you?'
'Just for a very short time, mademoiselle, I promise you.'
'Then you shall, Monsieur Poirot.' Turning back into the garden, Barbara called, 'My pet, you're wanted.'
'I thank you,' Poirot smiled again with a polite bow.
Barbara returned to the garden, and a few moments later Hastings entered the library through the French windows, looking somewhat ashamed.
'And what have you to say for yourself?' Poirot asked in a tone of mock annoyance.
Hastings attempted an apologetic smile. 'It is all well to put on the grin of the sheep,' Poirot admonished him. 'I leave you here on guard, and the next thing I know you are promenading yourself with that very charming young lady in the garden. You are generally the most reliable of men, mon cher, but as soon as a pretty young woman appears upon the scene, your judgement flies out of the window. Alors!'
Hastings 's sheepish grin faded, to be replaced by a blush of embarrassment. 'I say, I'm awfully sorry, Poirot,' he exclaimed. 'I just stepped outside for a second, and then I saw you through the window, coming into the room, so. I thought it didn't matter.'
'You mean you thought it better not to return to face me,' declared Poirot. 'Well, my dear Hastings, you may have done the most irreparable damage. I found Carelli in here. The good Lord alone knows what he was doing, or what evidence he was tampering with.'
'I say, Poirot, I really am sorry,' Hastings apologized again. 'I'm most awfully sorry.'
'If you have not done the damage irreparable, it is more by good luck than for any other reason. But now, mon ami, the moment has come when we must employ our little grey cells.' Pretending to smack Hastings on the cheek, Poirot in fact gave his colleague an affectionate pat.
'Ah, good! Let's get to work,' Hastings exclaimed.
'No, it is not good, my friend,' Poirot told him. 'It is bad. It is obscure.' His face wore a troubled look as he continued, 'It is dark, as dark as it was last night.' He thought for a moment, and then added, 'But – yes – I think there is perhaps an idea. The germ of an idea. Yes, we will start there!'
Looking completely mystified, Hastings asked, 'What on earth are you talking about?'
The tone of Poirot's voice changed. He spoke gravely and thoughtfully. 'Why did Sir Claud die, Hastings? Answer me that. Why did Sir Claud die?'
Hastings stared at him. 'But we know that,' he exclaimed.
'Do we?' asked Poirot. 'Are you so very sure?'
'Er – yes,' Hastings responded, though somewhat uncertainly. 'He died – he died because he was poisoned.'
Poirot made an impatient gesture. 'Yes, but why was he poisoned?'
Hastings thought carefully before replying. Then, 'Surely it must have been because the thief suspected -' he began.
Poirot slowly shook his head as Hastings continued, 'because the thief suspected – that he had been discovered -' he broke off again as he observed Poirot continuing to shake his head.
'Suppose, Hastings -' Poirot murmured, 'just suppose that the thief did not suspect?'
'I don't quite see,' Hastings confessed.
Poirot moved away, and then turned back with his arm raised in a gesture that seemed intended to hold his friend's attention. He paused and cleared his throat.
'Let me recount to you, Hastings,' he declared, 'the sequence of events as they might have gone, or rather as I think they were meant to go.'
Hastings sat in a chair by the table as Poirot continued.
'Sir Claud dies in his chair one night.' Poirot moved to the arm-chair, sat, and paused for a moment before repeating thoughtfully, 'Yes, Sir Claud dies in his chair. There are no suspicious circumstances attending that death. In all probability it will be put down to heart failure. It will be some days before his private papers are examined. His will is the only document that will be searched for. After the funeral, in due course, it will be discovered that his notes on the new explosive are incomplete. It may never be known that the exact formula existed. You see what that gives to our thief, Hastings?'
'Yes.'
'What?' asked Poirot.
Hastings looked puzzled. 'What?' he repeated.
'Security. That is what it gives the thief. He can dispose of his booty quite safely, whenever he wishes to. There is no pressure upon him. Even if the existence of the formula is known, he will have had plenty of time to cover his tracks.'
'Well, it's an idea – yes, I suppose so,' Hastings commented in a dubious tone.
'But naturally it is an idea!' Poirot cried. 'Am I not Hercule Poirot? But see now where this idea leads us. It tells us that the murder of Sir Claud was not a chance manoeuvre executed on the spur of the moment. It was planned beforehand. Beforehand. You see now where we are?'
'No,' Hastings admitted with an engaging candour. 'You know very well I never see these things. I know that we're in the library of Sir Claud's house, and that's all.'
'Yes, my friend, you are right,' Poirot told him. 'We are in the library of Sir Claud Amory's house. It is not morning but evening. The lights have just gone out. The thief's plans have gone awry.'
Poirot sat very upright and wagged his forefinger emphatically to emphasize his points. 'Sir Claud, who, in the normal course of things, would not have gone to that safe until the following day, has discovered his loss by a mere chance. And, as the old gentleman himself said, the thief is caught like a rat in a trap. Yes, but the thief, who is also the murderer, knows something, too, that Sir Claud does not. The thief knows that in a very few minutes Sir Claud will be silenced for ever. He – or she – has one problem that has to be solved, and one only – to hide the paper safely during those few moments of darkness. Shut your eyes, Hastings, as I shut mine. The lights have gone out, and we can see nothing. But we can hear. Repeat to me, Hastings, as accurately as you can, the words of Miss Amory when she described this scene for us.'
Hastings shut his eyes. Then he began to speak, slowly, with an effort of memory and several pauses. 'Gasps,' he uttered.
Poirot nodded. 'A lot of little gasps,' Hastings went on, and Poirot nodded again.
Hastings concentrated for a time, and then continued, 'The noise of a chair falling – a metallic clink – that must have been the key, I imagine.'
'Quite right,' said Poirot. 'The key. Continue.'
'A scream. That was Lucia screaming. She called out to Sir Claud – Then the knocking came at the door – Oh! Wait a moment – right at the beginning, the noise of tearing silk.' Hastings opened his eyes.
'Yes, tearing silk,' Poirot exclaimed. He rose, moved to the desk, and then crossed to the fireplace. 'It is all there, Hastings, in those few moments of darkness. All there. And yet our ears tell us – nothing.' He stopped at the mantelpiece and mechanically straightened the vase of spills.
'Oh, do stop straightening those damned things, Poirot,' Hastings complained. 'You're always at it.'
His attention arrested, Poirot removed his hand from the vase.
'What is that you say?' he asked. 'Yes, it is true.'
He stared at the vase of spills. 'I remember straightening them but a little hour ago. And now – it is necessary that I straighten them again.' He spoke excitedly. 'Why, Hastings – why is that?'
'Because they're crooked, I suppose,' Hastings replied in a bored tone. 'It's just your little mania for neatness.'
'Tearing silk!' exclaimed Poirot. 'No, Hastings! The sound is the same.' He stared at the paper spills, and snatched up the vase that contained them. 'Tearing paper,' he continued as he moved away from the mantelpiece.
His excitement communicated itself to his friend. 'What is it?' Hastings asked, springing up and moving to him.
Poirot stood, tumbling out the spills onto the settee, and examining them. Every now and then he handed one to Hastings, muttering, 'Here is one. Ah, another, and yet another.'
Hastings unfolded the spills and scrutinized them.
