Japp stopped, and Poirot nodded, and said with the relish of the specialist:
“Une belle affaire! And there was no clue to the perpetrator of the deed? But how should there be!”
“Well,” continued the Inspector, “you know the rest. The tragedy was a double one. Next day there were headlines in all the papers, and a brief statement to the effect that Miss Courtenay, the popular actress, had been discovered dead in her bed, and that her death was due to an overdose of cocaine. Now, was it accident or suicide? Her maid who was called upon to give evidence, admitted that Miss Courtenay was a confirmed taker of the drug, and a verdict of accidental death was returned. Nevertheless we can’t leave the possibility of suicide out of account. Her death is particularly unfortunate, since it leaves us no clue now to the cause of the quarrel the preceding night. By the way, a small enamel box was found on the dead man. It had Coco written across it in diamonds, and was half full of cocaine. It was identified by Miss Courtenay’s maid as belonging to her mistress, who nearly always carried it about with her, since it contained her supply of the drug to which she was fast becoming a slave.”
“Was Lord Cronshaw himself addicted to the drug?”
“Very far from it. He held unusually strong views on the subject of dope.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“But since the box was in his possession, he knew that Miss Courtenay took it. Suggestive, that, is it not, my good Japp?”
“Ah!” said Japp rather vaguely.
I smiled.
“Well,” said Japp, “that’s the case. What do you think of it?”
“You found no clue of any kind that has not been reported?”
“Yes, there was this.” Japp took a small object from his pocket and handed it over to Poirot. It was a small pompon of emerald-green silk, with some ragged threads hanging from it, as though it had been wrenched violently away.
“We found it in the dead man’s hand, which was tightly clenched over it,” explained the Inspector.
Poirot handed it back without any comment and asked:
“Had Lord Cronshaw enemies?”
“None that anyone knows of. He seemed a popular young fellow.”
“Who benefits by his death?”
“His uncle, the Honorable Eustace Beltane, comes into the title and estates. There are one or two suspicious facts against him. Several people declare that they heard a violent altercation going on in the little supper-room, and that Eustace Beltane was one of the disputants. You see, the table knife being snatched up off the table would fit in with the murder being done in the heat of a quarrel.”
“What does Mr. Beltane say?”
“Declares one of the waiters was the worse for liquor, and that he was giving him a dressing down. Also that it was nearer to 1 than half-past. You see, Captain Digby’s evidence fixes the time pretty accurately. Only about ten minutes elapsed between his speaking to Cronshaw and the finding of the body.”
“And in any case I suppose Mr. Beltane, as Punchinello, was wearing a hump and a ruffle?”
“I don’t know the exact details of the costumes,” said Japp, looking curiously at Poirot. “And anyway, I don’t quite see what that has got to do with it.”
“No?” There was a hint of mockery in Poirot’s smile. He continued quietly, his eyes shining with the green light I had learned to recognize so welclass="underline" “There was a curtain in this little supper-room, was there not?”
“Yes, but—”
“With a space behind it sufficient to conceal a man?”
“Yes — in fact, there’s a small recess, but how you knew about it — you haven’t been to the place, have you, Monsieur Poirot?”
“No, my good Japp, I supplied the curtain from my brain. Without it, the drama is not reasonable. And always one must be reasonable. But tell me, did they not send for a doctor?”
“At once, of course. But there was nothing to be done. Death must have been instantaneous.”
Poirot nodded rather impatiently.
“Yes, yes, I understand. This doctor gave evidence at the inquest?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say nothing of any unusual symptom — was there nothing about the appearance of the body which struck him as being abnormal?”
Japp stared hard at the little man.
“Yes, Monsieur Poirot. I don’t know what you’re getting at, but he did mention that there was a tension and stiffness about the limbs which he was quite at a loss to account for.”
“Aha!” said Poirot. “Aha! Mon Dieu! Japp, that gives one to think, does it not?”
I saw that it had certainly not given Japp to think.
“If you’re thinking of poison, Monsieur, who on earth would poison a man first and then stick a knife into him?”
“In truth that would be ridiculous,” agreed Poirot placidly.
“Now is there anything you want to see, Monsieur? If you’d like to examine the room where the body was found—”
Poirot waved his hand.
“Not in the least. You have told me the only thing that interests me — Lord Cronshaw’s views on the subject of drug-taking.”
“Then there’s nothing you want to see?”
“Just one thing.”
“What is that?”
“The set of china figures from which the costumes were copied.”
Japp stared.
“Well, you’re a funny one!”
“You can manage that for me?”
“Come round to Berkeley Square now if you like. Mr. Beltane — or His Lordship, as I should say now — won’t object.”
We set off at once in a taxi. The new Lord Cronshaw was not at home, but at Japp’s request we were shown into the “China room,” where the gems of the collection were kept. Japp looked round him rather helplessly.
“I don’t see how you’ll ever find the ones you want, Monsieur.”
But Poirot had already drawn a chair in front of the mantelpiece and was hopping up upon it like a nimble robin. Above the mirror, on a small shelf all to themselves, stood six china figures. Poirot examined them minutely, making a few comments to us as he did so.
“Les voilà! The old Italian Comedy. Three pairs! Harlequin and Columbine, Pierrot and Pierrette — very dainty in white and green — and Punchinello and Pulcinella in mauve and yellow. Very elaborate, the costume of Punchinello — ruffles and frills, a hump, a high hat. Yes, as I thought, very elaborate.”
He replaced the figures carefully, and jumped down.
Japp looked unsatisfied, but as Poirot had clearly no intention of explaining anything, the detective put the best face he could upon the matter. As we were preparing to leave, the master of the house came in, and Japp performed the necessary introductions.
The sixth Viscount Cronshaw was a man of about 50, suave in manner, with a handsome, dissolute face. Evidently an elderly roué, with the languid manner of a poseur. I took an instant dislike to him. He greeted us graciously enough, declaring he had heard great accounts of Poirot’s skill, and placing himself at our disposal in every way.
“The police are doing all they can, I know,” he said. “But I much fear the mystery of my nephew’s death will never be cleared up. The whole thing seems utterly mysterious.”
Poirot was watching him keenly. “Your nephew had no enemies that you know of?”
“None whatever. I am sure of that.” He paused, and then went on: “If there are any questions you would like to ask—”
“Only one.” Poirot’s voice was serious. “The costumes — they were reproduced exactly, from your figurines?”