Chapter 9 Chapter 9 Dr. Bauerstein

So far I have had no opportunity of delivering Poirot's message to Lawrence.And now, when I still resent my friend for being bossy.Going for a walk on the lawn, I saw Lawrence on the lawn croquet ground, aimlessly banging some very old-fashioned croquet balls, with even more old-fashioned mallets. I think this is a good opportunity to spread the word.Otherwise, perhaps Poirot himself would have spoken to him about it, but I do not quite speculate on its purpose.But I myself think that by Lawrence's answer, perhaps with a little clever cross-examination on my part, I shall soon understand its meaning.So I went up to him and started talking to him.

"I've been looking for you," I lied. "What are you looking for?" "Yes, it is true. I have a message for you—from Poirot." "yes?" "He wants me to wait until I'm alone with you," I said in a low voice meaningfully, squinting at him intently.I believe that I have always had a way of creating an atmosphere. "Oh?" There was no change in the expression of the dark, brooding face.What did he think of what I had to say? "It's such a message," I lowered my voice even more. "'Find that extra-large coffee mug and you'll have peace of mind.'"

"What the hell does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in genuine astonishment. "You do not understand?" "Not at all. What about you?" I have to shake my head. "What king size coffee?" "I have no idea." "If he wants to know about coffee-cups, he'd better ask Dorcas, or any of the maids, for that's their job, not mine. I don't know anything about coffee-cups, We've only gotten a few that never work, and that's pretty darn good! Yes. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?" I shake my head. "It's a pity to say that. That's really perfect old china—it's a pleasure to touch, or look at, or even catch a glimpse of."

"Well, what shall I tell Poirot?" "Tell him I don't understand what he's talking about. It's an incomprehensible statement to me." "Ok." As I was walking towards the house, he called me back out of the blue. "I said, what's the end of that message? Can you say it again, will you?" "'Find that extra-large coffee cup and you'll be fine.' Don't you really understand what that means?" I asked him earnestly. He shook his head. "Don't understand," he said thoughtfully, "I don't understand, I—I wish I could."

There was a banging of gongs in the house, so we went in together.Poirot had accepted John's invitation to stay for lunch, and he was already seated at the table. With everyone's tacit consent, nothing about the tragedy will be mentioned.We talked about the war, and other external topics.But after the cheese and biscuits had been handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot suddenly bent over Mrs Cavendish. "Excuse me for reminding me of something unpleasant, ma'am, but I have a little idea!" - Poirot's "little idea" is about to become an excellent nickname. ——. "Want to ask a question or two."

"Ask me? Of course." "You are very kind, ma'am. What I want to ask is this: Is the door from Miss Cynthia's room to Mrs. Inglethorp's room barred, you say?" "It is latched," replied Mary Cavendish, looking a little surprised. "That's what I said at the interrogation." "Latched?" "Yes," she said, looking puzzled. "I mean," explained Poirot, "are you sure that the door is bolted, not just locked?" "Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. When I say latched, I mean it's locked and I can't open it, but I believe all the doors are found bolted inside. "

"Perhaps that door is still locked, for all you know?" "Oh yes." "You didn't happen to notice it yourself. When you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, madam, was the door locked or unlocked?" "I—I believe it's latched." "Didn't you see it?" "Yes. I—didn't look." "But I'm paying attention," Laurence interrupted suddenly. "I happened to notice that it was latched." "Oh, that's settled." And Poirot looked dejected. I couldn't help but be glad that his "little idea" fell through this time.

after lunch.Poirot asked me to accompany him home.I reluctantly agreed. "Are you angry?" he asked anxiously as we walked through the park. "Not at all." I replied coldly. "That's good. My mind is relieved of a great burden." This is not exactly my original purpose.I had hoped he would criticize my blunt manner.But he still calmed my anger with warm words.I eased off. "I took your message to Lawrence," I said. "What did he say? Was he completely bewildered?" "Yes, I am fully convinced that he has no idea what you mean."

I had expected Poirot to be disappointed by it; but, to my surprise, he replied that it was just as he had expected, adding that he was very pleased.My pride won't allow me to ask him any more questions. Poirot changed the subject. "Miss Cynthia wasn't at lunch today? What's the matter?" "She went to the hospital again. Today she continued to work." "Oh, she's such a hardworking girl. And so pretty. She's like those beauties I've seen in Italy. I'd love to see her drugstore. You think she'll let me see ?" "I'm sure she'd like it. It's a fun little room."

"Does she go there every day?" "She's off on Wednesdays and comes back on Saturdays for lunch. That's her only time off." "I'll remember. Women have big jobs these days, and Miss Cynthia is bright—oh, yes, she's smart, the little girl." "Yes, I believe she passed a very rigorous examination." "No doubt it's a responsible job after all. I suppose they've got deadly poisons there, too?" "Yes, she showed us. It's all locked up in a little cupboard. I'm sure they all must be very careful, and they always hand over the key when they leave the room."

"Of course, is it near the window, the little cupboard?" "No, just across the room. What's the matter?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "I wonder. That's all. You want to come in?" We have come to his cottage. "No, I think I'm going back now. I'm going to take the long way through the woods." The woods around Styles are very beautiful.After walking in the open garden, it is refreshing to stroll slowly in this cool forest glade.There was hardly a breeze.Even the chirping of the birds is faint.I wandered along a path, and finally sat down at the foot of a tall old beech tree. My views on human beings were benevolent and generous, and I even forgave Poirot's absurd secrecy.In fact, I am aloof from the world.Then, I yawned. I thought of the crime, and felt so unreal, so remote. I yawned again. I thought to myself, maybe, this kind of thing never happened.Of course, it was all a nightmare.The truth of the matter is that Lawrence killed Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet.But it was ridiculous that John made such a fuss about it, and he shouted: "I tell you, I won't let you do this!" I woke up suddenly. At this moment, I immediately realized that I was in an awkward situation.For, about twelve feet from me, John and Mary Cavendish stood face to face, and they were evidently arguing.And, apparently, they were unaware of my presence.Because, before I stepped forward or opened my mouth, John repeated the words that woke me up from the dream. "I tell you, Mary, I won't let you!" Mary's voice came, cold and clear. "What right do you have to criticize my actions?" "It's going to be the talk of the village! My mother was just buried on Saturday, and you're hanging around with that guy." "Hmph," she shrugged, "if only village gossip was all you cared about!" "But more than that, I've had enough of that loafing fellow. Anyway, he's a Polish Jew." "Jewish shades are not a bad thing. It makes that"—she looked at him—"the dull, stupid common Englishman alive." Her eyes were as hot as coals, her voice was as cold as ice, and I was not surprised that the blood rushed like a crimson tide to John's face. "Mary!" "What's the matter?" Her tone didn't change. There was no debate in his voice. "I want to know, are you going to continue to lose Bauerstein against my will?" "As long as I want." "You challenge me?" "No, but I don't grant you the right to criticize my actions. Are all your friends satisfied with me?" John took a step back.His face slowly faded. "What do you mean by that?" he asked back, his tone wavering. "You know it yourself!" Mary replied calmly. "You should know whether you have the right to direct me to choose friends." John glanced at her imploringly, with a look of panic on his face. "No right? I have no right, Mary?" he said tremblingly, and he held out his hands. "Mary—" For a moment, I thought, she hesitated, a milder expression came over her face, and then she turned abruptly and walked away almost viciously. "do not do that!" She walked away, and John rushed after her and grabbed her arm. "Mary,"—his voice was very calm now—"are you in love with that Bauerstein?" She hesitated, and suddenly a strange expression crossed her face, the same old, but with something new and unseen.Probably an Egyptian sphinx smiled like that. She calmly broke free from his arms, turned her head and said: "maybe." With that, she walked quickly across the little glade, leaving John standing there motionless, as if he had been turned into a stone. I intentionally and ostentatiously walked forward, stepping on the dead branches and leaves on the ground with my feet as much as possible.John turned around m.Thankfully, he thought I had just arrived here. "Hey, Hastings. Did you see the little man get back to his cottage safely? What a funny little man! But is he really that capable?" "He was considered one of the most brilliant detectives of his time." "Oh, well, then I think there must be some truth in it. But this time it's not so good!" "You think so?" I asked. "My God, seriously! First of all this bad luck. Those people from Scotland Yard are coming in and out of the house like cats, never knowing where they'll jump up next time. Every newspaper in the country Stunning headlines—well, those damned reporters! You know, there was a crowd of people at the gates of the manor this morning, staring in. Kind of like Madame Tassault's Wax Museum of Celebrities. It's free to visit. That's too much, isn't it?" "Don't be discouraged, John!" I reassured. "It won't go on like this forever." "What won't it? It'll drag us down forever." "No, no, you're getting a little mentally ill about it." "It can make a person sick, being stalked by those mean and dirty journalists all day long, and also being stared in surprise by those dumbfounded round-faced fools. Where do you tell him to go! But the situation is still there There are worse things than that." "what?" John lowered his voice. "Has it ever occurred to you, Hastings—it's been a nightmare to me—who did it? Sometimes I can't help thinking it must be an accident. Because—because who would do such a thing What? Now that Inglethorp's out, there's no one else; no, I mean, none of us would do it except him." Yes, it is, a nightmare for anyone!one of us?Yes, it must be so, unless--a new idea came to my mind, and I considered it quickly.My heart brightened.Poirot's inconceivable behavior, his insinuations--all of them were in line with my idea.What a fool.I hadn't thought of this possibility before.What a relief this is to all of us. "No, John," I said, "it's not one of us. How can that be?" "I know, but who else?" "Can you guess it?" "I can't guess." I looked around cautiously, then lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "impossible!" "No problem." "But what interest does he have in my mother's death?" "I don't know that yet," I admitted, "but I must tell you: Poirot thinks so." "Poirot? He thinks so? How do you know?" I told him how excited Poirot had been when he heard that Dr. Bauerstein was at Stiles on that unfortunate evening, and I went on to say: "Twice he said: 'This changes everything'. I kept thinking. You know, didn't Inglethorp talk about putting the coffee in the aisle? Well, that's when Bauerstein arrived. .is it possible that he put something in the coffee as Inglethorp led him down the aisle?" "Huh," John said. "That's too risky." "Yes, but it is possible." "But how did he know it was her coffee then? No, old friend, I don't think that's tenable." But I remembered another thing. "You're quite right. It's not how it's done. Listen to me." Then I told him about Poirot's cocoa samples for analysis. While I was still talking, John cut me off. "Note, however, that Bauerstein has already analyzed it." "Yes, yes, that's the point. So far, we haven't seen that sample at all. Don't you understand? Bowers but analyze it--that's the point! If Bauerstein is the murderer , nothing could be easier than substituting some ordinary cocoa for his sample and sending it to the assay. Of course, they would not find strychnine either! But no one except Poirot would dream of doubting that Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample," I added with belated realization. "Yes, but what if the cocoa can't cover up the bitterness?" "Well, we just heard him say that. There's another possibility. He's recognized as one of the most famous toxicologists in the world—" "One of the most famous what in the world? Say it again." "He knows more about poisons than almost anyone else," I explained. "Well, my thought is that maybe he's figured out some way to make the strychnine tasteless. Or maybe it's not strychnine at all, but some unknown poison that no one's ever heard of that would produce many of the same symptoms." "Well, yes, maybe so," said John. "But watch out, how did he get to that cocoa? It's not downstairs!" "No, it's not downstairs," I grudgingly admitted. Then, suddenly, a terrible possibility flashed through my mind.I secretly hoped and prayed that John wouldn't feel the same way.I glanced at him.He was frowning in bewilderment, so I took a deep breath of relief.For the dreadful thought that crossed my mind was that Dr. Bauerstein might have an accomplice. However, this is not certain!Indeed, no woman so beautiful as Mary Cavendish could have been a murderer with a knife.But pretty women are poisoned.It used to be heard from time to time. So, I suddenly remembered the first conversation I had when I had tea the day I first arrived.Her eyes sparkled when she spoke of poison as a woman's weapon.How anxious she had been on that unfortunate Tuesday evening!Had Mrs. Inglethorp found out what was going on between her and Borstein, and threatened to tell her husband?The purpose of this crime is to prevent that kind of denunciation? Then I recalled that inexplicable conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was that what they meant?Was this the terrible possibility that Evelyn had tried so hard not to believe? By the way, this all fits the bill. It was not surprising that Miss Howard suggested that "the matter can be kept quiet."Now that I understood her unfinished sentence: "Emily herself—" I agreed with her entirely in my heart.Mrs. Inglethorp would certainly prefer no vengeance than such a grave disgrace should befall the name of Cavendish. "One more thing," said John suddenly, and I was startled guiltily by the unexpectedness of his voice. "It makes me doubt whether what you say is true." "What's the matter?" I asked, thanking him for leaving the subject of how the poison got into the cocoa. "Well, it was actually Bauerstein who asked for the autopsy. He didn't have to. That little Wilkins would have liked it to have died of a heart attack." "Yes," I said vaguely. "But we don't know. Probably, he thinks it's safer in the long run. Maybe someone will gossip later. Maybe the Home Office will order an exhumation then. The whole thing will come out, and he'll would be in an embarrassing position because no one would believe that a man of his stature could mistake this for a heart attack." "Yes. That's possible," John admitted. "However," he added, "I don't want to know what his motives might be." I shuddered. "Hey, watch out," I said, "I could be totally wrong, and remember, it's all a secret." "Oh, of course—don't say it." We talked and walked, and now we have passed through a small gate into the manor.Voices sounded nearby.Tea was already set up under the big maple tree, where it had been the day I came, and Cynthia had come back from the hospital, so I put my chair beside her and told her that Poirot wished to visit them. pharmacy. "Of course! He's welcome to go and see. He'd better go and have tea there some day. I'll make sure to get him ready. What a sweet little fellow he is! But he's such a funny fellow. He asked me that day Take the brooch off the tie and don't put it back because he said it wasn't straight." I laughed. "It's totally a hobby of his." "Ah, is it?" We were silent for a minute or two, then Cynthia glanced in Mary Cavendish's direction, and said in a low voice: "Mr. Hastings." "What's up?" "After tea, I want to talk to you." Her glance at Mary got me thinking.Thought to myself, there was very little in common between these two.For the first time I wondered about the girl's future.Mrs. Inglethorp made no arrangements for her, but I suppose John and Mary most likely wanted her to live with them--at least until the war was over.I know that John likes her very much, and he is reluctant to let her go. John, who had gone into the house, reappeared now.On his gentle face, his brows were furrowed uncharacteristically. "Don't hate those detectives! I don't know what they're looking for! Every room in the house has been gone--the rummaging mess. What a nuisance! They're taking advantage of us when we're not around." Yes. Next time I see that Japp, I'll be looking for him!" "A bunch of questioners," muttered Miss Howard. Lawrence thought it was a sign they had to show they were doing something. Mary Cavendish said nothing. After tea I invited Cynthia to go for a walk, and we walked together into the woods. "How is it?" I asked once the curtain of leaves blocked our gaze. Cynthia sighed, sat down abruptly, and took off her hat all at once.The sun shining through the branches and leaves turned her chestnut hair a gleaming gold. "Mr. Hastings—you are always so kind, and you know so much." At this time, I felt that Cynthia was indeed a very charming girl!Much more charming than Mary who never said such things. "How?" I asked softly when she hesitated. "I want to ask your opinion. What should I do?" "what to do?" "Yes. You know, Aunt Emily always told me I'd be supported. I think she forgot, or didn't think she was going to die--anyway, I've got nobody to support me now! I Don't know what to do. Do you think I should get out of here at once?" "My God, no! I'm sure they don't want to break up with you." Cynthia hesitated for a moment, and pulled the grass with her small hands.Later, she said: "Mrs. Cavendish wants me to go. She doesn't like me." "Don't like you?" I said aloud in surprise. Cynthia nodded. "Yes. I don't know why, but she doesn't like me; so does he." "I know you're wrong about that," I said earnestly. "On the contrary, John likes you very much." "Yes, John. I mean Lawrence. Of course, it's rather dreadful when no one loves you. Isn't it?" "But they love you, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly, "and I believe you are mistaken. There is John—and Miss Howard—" Cynthia nodded rather sadly. "Yes, I think John likes me, and Evie, of course, though she has a bad temper, she can't hurt anyone at all. But Lawrence never said to me whether he could Helps, and Mary just can't bring herself to be kind to me. She wants Evie to stay on, begs her, but she doesn't want me, so-so-I don't know what to do." Suddenly, The poor girl began to cry. I don't know what got me.Maybe it was her beauty, as she sat with the sun shining on her head; maybe it was the relief at meeting someone who had so clearly nothing to do with the tragedy; maybe it was genuine pity for her youth and loneliness .Anyway, I bent forward, took one of her little hands, and said awkwardly: "Marry me, Cynthia." I accidentally found a cure for her tears.She immediately sat up straight, retracted her hand, and said a little sternly: "Don't be stupid!" I'm a little annoyed. "I'm not stupid. I'm asking you to honor me as my wife." To my great surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me "funny darling." "You're totally joking," she said, "but you know you don't want it!" "No. I want it. I have—" "It doesn't matter what you have. You don't really want—and neither do I." "Well, of course, let's leave it at that," I said stiffly. "I don't see anything to laugh at, though. There's nothing laughable about proposing." "Not really," said Cynthia. "Someone may accept your proposal next time. Good-bye, you have made me very happy." And so she disappeared among the trees with an at last uncontrollable burst of joy. Thinking over this interview carefully, I found it quite unsatisfactory. Suddenly it occurred to me to go to the village and see Bauerstein.Someone should keep an eye on this guy, and at the same time, it would be wise to reduce any doubts he might have realized that he was under suspicion.I thought of Poirot's confidence in my diplomacy.So, I came to this hut with the word "apartment" embedded in the window. I knew he was staying here, and I knocked lightly on the door. An old lady came and opened the door. "Hi," I said politely. "Is Dr. Bauerstein there?" She stared at me. "Haven't you heard?" "What did you hear?" "About him." "What about him?" "He dragged it away." "Drag away? Dead?" "No, it was dragged away by the police." "Backed by the police!" I gasped. "You mean they arrested him?" "Yes, it is, and—" Instead of waiting to hear any more, I ran off to the village to find Poirot.

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