Hercule Poirot looked round him. The room was a perfectly conventional, drawing-room - oatmeal-coloured paper with a frieze round the top, indeterminate cretonnes, rose-coloured cushions and curtains, a good many china knick-knacks and ornaments. There was nothing in the room that stood out, that announced a definite personality.
Suddenly Poirot, who was very sensitive, felt eyes watching him. He wheeled round. A girl was standing in the entrance of the french window - a small, sallow girl, with very black hair and suspicious eyes.
She came in, and as Poirot made a little bow she burst out abruptly, 'Why have you come?'
Poirot did not reply. He merely raised his eyebrows.
'You are not a lawyer - no?' Her English was good, but not for a minute would anyone have taken her to be English.
'Why should I be a lawyer, mademoiselle?'
The girl stared at him sul.nly. 'I thought you might be. I thought you had come perha?;o say that she did not know what she was doing. I have heard of such things - the not due influence; that is what they call it, no? But that is not right. She wanted me to have the money, and I shall have it. If it is needful I shall have a lawyer of my own. The money is mine. She wrote it down so, and so it shall be.' She looked ugly, her chin thrust out, her eyes gleaming.
The door opened and a tail woman entered and said, 'Katrina'.
The girl shrank, flushed, muttered something and went out through the window.
Poirot turned to face the newcomer who had so effectually dealt with the situation by uttering a single word. There had been authority in her voice, and contempt and a shade of well-bred irony. He realized at once that this was the owner of the house, Mary Delafontaine.
'M. Poirot? I wrote to you. You cannot have received my letter.'
'Alas, I have been away from London.' 'Oh, I see; that explains it. I must introduce myself. My name is Delafontaine. This is my husband. Miss Barrowby was my aunt.' Mr Delafontaine had entered so quietly that his arrival had passed unnoticed. He was a tall man with grizzled hair and an indeterminate manner. He had a nervous way of fingering his chin. He looked often towards his wife, and it was plain that he expected her to take the lead in any conversation.
'I much regret that I intrude in the midst of your bereavement,' said Hercule Poirot.
'I quite realize that it is not your fault,' said Mrs Delafontaine.
'My aunt died or Tuesday evening. It was quite unexpected.' 'Most unexpected,' said Mr Delafontaine. 'Great blow.' His eyes watched the window where the foreign girl had disappeared.
'I apologize,' said Hercule Poirot. 'And I withdraw.' He moved a step towards the door.
'Half a sec,' said Mr Delafontaine. 'You - er - had an appointment with Aunt Amelia, you say?' 'Parfa(tement.' 'Perhaps you will tell us about it,' said his wife. 'If there i. anything we can do - ' 'It was of a private nature,' said Poirot. 'I am a detective,' he added simply.
Mr Delafontaine knocked over a little china figure he was handling. His wife looked puzzled.
'A detective? And you had an appointment with Auntie? But how extraordinary? She stared at him. 'Can't you tell us a little more, M. Poirot? It - it seems quite fantastic.' Poirot was silent for a moment. He chose his words with care.
'It is difficult for…me, madame, to know what to do.' 'Look here,' said Mr Delafontaine. '8he didn't mention Russians, did she?' 'Russians?' 'Yes, you know - Bolshies, Reds, all that sort of thing.' 'Don't be absurd, Henry,' said his wife.
Mr Delafontaine collapsed. 'Sorry - sorry - I just wondered.' Mary Delafontaine looked frankly at Poirot. Her eyes were very blue - the colour of forget-me-nots. 'If you can tell us anything, M. Poirot, I should be glad if you would do so. I can assure you that I have a - a reason for asking.'
Mr Delafontaine looked alarmed. 'Be careful, old girl - you know there may be nothing in it.'
Again his wife quelled him with a glance. 'Well, M. Poirot?' Slowly, gravely, Hercule Poirot shook his head. He shook it with visible regret, but he shook it. 'At present, madame,' he said, 'I fear I must say nothing.'
He bowed, picked up his hat and moved to the door. Mary Delafontaine came with him into the hall. On the doorstep he paused and looked at her.
'You are fond of your garden, I think, madame?' 'I? Yes, I spend a lot of time gardening.' 'Je ous fait roes compliments.'
He bowed once more and strode down to the gate. As he passed out of it and turned to the right he glanced back and registered two impressions - a sallow face watching him from a first-floor window, and a man of erect and soldierly carriage pacing up and down on the opposite side of the street.
Hercule Poirot nodded to himself. 'Definitivement,' he said.
'There is a mouse in this hole! What move must the cat make now?'
His decision took him to the nearest post office. Here he put through a couple of telephone calls. The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his steps to Charman's Green police station, where he inquired for Inspector Sims.
Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a hearty manner.
'M. Poirot?' he inquired. 'I thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone call through from the chief constable about you. tie aid you'd be dropping in. Come into my office.'
The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.
'You're very quick on to the mark, M. Poirot. Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost before we know it is a case. What put you on to it?'
Poirot drew out the letter he had received and handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with some interest.
'Interesting,' he said. 'The trouble is, it might mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been a little more explicit. It would have helped us now.' 'Or there might have been no need for help.' 'You mean?' 'She might have been alive.' 'You go as far as that, do you? H'm - I'm not sure you're wrong.' 'I pray of you, Inspector, recount to me the facts. I know nothing at all.' 'That's easily done. Old lady was taken bad after dinner on Tuesday night. Very alarming. Convulsions - spasms - whatnot.
They sent for the doctor. By the time he arrived she was dead.
Idea was she'd died of a fit. Well, he didn't much like the look of things. He hemmed and hawed and put it with a bit of Soft awder, but he made it clear that he couldn't give a death certificate.
And as far as the family go, that's where the matter stands. They're awaiting the result of the post-mortem. We've got a bit further. The doctor gave us the tip right away - he and the police surgeon did the autopsy together - and the result is in no doubt whatever. The old lady died of a large dose of strychnine.' 'Aha?
'That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is, who gave it to her? It must have been administered very shortly before death.
First idea was it was given to her in her food at dinner - but, frankly, that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple tart.' 'Miss Barrowby, Mr Delafontaine and Mrs Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant - a half-Russian girl but she didn't eat with the family. She had the remains as they came out from the dining-room. There's a maid, but it was her night out. She left the soup on the stove and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was cold. All three of them ate the same thing- and, apart from that, I don't think you could get strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's as bitter as gall. The doctor
told me you could taste it in a solution of one in a thousand, or something like that.' 'Coffee?' 'Coffee's more like it, but the old lady never took coffee.' 'I see your point. Yes, it seems an insuperable difficulty. What did she drink at the meal?' 'Water.' 'Worse and worse.' 'Bit of a teaser, isn't it?' 'She had money, the old lady?' 'Very well to do, I imagine. Of course, we haven't got exact details yet. The Delafontaines are pretty badly off, from what I can make out. The old lady helped with the upkeep of the house.' Poirot smiled a little. He said, 'So you suspect the Delafontaines.