Chapter IX. Dr. Bauerstein

by Agatha Christie

　　I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message toLawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursinga grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence onthe croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancientballs about, with a still more ancient mallet.It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver mymessage. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. Itwas true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flatteredmyself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillfulcross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive itssignificance. Accordingly I accosted him."I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully."Have you?""Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you--from Poirot.""Yes?""He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, droppingmy voice significantly, and watching him intently out of thecorner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what iscalled, I believe, creating an atmosphere."Well?"There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face.Had he any idea of what I was about to say?"This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " 'Findthe extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' ""What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quiteunaffected astonishment."Don't you know?""Not in the least. Do you?"I was compelled to shake my head."What extra coffee-cup?""I don't know.""He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to knowabout coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't knowanything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some thatare never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You'renot a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?"I shook my head."You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china--it's puredelight to handle it, or even to look at it.""Well, what am I to tell Poirot?""Tell him I don't know what he's talking about. It's doubleDutch to me.""All right."I was moving off towards the house again when he suddenly calledme back."I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, willyou?"" 'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' Are yousure you don't know what it means?" I asked him earnestly.He shook his head."No," he said musingly, "I don't. I--I wish I did."The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went intogether. Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, andwas already seated at the table.By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. Weconversed on the war, and other outside topics. But after thecheese and biscuits had been handed round, and Dorcas had leftthe room, Poirot suddenly leant forward to Mrs. Cavendish."Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant memories, but I havea little idea"--Poirot's "little ideas" were becoming a perfectbyword--"and would like to ask one or two questions.""Of me? Certainly.""You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask is this: thedoor leading into Mrs. Inglethorp's room from that ofMademoiselle Cynthia, it was bolted, you say?""Certainly it was bolted," replied Mary Cavendish, rathersurprised. "I said so at the inquest.""Bolted?""Yes." She looked perplexed."I mean," explained Poirot, "you are sure it was bolted, and notmerely locked?""Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted,meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but Ibelieve all the doors were found bolted on the inside.""Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally wellhave been locked?""Oh, yes.""You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you enteredMrs. Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?""I--I believe it was.""But you did not see it?""No. I--never looked.""But I did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened tonotice that it was bolted.""Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen.I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "littleideas" had come to naught.After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consentedrather stiffly."You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked anxiously, as we walkedthrough the park."Not at all," I said coldly."That is well. That lifts a great load from my mind."This was not quite what I had intended. I had hoped that hewould have observed the stiffness of my manner. Still, thefervour of his words went towards the appeasing of my justdispleasure. I thawed."I gave Lawrence your message," I said."And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?""Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant."I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, hereplied that that was as he had thought, and that he was veryglad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions.Poirot switched off on another tack."Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?""She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day.""Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too.She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather liketo see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show itto me?""I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting littleplace.""Does she go there every day?""She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch onSaturdays. Those are her only times off.""I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, andMademoiselle Cynthia is clever--oh, yes, she has brains, thatlittle one.""Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam.""Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. Isuppose they have very strong poisons there?""Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a littlecupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They alwaystake out the key before leaving the room.""Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?""No, right the other side of the room. Why?"Poirot shrugged his shoulders."I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?"We had reached the cottage."No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the longway through the woods."The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walkacross the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily throughthe cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the verychirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a littleway, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand oldbeech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable.I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was atpeace with the world. Then I yawned.I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unrealand far off.I yawned again.Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it wasall a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it wasLawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquetmallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it,and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!"I woke up with a start.At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament.For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish werestanding facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling.And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, forbefore I could move or speak John repeated the words which hadaroused me from my dream."I tell you, Mary, I won't have it."Mary's voice came, cool and liquid:"Have you any right to criticize my actions?""It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried onSaturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow.""Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossipthat you mind!""But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about.He's a Polish Jew, anyway.""A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavensthe"--she looked at him--"stolid stupidity of the ordinaryEnglishman."Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that theblood rose to John's face in a crimson tide."Mary!""Well?" Her tone did not change.The pleading died out of his voice."Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauersteinagainst my express wishes?""If I choose.""You defy me?""No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have you nofriends of whom I should disapprove?"John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face."What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice."You see!" said Mary quietly. "You do see, don't you, that youhave no right to dictate to me as to the choice of my friends?"John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face."No right? Have I no right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. Hestretched out his hands. "Mary----"For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression cameover her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away."None!"She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught herby the arm."Mary"--his voice was very quiet now--"are you in love with thisfellow Bauerstein?"She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strangeexpression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally youngabout it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over hershoulder."Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the littleglade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turnedto stone.Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some deadbranches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, hetook it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene."Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back tohis cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?""He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day.""Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What arotten world it is, though!""You find it so?" I asked."Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with.Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box!Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines inevery paper in the country--damn all journalists, I say! Do youknow there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates thismorning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors businessthat can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?""Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever.""Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to beable to hold up our heads again.""No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject.""Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastlyjournalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, whereverhe goes! But there's worse than that.""What?"John lowered his voice:"Have you ever thought, Hastings--it's a nightmare to me-- whodid it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been anaccident. Because--because--who could have done it? NowInglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean,except--one of us."Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us?Yes, surely it must be so, unless-----A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I consideredit. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, hishints--they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thoughtof this possibility before, and what a relief for us all."No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?""I know, but, still, who else is there?""Can't you guess?""No."I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice."Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered."Impossible!""Not at all.""But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?""That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirotthinks so.""Poirot? Does he? How do you know?"I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr.Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:"He said twice: 'That alters everything.' And I've been thinking.You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall?Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't itpossible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, thedoctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?""H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky.""Yes, but it was possible.""And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, Idon't think that will wash."But I had remembered something else."You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." AndI then told him of the coco sample which Poirot had taken to beanalysed.John interrupted just as I had done."But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?""Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now.Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed--that's just it!If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than forhim to substitute some ordinary coco for his sample, and sendthat to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine!But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think oftaking another sample--except Poirot," I added, with belatedrecognition."Yes, but what about the bitter taste that coco won't disguise?""Well, we've only his word for that. And there are otherpossibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatesttoxicologists----""One of the world's greatest what? Say it again.""He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained."Well, my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of makingstrychnine tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all,but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of, which producesmuch the same symptoms.""H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look here, how couldhe have got at the coco? That wasn't downstairs?""No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly.And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through mymind. I hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. Iglanced sideways at him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drewa deep breath of relief, for the terrible thought that hadflashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein might havehad an accomplice.Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as MaryCavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had beenknown to poison.And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on theday of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said thatpoison was a woman's weapon. How agitated she had been on thatfatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered somethingbetween her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband?Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had beencommitted?Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirotand Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this themonstrous possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?Yes, it all fitted in.No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now Iunderstood that unfinished sentence of hers: "Emily herself----"And in my heart I agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorphave preferred to go unavenged rather than have such terribledishonour fall upon the name of Cavendish."There's another thing," said John suddenly, and the unexpectedsound of his voice made me start guiltily. "Something whichmakes me doubt if what you say can be true.""What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone away from thesubject of how the poison could have been introduced into thecoco."Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. Heneedn't have done so. Little Wilkins would have been quitecontent to let it go at heart disease.""Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know. Perhaps hethought it safer in the long run. Some one might have talkedafterwards. Then the Home Office might have ordered exhumation.The whole thing would have come out, then, and he would have beenin an awkward position, for no one would have believed that a manof his reputation could have been deceived into calling it heartdisease.""Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still," he added, "I'mblest if I can see what his motive could have been."I trembled."Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong. And, remember,all this is in confidence.""Oh, of course--that goes without saying."We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the littlegate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea wasspread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day ofmy arrival.Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair besideher, and told her of Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary."Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to teathere one day. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dearlittle man! But he is funny. He made me take the brooch out ofmy tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said itwasn't straight."I laughed."It's quite a mania with him.""Yes, isn't it?"We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in thedirection of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthiasaid:"Mr. Hastings.""Yes?""After tea, I want to talk to you."Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that betweenthese two there existed very little sympathy. For the firsttime, it occurred to me to wonder about the girl's future. Mrs.Inglethorp had made no provisions of any kind for her, but Iimagined that John and Mary would probably insist on her makingher home with them--at any rate until the end of the war. John,I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry to let her go.John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. Hisgood-natured face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger."Confound those detectives! I can't think what they're after!They've been in every room in the house--turning things insideout, and upside down. It really is too bad! I suppose they tookadvantage of our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp,when I next see him!""Lot of Paul Prys," grunted Miss Howard.Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.Mary Cavendish said nothing.After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we saunteredoff into the woods together."Well?" I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyesby the leafy screen.With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat.The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn ofher hair to quivering gold."Mr. Hastings--you are always so kind, and you know such a lot."It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a verycharming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never saidthings of that kind."Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated."I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?""Do?""Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be providedfor. I suppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely todie--anyway, I am not provided for! And I don't know what to do.Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?""Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure."Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tinyhands. Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.""Hates you?" I cried, astonished.Cynthia nodded."Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and he can't,either.""There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On the contrary,John is very fond of you.""Oh, yes--John. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I carewhether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid whenno one loves you, isn't it?""But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly. "I'm sure you aremistaken. Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--"Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes me, I think,and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind toa fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, andMary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evieto stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn't want me,and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenly the poor child burstout crying.I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she satthere, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps thesense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously couldhave no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for heryouth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking herlittle hand, I said awkwardly:"Marry me, Cynthia."Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears.She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with someasperity:"Don't be silly!"I was a little annoyed."I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour ofbecoming my wife."To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called mea "funny dear.""It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don'twant to!""Yes, I do. I've got--""Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to-- and Idon't either.""Well, of course, that settles it," I said stiffly. "But I don'tsee anything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about aproposal.""No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might accept you nexttime. Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much."And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanishedthrough the trees.Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundlyunsatisfactory.It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village,and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye onthe fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay anysuspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I rememberedhow Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went tothe little house with the "Apartments" card inserted in thewindow, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.An old woman came and opened it."Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?"She stared at me."Haven't you heard?""Heard what?""About him.""What about him?""He's took.""Took? Dead?""No, took by the perlice.""By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?""Yes, that's it, and--"I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.