Chapter 10 Chapter 10 Arrest

What annoyed me most was Poirot's absence, and the old Belgian man who opened the door told me that he believed Poirot had gone to London. I was dumbfounded.What on earth was Poirot going to London for!Was it a sudden decision on his part, or was it part of his mind when he broke up with me a few hours ago? I retrace my steps back to Stiles with a certain annoyance.With Poirot gone, it was uncertain what to do.Had he foreseen the arrest?He probably wasn't there for the case?I can't answer these questions.But during this time, what should I do?Should the arrest be announced publicly at Styles?Though I wouldn't admit it to myself, the thought of worrying about Mary Cavendish kept weighing on my mind.Would this be a terrible blow to her?For the moment, I have completely put aside any doubts about her.She couldn't have been involved—or I should have gotten wind of it.

Of course, Dr. Bauerstein's arrest could not be permanently hidden from her.This gets published in various newspapers the next day.But I was still afraid to blurt it out.As long as I can see Poirot, I can ask his opinion.What had so inexplicably caused him to hasten to London? My estimate of his insight could not help but grow infinitely larger.I would not have dreamed of doubting the doctor if Poirot had not planted this idea in my mind.Yeah, obviously, the little guy is really smart. After some deliberation, I decided whether to have John as a confidant or not to make the matter public as he thought fit.

When I broke the news to him, he blew a marvelous whistle. "My God! Then you're right. But I don't believe it now." "No, it's a startling thing, and until you get used to it, you see, it makes everything reasonable. Now, what shall we do? Of course, generally speaking, everyone will know to-morrow." John thought about it. "Never mind," he said at last, "we'll say nothing at the moment. There's no need. As you say, we'll all know about it soon." However, what surprised me was that when I went downstairs the next morning, I eagerly opened the newspaper and saw that there was not a single word about the arrest!Just a "Stiles poisoning" column that was pure extravagance, nothing new.It was puzzling, but I guessed that for some reason Japp wanted to keep it out of the paper.But that's exactly what worries me a bit, because it could lead to further arrests in the future.

After breakfast I resolved to go into the village to see if Poirot had returned; but before I could start, a familiar face blocked the window, and a familiar voice said: "Good morning my friend!" "Poirot!" I exclaimed in relief, and taking his hands, I drew him into the room. "I've never been so happy to see anyone. Listen, I didn't tell anyone but John. Is that right?" "My friend," replied Poirot, "I don't know what you are talking about?" "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I replied impatiently. "So Bauerstein is under arrest?"

"You don't know that?" "I don't really know anything about it," he added, however, after a pause, "but that doesn't surprise me, since we're only four miles from the coast here." "The coast?" I asked, bewildered. "What does that have to do with this?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Honestly, that's pretty clear." "I don't know. Maybe I'm stupid, but I don't see how being near the coast has anything to do with Mrs. Inglethorp's murder." "Of course it doesn't matter," replied Poirot, smiling, "but we are now talking about the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."

"Yes, he was arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp—" "What?" cried Poirot, obviously taken aback. "Dr. Bauerstein was arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?" "Yes." "Impossible! It must have been a good farce! Who told you, my friend?" "Well, no one ever told me for sure," I admitted. "But he was arrested." "Oh, yes, quite possibly. But that's due to espionage, my friend." "Espionage?" I gasped. "exactly." "Not by poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?" "No, unless our friend Japp has gone mad," replied Poirot calmly.

"But—but I thought you thought so too." Poirot gave me a look which conveyed an expression of astonishment and regret, and a complete absurdity of the idea. "You mean, Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?" I asked, slowly accustoming myself to the new idea. Poirot nodded. "You never suspected that?" "It never occurred to me." "Does it not surprise you that a famous London physician should be so reclusive in a small village, and have the habit of wandering about fully dressed all evening?" "No," I admitted, "I never thought of such a thing."

"Of course he was a German," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Although he has been in business in this country for a long time, no one would even think that he is not English. About fifteen years ago he took English citizenship." .a very clever man—a Jew, of course." "Rogue!" I exclaimed indignantly. "Not at all. On the contrary, he's a patriot. Think what a loss he has. I admire that sort of man myself." But I can't look at it in Poirot's philosophical way. "And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been loitering about the village!" I exclaimed indignantly.

"Yes. I must take it that he found her useful," said Poirot. "As long as gossips are busy linking their names together, any eccentricity of the doctor will go unnoticed." "So you think he's never really liked her?" I asked eagerly—perhaps a little too eagerly in this case. "Of course I can't say it, but shall I tell you my own opinion, Hastings?" "OK." "Well, here it is: Mrs. Cavendish doesn't like him, she doesn't like Dr. Bauerstein at all!" "You really think so?" I couldn't hide my joy. "I'm absolutely sure of it. I'll tell you why."

"yes?" "Because she likes someone else, my friend." "Oh!" What did he mean by that?Involuntarily, a pleasant warmth ran through me. I'm not one to be vain when it comes to women, but I recall certain signs, perhaps too easy to think about now, but they do seem to imply it's - My beautiful meditations were interrupted by the sudden entry of Miss Howard.She glanced hurriedly around to make sure no one else was in the room, and then quickly produced an old wrapping paper.She handed it to Poirot, and whispered these cryptic words: "On top of that wardrobe."

After speaking, she hurriedly left the room. Poirot hastily opened the paper and let out an exclamation of satisfaction.He spread it out on the table. "Come here, Hastings. Tell me, what's that initial—J. or L.?" It's a medium-sized wrapping paper, dusty and looks like it's been there for a while.But it was the tag on the top that caught Poirot's attention.It bears the stamp of the shop of Mr Paxson, the famous theatrical dresser, and it is addressed to "Mr X (initial not yet determined) Mr Cavendish, Styles Manor, Styles Village, Essex. " "It could be T. or L.," I said after studying the matter. "It's not J.." "Very well," replied Poirot, folding the paper again. "I also think the same as you. That's right!" "Where did this come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?" "Moderate. This further confirmed my suspicions. I deduced that there was such a piece of paper, and I sent Miss Howard to search for it, and she found it, as you have just seen." "What did she mean 'on top of that wardrobe'?" "She means," replied Poirot at once. "She found it on top of a big chest." "What a weird place to put a piece of wrapping paper," I mused. "Not surprising at all. The top of the cabinet is a good place for wrapping paper and cartons. That's where I put them myself. It's neat and not obtrusive at all." "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you already thought about the crime?" "Yes—so to speak, I believe I know how it works." "what!" "Unfortunately, I have no proof other than conjecture, unless—" He seized me by the arm suddenly and violently, and whirled me down the passage, exclaiming excitedly in French: "Doca Miss Dorcas, Miss Dorcas, please come here when you are free!" Confused by the cry, Dorcas hurried out of the pantry. "My dear Dorcas, I have an idea—a little idea—and what luck if it turns out to be true! Tell me, Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, It was Monday, the day before Fassen, and was there something wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's electric bell?" Dorcas looked astonished. "Yes, sir, you're right, there was something wrong with it; but I don't know how you heard about it. A rat or something must have snapped the thread. Come and fix it Tuesday morning." Poirot gave a long exclamation of delight and led the way back to the drawing room. "See, one doesn't have to look for prima facie evidence—no, just reasoning. But human beings are fragile, and it takes comfort to find that one's ideas are all right. Why, my friend, I'm like A giant in spirit. I'm going to run! I'm going to jump!" He literally ran and jumped up, and hopped wildly down onto the big lawn outside the French windows. "What is your unusual little friend doing?" a voice behind me asked.I turned around to find Mary Cavendish beside me.She smiled, so I smiled too. "This is how the same thing?" "I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas a question about the electric bell, and when she gave him an answer, he jumped up and down for joy as you saw!" Mary smiled. "How funny! He went out the gate. Won't he come back today?" "I don't know. I don't want to guess what he's going to do next time." "Is he really a little crazy, Mr. Hastings?" "I don't really know. Sometimes, I'm sure he's crazy; and secondly, at the height of his madness, I find that his madness is methodical." "I see." Although Mary is laughing," she looked preoccupied this morning. She seemed serious, almost sad. I thought this might be a good opportunity to talk to her about Cynthia.I thought I was quite decent at first, but she stopped me commandingly after I hadn't spoken long. "I have no doubt that you are an excellent advocate, Mr. Hastings, but in this 'case' your talents have been thrown for nothing. Cynthia will not suffer any unkindness from me. " I began to stammer feebly, hoping she wouldn't think--but she stopped me again, and her words were so unexpected that they drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind altogether. "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I am happy with my husband?" I was greatly taken aback, so I stammered a few words, saying that I have no right to think about such things. "Well," she said calmly, "whether you have the right or not, I have to tell you that we are unhappy." I didn't say anything because I saw that she hadn't finished. She paced up and down the room and began to speak slowly, her head a little on one side, her slender, supple figure swaying slightly as she moved.She stopped suddenly and looked up at me. "You don't know about me, do you?" she asked. "Where am I, who was I before I married John--you don't really know at all? Well, I'll tell you. I'm going to make you a confessor. You're kind, I think, yes, I Believe me, you hate mercy." Somehow, I'm not quite as elated as I probably should be.It occurred to me that Cynthia had begun her confidant in much the same manner.Also, the confessor is supposed to be elderly, it's not a role played by a young man at all. "My father was English," said Mary Cavendish, "but my mother was Russian." "Oh," I said, "now I see—" "Know what?" "There's always that foreign—different—smell about you." "My mother was beautiful, I believe. I don't know because I've never seen her. She died when I was quite a child. I think her death was a tragedy - she overdose Take some sleeping pill by mistake. Anyway, my father was very sad. Soon after, he went to work in the consulate abroad. I followed him wherever he went. At the age of twenty-three, I almost ran away. All over the world. It's a really wonderful life — I love that." There was a smile on her face, her head thrown back.She seemed to be wallowing in memories of those happy days in the past. "Then my father died. He left me, very poor, and I had to live with some old aunts." She trembled suddenly. "You will understand me when I say that it is a life of death for a girl brought up as I have been. The narrow circle of life, the deathly monotony of the way of life, almost Driven me crazy." She paused for a moment, then went on in a different tone: "Then I met John Cavendish." "yes?" "As you can imagine, from the point of view of my aunts, it would have been a very good match for me. But, I can honestly say, it meant nothing to me. No, it was just a My means of escaping the intolerable monotony of life." I didn't say anything, and after a while, she continued reading: "Don't get me wrong. I was very honest with him. I told him the truth and said I loved him very much and hoped to love him more in the future, but I also told him that I didn't have any kind of relationship with him. For the feeling of 'loving each other'. He said he was very satisfied with it, and so - we got married." She paused for a long time, a few wrinkles gathering on her front collar.She seemed to be seriously looking back on those old days. "I think--I'm sure--he liked me at first. But we weren't quite a match, I thought. Almost immediately, the two of us drifted apart. He--it wasn't good for my self-esteem. A pleasant thing, but it's true—tired of me very quickly." I only had time to murmur a few words of dissent before she quickly went on: "Oh, yes, he was That! It’s not just happening now—now we’ve reached a crossroads.” "what do you mean?" She replied calmly: "I mean I'm not going to stay with Styles." "You and John aren't going to live here anymore?" "John may live here, but I don't." "Are you planning to leave him?" "yes." "Then why?" She paused for a long time, and finally said: "Maybe—because I want—to be free!" When he was talking, I suddenly imagined the boundless wilderness, the large tracts of virgin forests, and the uncultivated virgin land-for Mary Cavendish, freedom may mean such natural beauty.For a moment, I seemed to see her as an untamed wild horse, and like a frightened bird in a deep mountain valley.She suddenly sobbed: "You don't know, you don't know, what a prison this damned place is to me!" "I know," I said, "but—but don't do anything rash." "Yo, indiscretion!" Her tone mocked my caution. At this time, I suddenly said something, which I could not have said: "Did you know Dr. Bauerstein was arrested?" A sudden indifference covered her face like a mask, covering her entire expression. "John was kind enough to reveal it to me this morning." "Oh, what do you think?" I asked feebly. "What aspect?" "About the arrest?" "What can I think? Clearly he's a German spy; that's what the gardeners told John." Her face and tone were so indifferent and expressionless.Does she care or not? She walked away a few steps, then fiddled with a vase. "These flowers are all dead. They have to be replaced. I'm sorry, please move them. Thank you, Hastings." She walked past me calmly, stepped out of the French windows, nodded coldly and walked away up. No, she really couldn't like Bowes but.No woman could have played her role with such aloofness. The next morning Poirot was nowhere to be seen, and there was no sign of the Metropolitan Police. But, at lunch, a new piece of evidence—or rather worthless evidence—was received.We have been trying in vain to discover the fourth letter written by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening before her death.As our efforts have been utterly in vain, we have given up on the matter, hoping only that one day it will manifest itself.Sure enough, this situation was discovered in the correspondence.A letter arrived from a French publisher of music books, announcing that Mrs. Inglethorp's check had been received, but they regretted that they could not find a certain series of Russian folk songs.Thus the last hope of solving the mystery by the correspondence of Mrs. Inglethorp on that ill-fated evening had to be abandoned. " Just before tea I rushed to tell Poirot this new and disappointing news, but, to my annoyance, found Poirot was out again. "Going to London again?" "Oh no, sir, he just took the train to Tminster. He said: 'To visit a young lady's dispensary.'" "Fool!" I yelled suddenly. "I told him she wasn't there on Wednesday! Well, please tell him to come and see us tomorrow morning, will you?" "Of course, sir." However, the next day, there was still no sign of Poirot.I am angry.He really treated us with this most arrogant attitude. After lunch Laurence took me aside and asked me if I was going to see Poirot. "No, I didn't think of going. If he wants to see us, he can come up here." "Oh!" Lawrence seemed hesitant, and there was something unusually restless and agitated in his manner that aroused my curiosity. "What's the matter?" Asked. "If there is anything particularly important, I can go there." "Not much, but—well, if you're going, please tell him—" He lowered his voice. "I think I've found an extra large coffee mug!" I had almost forgotten Poirot's inexplicable message, but now, my curiosity was aroused again. Laurence would say no more, and I resolved to condescend to visit Poirot once more at Listerway House. This time, I was greeted with a smile.M. Poirot was inside.Am I still putting on airs?I still want to pose. Poirot was sitting at the table with his head in his hands. "What's the matter?" I asked worriedly. "I hope you're not sick?" "No, no, no illness. I'm thinking about making a big decision." "Is it to catch criminals?" I asked jokingly. But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely. "As your great Shakespeare said,''" I didn't bother to correct him. "Are you joking, Poirot?" "I am the most serious. For the success or failure of this most serious matter is still in the air." "What's up?" "A woman's happiness, my friend," he said earnestly. I have absolutely no idea what he's talking about. "The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I don't know what to do. Because, you know, it's a big bet on my part. Except me, Hercar Poirot No one dares to make such an attempt!" As he spoke, he patted his chest triumphantly. In order not to tarnish his image, I passed Lawrence's message to him after a respectful pause. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "So he's found an extra-large coffee mug. That's good. He's got more brains than he shows, your sullen Mr. Lawrence!" I myself do not have a high opinion of Lawrence's intelligence, but I refrained from contradicting Poirot, and mildly reproached him for forgetting my telling him of Cynthia's days off. " "Yes, I keep forgetting. But the other young lady was very kind. She was very sorry for my disappointment, and was very kind to show me everything." "Oh, well, that's all right. But you'll have tea with Cynthia some other day." I told him about the letter. "It's such a pity. I've been hoping for that letter. But no, it's impossible. This has to be dealt with entirely from the inside." He patted himself on the forehead. "With these little gray cells, 'them do the work'—as you say." Then he asked abruptly: "Can you take fingerprints, my friend?" "No," I replied, rather astonished. "I know no two fingerprints are the same, but that's the end of my skill." "Exactly." He opened a small drawer, took out some photographs, and put them on the table. "I've numbered them: number one, number two, number three. Can you tell me about it?" I studied the fingerprint photos carefully. "I see it's all highly magnified. I'd say number one is a man's donor, thumb and forefinger. Number two is a woman's and they're much smaller and different in every way. Number three "—I paused for a moment—"seems like a lot of random donating patterns, but one, obviously, is number one." "Overlapping with others?" "yes." "Are you really sure?" "Oh. Yes, they are exactly the same." Poirot nodded, carefully took the photographs from my hand, and locked them back in the drawer. "I suppose," I said, "that you're not going to explain, as usual?" "On the contrary. Number one is Mr. Lawrence's fingerprints. Number two is Miss Cynthia's. They are not important, I just compare them. Number three is more complicated." "Is it?" "As you can see, the photo is highly magnified. You have probably noticed a smudge all over the photo, and I don't need to explain to you the special equipment I used for dusting. This Well known to police officers, with which you can get a photo of fingerprints on any object in a fraction of the time. Well, friend, you've got those fingerprints - the rest, just tell you this A special object with these fingerprints on it would do." "Go on--this really excites me." "Well! Photograph No. 3 is a highly magnified surface of a vial in the Poisons Cabinet of the Red Cross Hospital Pharmacy in Tumminster - that sounds very dodgy!" "My God!" I exclaimed. "But how did Laurence Cavendish's fingerprints get on it? He never went near that poison cabinet the day we went!" "Oh no, he's coming closer!" "Impossible! We've been together all this time." Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, you won't be together at all for a while, or there would be no need for Mr. Laurence to come out with you on the balcony." "I had forgotten about that," I admitted. "But that's only for a while." "Long enough." "Long enough for what?" Poirot's smile became rather incredulous. "It has been long enough for a gentleman who has studied medicine to satisfy a very natural interest and curiosity." Our eyes met.Poirot's eyes were pleasant and ambiguous.He stood up and hummed a little tune.I stared at him suspiciously. "Poirot," said I, "what's in this particular little bottle?" Poirot looked out of the window. "Strychnine," he said over his shoulder, continuing to hum. "My God!" I said quite calmly.I am no longer surprised, I expected such an answer. "They rarely used pure strychnine - only occasionally. Officially, it was liquid strychnine, which is used in most medicines. That's why the fingerprints have remained undisturbed since then." "How did you manage to take this picture?" "I let my hat fall off the balcony on purpose," explained Poirot briefly. "At that time, visitors were not allowed to go down, so I couldn't stand my repeated apologies, so Ms. Cynthia's colleagues had to go down and pick it up for me." "So you know what you're going to find?" "No, not at all. I just understand from your account that Mr. Lawrence may have approached the poison cabinet. This possibility must be further confirmed or ruled out." "Poirot," I said, "I am not disappointed in your delight. This is a very important discovery." "I don't know," said Poirot. "But there is one thing that has made a deep impression on me, and no doubt it has on you." "What is it?" "Well, just the strychnine in connection with this case. Too much on the whole. This is the third accidental discovery we've had. Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic has strychnine. Stiles My Mac store sold strychnine. Now we have more strychnine, owned by a member of the family. Such a mess; but as you know, I'm Don't like chaos." Before I could answer, another Belgian opened the door and poked his head in. "There's a lady down there looking for Mr. Hastings." "A lady?" I jumped up.Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs.Mary Cavendish was standing at the door. "I have just been visiting an old lady in the village," she explained, "because Laurence told me you were with M. Poirot, and I thought I should drop by and call you." "Oh, madam," said Poirot, "I think you will do me the honor of calling on me once!" "If you invite me, I'll come someday," she promised him with a smile. "That's very good. If you need a confessor, madame"—she was a little startled—"remember that Father Poirot is at your disposal." She stared at him for a moment, as if trying to grasp some deeper meaning in his words.Then, suddenly, she left. "Well, M. Poirot, would you like to go with us?" "Very pleased, ma'am." All the way back to Styles, Mary Cavendish talked fast and excitedly.However, I always felt that she was somehow afraid of Poirot's eyes. The weather changed suddenly, and the wind was almost autumnal.Mary shivered a little from the cold and buttoned her black tracksuit a little tighter.The wind blew through the trees with a mournful sound, like the sigh of a giant. No sooner had we reached the gates of Styles than we knew immediately that something must have happened. Dorcas ran out to meet us.She cried and twisted her hands sadly.I noticed that the other servants were also huddled together, standing behind with all their attention. "Oh, ma'am! Oh, ma'am! I don't know how to tell you—" "What's the matter, Dorcas?" I asked anxiously, "tell us quickly." "It's the very bad detectives. They've got him--they've got Mr. Cavendish!" "Take Lawrence?" I gasped. I saw the astonishment in Dorcas' eyes. "No, sir, it's not Mr. Lawrence—it's Mr. John." There was a cry behind me as Mary Cavendish fell heavily on top of me, and as I turned to grab her I saw the silent joy in Poirot's eyes.

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