poirot assured her.
Sitting in a chair by the table, Lucia tore the note into small pieces which she put in her handbag. Poirot watched her but paused before asking, 'One little thing more, madame. Did you, by any chance, tear your dress last night?'
'I? No!' Lucia sounded surprised.
'During those moments of darkness,' asked Poirot, 'did you hear the sound of a dress tearing?'
Lucia considered for a few seconds. Then, 'Yes, now that you mention it,' she said, 'I believe I did. But it was not mine. It must have been Miss Amory's or Barbara's.'
'Well, we will not worry about that,' remarked Poirot dismissively. 'Now, let us pass on to something else. Who poured out Sir Claud's coffee last night?'
'I did.'
'And you put it down on that table, beside your own cup?'
'Yes.'
Poirot rose, leaned forward over the table towards Lucia, and suddenly shot his next question at her. 'Into which cup did you put the hyoscine?'
Lucia looked at him wildly. 'How did you know?' she gasped.
'It is my business to know things. Into which cup, madame?'
Lucia sighed. 'My own.'
'Why?'
'Because I wanted – I wanted to die. Richard suspected that there was something between Carelli and me – that we were having an affair. He could not have been further from the truth. I hated Carelli! I hate him now. But, as I had failed to obtain the formula for him, I was sure he would expose me to Richard. To kill myself was a way out – the only way. A swift, dreamless sleep – and no awakening – that's what he said.'
'Who said that to you?'
'Dr Carelli.'
'I begin to see – I begin to see,' said Poirot slowly. He pointed to the cup on the table. 'This is your cup, then? A full cup, untasted?'
'Yes.'
'What made you change your mind about drinking it?'
'Richard came over to me. He said that he would take me away – abroad – that he would get the money to do so, somehow. He gave me back – hope.'
'Now, listen to me carefully, madame,' said Poirot gravely. 'This morning, Dr Graham took away the cup that
