Black Coffee by Agatha Christie
‘No, not quite,’ replied Poirot. He leaned forward. ‘You did not throw dust in my eyes, Monsieur Raynor, because there was no dust. Do you understand?’
The secretary stared at him intently. ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘There was no dust on that box of drugs. Mademoiselle Barbara commented on the fact. But there should have been dust. That shelf on which it stands’ – and Poirot gestured towards it as he spoke – ‘is thick with dust. It was then that I knew –’
‘Knew what?’
‘I knew,’ Poirot continued, ‘that someone had taken that box down recently. That the person who poisoned Sir Claud Amory would not need to go near the box last night, since he had on some earlier occasion helped himself to all the poison he needed, choosing a time when he knew he would not be disturbed. You did not go near the box of drugs last night, because you had already taken from it the hyoscine you needed. But you did handle the coffee, Monsieur Raynor.’
Raynor smiled patiently. ‘Dear me! Do you accuse me of murdering Sir Claud?’
‘Do you deny it?’ asked Poirot.
Raynor paused before replying. When he spoke again, a harsher tone had entered his voice. ‘Oh no,’ he declared, ‘I don’t deny it. Why should I? I’m really rather proud of the whole thing. It ought to have gone off without a hitch. It was sheer bad luck that made Sir Claud open the safe again last night. He’s never done such a thing before.’
Poirot sounded rather drowsy as he asked, ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Why not? You’re so sympathetic. It’s a pleasure to talk to you.’ Raynor laughed, and continued. ‘Yes, things very nearly went wrong. But that’s what I really pride myself on, turning a failure into a success.’ A triumphant expression appeared on his face. ‘To devise a hiding place on the spur of the moment was really rather creditable. Would you like me to tell you where the formula is now?’
His drowsiness now accentuated, Poirot seemed to find difficulty in speaking clearly. ‘I – I do not understand you,’ he whispered.
‘You made one little mistake, Monsieur Poirot,’ Raynor told him with a sneer. ‘You underestimated my intelligence. I wasn’t really taken in just now by your ingenious red herring about poor old Carelli. A man with your brains couldn’t seriously have believed that Carelli – why, it won’t bear thinking about. You see, I’m playing for big stakes. That piece of paper, delivered in the right quarters, means fifty thousand pounds to me.’ He leaned back. ‘Just think what a man of my ability can do with fifty thousand pounds.’
In a voice of increasing drowsiness, Poirot managed to reply, ‘I – I do not – like to think of it.’
‘Well, perhaps not. I appreciate that,’ Raynor conceded. ‘One has to allow for a different point of view.’
Poirot leaned forward, and appeared to be making an effort to pull himself together. ‘And it will not be so,’ he exclaimed. ‘I will denounce you. I, Hercule Poirot –’ He broke off suddenly.
‘Hercule Poirot will do nothing,’ declared Raynor, as the detective sank back in his seat. With a laugh which was close to a sneer, the secretary continued, ‘You never guessed, did you, even when you said that the whisky was bitter? You see, my dear Monsieur Poirot, I took not just one but several tubes of hyoscine from that box. If anything, you have had slightly more than I gave Sir Claud.’
‘Ah, mon Dieu,’ Poirot gasped, struggling to rise. In a weak voice he tried to call, ‘Hastings! Hast –’ His voice faded away, and he sank back into his chair. His eyelids closed.
Raynor got to his feet, pushed his chair aside, and moved to stand over Poirot. ‘Try to keep awake, Monsieur Poirot,’ he said. ‘Surely you’d like to see where the formula was hidden, wouldn’t you?’
He waited for a moment, but Poirot’s eyes remained closed. ‘A swift, dreamless sleep, and no awakening, as our dear friend Carelli puts it,’ Raynor commented dryly as he went to the mantelpiece, took the spills, folded them, and put them in his pocket. He moved towards the french windows, pausing only to call over his shoulder, ‘Goodbye, my dear Monsieur Poirot.’
He was about to step out into the garden when he was halted by the sound of Poirot’s voice, speaking cheerfully and naturally. ‘Would you not like the envelope as well?’
Raynor spun around, and at the same moment Inspector Japp entered the library from the garden. Moving back a few steps, Raynor paused irresolutely, and then decided to bolt. He rushed to the french windows, only to be seized by Japp and by Constable Johnson, who also suddenly appeared from the garden.
Poirot rose from his chair, stretching himself. ‘Well, my dear Japp,’ he asked. ‘Did you get it all?’
Dragging Raynor back to the centre of the room with the aid of his constable, Japp replied, ‘Every word, thanks to your note, Poirot. You can hear everything perfectly from the terrace there, just outside the window. Now, let’s go over him and see what we can find.’ He pulled the spills from Raynor’s pocket, and threw them onto the coffee table. He next pulled out a small tube. ‘Aha! Hyoscine! Empty.’
‘Ah, Hastings,’ Poirot greeted his friend, as he entered from the hall carrying a glass of whisky and soda which he handed to the detective.
‘You see?’ Poirot addressed Raynor in his kindliest manner. ‘I refused to play in your comedy. Instead, I made you play in mine. In my note, I gave instructions to Japp and also to Hastings. Then I make things easy for you by complaining of the heat. I know you will suggest a drink. It is, after all, the opening that you need. After that, it is all so straightforward. When I go to the door, the good Hastings he is ready outside with another whisky and soda. I change glasses and I am back again. And so – on with the comedy.’
Poirot gave the glass back to Hastings. ‘Myself, I think I play my part rather well,’ he declared.
There was a pause while Poirot and Raynor surveyed each other. Then Raynor spoke. ‘I’ve been afraid of you ever since you came into this house. My scheme could have worked. I could have set myself up for life with the fifty thousand pounds – perhaps even more – that I would have got for that wretched formula. But, from the moment you arrived, I stopped feeling absolutely confident that I’d get away with killing that pompous old fool and stealing his precious scrap of paper.’
‘I have observed already that you are intelligent,’ Poirot replied. He sat again in the arm-chair, looking distinctly pleased with himself, as Japp began to speak rapidly.
‘Edward Raynor, I arrest you for the wilful murder of Sir Claud Amory, and I warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence.’ Japp made a gesture to the constable to take Raynor away.
Chapter 20
As Raynor made his exit in the custody of Constable Johnson, the two men passed Miss Amory, who was entering the library at the same moment. She looked back at them anxiously, and then hastened to Poirot. ‘Monsieur Poirot,’ she gasped as Poirot rose to greet her, ‘is this true? Was it Mr Raynor who murdered my poor brother?’
‘I am afraid so, mademoiselle,’ said Poirot.
Miss Amory looked dumbfounded. ‘Oh! Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe it! What wickedness! We’ve always treated him like one of the family. And the Beeswax and everything –’ She turned abruptly, and was about to leave when Richard entered and held the door open for her. As she almost ran from the room, her niece Barbara entered from the garden.
‘This is simply too shattering for words,’ Barbara exclaimed. ‘Edward Raynor, of all people. Who would have believed it? Somebody has been frightfully clever to have found out. I wonder who!’
She looked meaningfully at Poirot who, however, gave a bow in the direction of the police inspector as he murmured, ‘It was Inspector Japp who solved the case, mademoiselle.’
Japp beamed. ‘I will say for you, Monsieur Poirot, you’re the goods. And a gentleman as well.’ With a nod to the assembled company, Japp made a brisk exit, snatching the whisky glass from a bemused Hastings as he did so, with the words, ‘I’ll take charge of the evidence, i
‘Yes, but was it really Inspector Japp who found out who killed Uncle Claud? Or,’ Barbara asked Poirot coyly as she approached him, ‘was it you, Monsieur Hercule Poirot?’
Poirot moved to Hastings, putting an arm around his old friend. ‘Mademoiselle,’ he informed Barbara, ‘the real credit belongs to Hastings here. He made a remark of surpassing brilliance which put me on the right track. Take him into the garden and make him tell you about it.’
He pushed Hastings towards Barbara and shepherded them both towards the french windows. ‘Ah, my pet,’ Barbara sighed comically to Hastings as they went out into the garden.
Richard Amory was about to address Poirot, when the door to the hall opened and Lucia entered. Giving a start when she saw her husband, Lucia murmured uncertainly, ‘Richard –’
Richard turned to look at her. ‘Lucia!’
Lucia moved a few steps into the room. ‘I –,’ she began, and then broke off.
Richard approached her, and then stopped. ‘You –’
They both looked extremely nervous, and ill at ease with each other. Then Lucia suddenly caught sight of Poirot and went to him with outstretched hands. ‘Monsieur Poirot! How can we ever thank you?’
Poirot took both her hands in his. ‘So, madame, your troubles are over!’ he announced.
‘A murderer has been caught. But my troubles, are they really over?’ Lucia asked wistfully.
‘It is true that you do not look quite happy yet, my child,’ Poirot observed.
‘Shall I ever be happy again, I wonder?’
‘I think so,’ said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Trust in your old Poirot.’ Guiding Lucia to the chair by the table in the centre of the room, he picked up the spills from the coffee table, went across to Richard, and handed them to him. ‘Monsieur,’ he declared, ‘I have pleasure in restoring to you Sir Claud’s formula! It can be pieced together – what is the expression you use? – it will be as good as new.’
‘My God, the formula!’ Richard exclaimed. ‘I’d almost forgotten it. I can hardly bear to look at it again. Think what it has done to us all. It’s cost my father his life, and it’s all but ruined the lives of all of us as well.’
‘What are you going to do with it, Richard?’ Lucia asked him.
‘I don’t know. What would you do with it?’
Rising and moving to him, Lucia whispered, ‘Would you let me?’
‘It’s yours,’ her husband told her, handing her the spills. ‘Do as you like with the wretched thing.’
‘Thank you, Richard,’ murmured Lucia. She went to the fireplace, took a match from the box on the mantelpiece, and set fire to the spills, dropping the pieces one by one into the fireplace. ‘There is so much suffering already in the world. I cannot bear to think of any more.’
‘Madame,’ said Poirot, ‘I admire the manner in which you burn many thousands of pounds with as little emotion as though they were just a few pence.’
‘They are nothing but ashes,’ Lucia sighed. ‘Like my life.’
Poirot gave a snort. ‘Oh, là, là! Let us all order our coffins,’ he remarked in a tone of mock gloom. ‘No! Me, I like to be happy, to rejoice, to dance, to sing. See you, my children,’ he continued, turning to address Richard as well, ‘I am about to take a liberty with you both. Madame looks down her nose and thinks, “I have deceived my husband.” Monsieur looks down his nose and thinks, “I have suspected my wife.” And yet what you really want, both of you, is to be in each other’s arms, is it not?’
Lucia took a step towards her husband. ‘Richard –’ she began in a low voice.
‘Madame,’ Poirot interrupted her, ‘I fear that Sir Claud may have suspected you of planning to steal his formula because, a few weeks ago, someone – no doubt an ex-colleague of Carelli, for people of that kind are continually falling out with one another – someone, I say, sent Sir Claud an anonymous letter about your mother. But, do you know, my foolish child, that your husband tried to accuse himself to Inspector Japp – that he actually confessed to the murder of Sir Claud – in order to save you?’
Lucia gave a little cry, and looked adoringly at Richard.
‘And you, monsieur,’ Poirot continued. ‘Figure to yourself that, not more than half an hour ago, your wife was shouting in my ear that she had killed your father, all because she feared that you might have done so.’
‘Lucia,’ Richard murmured tenderly, going to her.
‘Being English,’ Poirot remarked as he moved away from them, ‘you will not embrace in my presence, I suppose?’
Lucia went to him, and took his hand. ‘Monsieur Poirot, I do not think I shall ever forget you – ever.’
‘Neither shall I forget you, madame,’ Poirot declared gallantly as he kissed her hand.
‘Poirot,’ Richard Amory declared, ‘I don’t know what to say, except that you’ve saved my life and my marriage. I can’t express what I feel –’
‘Do not derange yourself, my friend,’ replied Poirot. ‘I am happy to have been of service to you.’
Lucia and Richard went out into the garden together, looking into each other’s eyes, his arm around her shoulders. Following them to the window, Poirot called after them, ‘Bless you, mes enfants! Oh, and if you encounter Miss Barbara in the garden, please ask her to return Captain Hastings to me. We must shortly begin our journey to London.’ Turning back into the room, his glance fell on the fireplace.
‘Ah!’ he exclaimed as he went to the mantelpiece over the fireplace and straightened the spill vase. ‘Voilà! Now, order and neatness are restored.’ With that, Poirot walked towards the door with an air of immense satisfaction.
E-Book Extras
The Poirots
Essay by Charles Osborne
The Poirots
The Mysterious Affair at Styles; The Murder on the Links; Poirot Investigates; The Murder of Roger Ackroyd; The Big Four; The Mystery of the Blue Train; Black Coffee; Peril at End House; Lord Edgware Dies; Murder on the Orient Express; Three-Act Tragedy; Death in the Clouds; The ABC Murders; Murder in Mesopotamia; Cards on the Table; Murder in the Mews; Dumb Witness; Death on the Nile; Appointment with Death; Hercule Poirot’s Christmas; Sad Cypress; One, Two, Buckle My Shoe; Evil Under the Sun; Five Little Pigs; The Hollow; The Labours of Hercules; Taken at the Flood; Mrs McGinty’s Dead; After the Funeral; Hickory Dickory Dock; Dead Man’s Folly; Cat Among the Pigeons; The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding; The Clocks; Third Girl; Hallowe’en Party; Elephants Can Remember; Poirot’s Early Cases; Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case
1. The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920)
Captain Arthur Hastings, invalided in the Great War, is recuperating as a guest of John Cavendish at Styles Court, the ‘country-place’ of John’s autocratic old aunt, Emily Inglethorpe — she of a sizeable fortune, and so recently remarried to a man twenty years her junior. When Emily’s sudden heart attack is found to be attributable to strychnine, Hastings recruits an old friend, now retired, to aid in the local investigation. With impeccable timing, Hercule Poirot, the renowned Belgian detective, makes his dramatic entrance into the pages of crime literature.
Of note: Written in 1916, The Mysterious Affair at Styles was Agatha Christie’s first published work. Six houses rejected the novel before it was finally published — after puzzling over it for eighteen months before deciding to go ahead — by The Bodley Head.
Times Literary Supplement: ‘Almost too ingenious ... very clearly and brightly told.’
2. The Murder on the Links (1923)
“For God’s sake, come!” But by the time Hercule Poirot can respond to Monsieur Renauld’s plea, the millionaire is already dead — stabbed in the back, and lying in a freshly dug grave on the golf course adjoining his estate. There is no lack of suspects: his wife, whose dagger did the deed; his embittered son; Renauld’s mistress — and each feels deserving of the dead man’s fortune. The police think they’ve found the culprit. Poirot has his doubts. And the discovery o
The New York Times: ‘A remarkably good detective story ... warmly recommended.’
Literary Review: ‘Really clever.’
Sketch: ‘Agatha Christie never lets you down.’
3. Poirot Investigates (1924)
A movie star, a diamond; a murderous ‘suicide’; a pharaoh’s curse upon his tomb; a prime minister abducted...What links these fascinating cases? The brilliant deductive powers of Hercule Poirot in... ‘The Adventure of the Western Star’; ‘The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor’; ‘The Adventure of the Cheap Flat’; ‘The Mystery of the Hunter’s Lodge’; ‘The Million Dollar Bond Robbery’; ‘The Adventure of the Egyptian Tomb’; ‘The Jewel Robbery at the Grand Metropolitan’; ‘The Kidnapped Prime Minister’; ‘The Disappearance of Mr. Davenheim’; ‘The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman’; ‘The Case of the Missing Will.’
Of note: The stories collected here were first published in Sketch, beginning on March 7, 1923. Sketch also featured the first illustration of the foppish, egg-headed, elaborately moustachioed Belgian detective.
Literary Review: ‘A capital collection ... ingeniously constructed and told with an engaging lightness of style.’
Irish Times: ‘In straight detective fiction there is still no one to touch [Christie].’
4. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926)
In the quiet village of King’s Abbot a widow’s suicide has stirred suspicion — and dreadful gossip. There are rumours that she murdered her first husband, that she was being blackmailed, and that her secret lover was Roger Ackroyd. Then, on the verge of discovering the blackmailer’s identity, Ackroyd himself is murdered. Hercule Poirot, who has settled in King’s Abbot for some peace and quiet and a little gardening, finds himself at the centre of the case — and up against a diabolically clever and devious killer.