Ten

THE ADVENTURE OF THE

ITALIAN NOBLEMAN

Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of an informal nature. Amongst these was to benumbered Dr.?Hawker, a near neighbour of ours, and a member of the medical profession. It wasthe genial¹ doctor’s habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and have a chat with Poirot, of whosegenius he was an ardent² admirer. The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last degree,admired the talents so far removed from his own.

On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half past eight and settled down to acomfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. Itmust have been about a quarter of an hour later when the door of our sitting room flew open, and adistracted female precipitated³ herself into the room.

“Oh, doctor, you’re wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed.”

I recognized in our new visitor Dr.?Hawker’s housekeeper⁴, Miss?Rider. The doctor was abachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid⁵ Miss?Rider wasnow in a state bordering on incoherence.

“What terrible voice? Who is it, and what’s the trouble?”

“It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it—and a voice spoke⁶. ‘Help,’ it said. ‘Doctor—help. They’ve killed me!’ Then it sort of tailed away. ‘Who’s speaking?’ I said. ‘Who’s speaking?’

Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, ‘Foscatine’—something like that—‘Regent’s Court.’

”

The doctor uttered an exclamation⁷.

“Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent’s Court. I must go at once. What can havehappened?”

“A patient of yours?” asked Poirot.

“I attended him for some slight ailment⁸ a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks Englishperfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless—” He hesitated.

“I perceive the thought in your mind,” said Poirot, smiling. “I shall be delighted toaccompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi.”

Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly pressed for time, but Icaptured one at last, and we were soon bowling¹⁰ along in the direction of Regent’s Park. Regent’sCourt was a new block of flats, situated¹¹ just off St.?John’s Wood Road. They had only recentlybeen built, and contained the latest service devices.

There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift bell impatiently, and when the liftarrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply.

“Flat 11. Count Foscatini. There’s been an accident there, I understand.”

The man stared at him.

“First I’ve heard of it. Mr.?Graves—that’s Count Foscatini’s man—went out about half anhour ago, and he said nothing.”

“Is the Count alone in the flat?”

“No, sir, he’s got two gentlemen dining with him.”

“What are they like?” I asked eagerly.

We were in the lift now, ascending¹² rapidly to the second floor, on which Flat 11 was situated.

“I didn’t see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were foreign gentlemen.”

He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing. No 11 was opposite to us.

The doctor rang the bell. There was no reply, and we could hear no sound from within. The doctorrang again and again; we could hear the bell trilling within, but no sign of life rewarded us.

“This is getting serious,” muttered the doctor. He turned to the lift attendant.

“Is there any passkey to this door?”

“There is one in the porter’s office downstairs.”

“Get it, then, and, look here, I think you’d better send for the police.”

Poirot approved with a nod of the head.

The man returned shortly; with him came the manager.

“Will you tell me, gentlemen, what is the meaning of all this?”

“Certainly. I received a telephone message from Count Foscatini stating that he had beenattacked and was dying. You can understand that we must lose no time—if we are not already toolate.”

The manager produced the key without more ado, and we all entered the flat.

We passed first into the small square lounge hall. A door on the right of it was half open. Themanager indicated it with a nod.

“The dining room.”

Dr.?Hawker led the way. We followed close on his heels. As we entered the room I gave agasp. The round table in the centre bore the remains¹³ of a meal; three chairs were pushed back, asthough their occupants had just risen. In the corner, to the right of the fireplace, was a big writingtable, and sitting at it was a man—or what had been a man. His right hand still grasped the base ofthe telephone, but he had fallen forward, struck down by a terrific blow on the head from behind.

The weapon was not far to seek. A marble statue stood where it had been hurriedly put down, thebase of it stained with blood.

The doctor’s examination did not take a minute. “Stone dead. Must have been almostinstantaneous. I wonder he even managed to telephone. It will be better not to move him until thepolice arrive.”

On the manager’s suggestion we searched the flat, but the result was a foregone conclusion. Itwas not likely that the murderers would be concealed¹⁴ there when all they had to do was to walkout.

We came back to the dining room. Poirot had not accompanied us in our tour. I found himstudying the centre table with close attention. I joined him. It was a well-polished round mahoganytable. A bowl of roses decorated the centre, and white lace mats reposed¹⁵ on the gleaming surface.

There was a dish of fruit, but the three dessert plates were untouched. There were three coffee cupswith remains of coffee in them—two black, one with milk. All three men had taken port, and thedecanter, half full, stood before the centre plate. One of the men had smoked a cigar, the other twocigarettes. A tortoiseshell-and-silver box, holding cigars and cigarettes, stood open upon the table.

I enumerated¹⁶ all these facts to myself, but I was forced to admit that they did not shed anybrilliant light on the situation. I wondered what Poirot saw in them to make him so intent. I askedhim.

“Mon ami,” he replied, “you miss the point. I am looking for something that I do not see.”

“What is that?”

“A mistake—even a little mistake—on the part of the murderer.”

He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and shook his head.

“Monsieur,” he said to the manager, “explain to me, I pray, your system of serving mealshere.”

The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall.

“This is the service lift,” he explained. “It runs to the kitchens at the top of the building. Youorder through this telephone, and the dishes are sent down in the lift, one course at a time. Thedirty plates and dishes are sent up in the same manner. No domestic worries, you understand, andat the same time you avoid the wearying publicity¹⁷ of always dining in a restaurant.”

Poirot nodded.

“Then the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the kitchen. You permit thatI mount there?”

“Oh, certainly, if you like! Roberts, the lift man, will take you up and introduce you; but I’mafraid you won’t find anything that’s of any use. They’re handling hundreds of plates and dishes,and they’ll be all lumped together.”

Poirot remained firm, however, and together we visited the kitchens and questioned the manwho had taken the order from Flat 11.

“The order was given from the à la carte menu—for three,” he explained. “Soup julienne,filet de sole normande, tournedos of beef, and a rice soufflé. What time? Just about eight o’clock, Ishould say. No, I’m afraid the plates and dishes have been all washed up by now. Unfortunate.

You were thinking of fingerprints¹⁸, I suppose?”

“Not exactly,” said Poirot, with an enigmatical smile. “I am more interested in CountFoscatini’s appetite. Did he partake of every dish?”

“Yes; but of course I can’t say how much of each he ate. The plates were all soiled, and thedishes empty—that is to say, with the exception of the rice soufflé. There was a fair amount of thatleft.”

“Ah!” said Poirot, and seemed satisfied with the fact.

As we descended¹⁹ to the flat again he remarked in a low tone:

“We have decidedly to do with a man of method.”

“Do you mean the murderer, or Count Foscatini?”

“The latter was undoubtedly²⁰ an orderly gentleman. After imploring²¹ help and announcing hisapproaching demise²², he carefully hung up the telephone receiver.”

I stared at Poirot. His words now and his recent inquiries²³ gave me the glimmering²⁴ of an idea.

“You suspect poison?” I breathed. “The blow on the head was a blind.”

Poirot merely smiled.

We reentered the flat to find the local inspector²⁵ of police had arrived with two constables²⁶. Hewas inclined to resent our appearance, but Poirot calmed him with the mention of our ScotlandYard friend, Inspector Japp, and we were accorded a grudging²⁷ permission to remain. It was alucky thing we were, for we had not been back five minutes before an agitated²⁸ middle-aged²⁹ mancame rushing into the room with every appearance of grief and agitation³⁰.

This was Graves, valet-butler to the late Count Foscatini. The story he had to tell was asensational one.

On the previous morning, two gentlemen had called to see his master. They were Italians, andthe elder of the two, a man of about forty, gave his name as Signor Ascanio. The younger was awell-dressed lad of about twenty-four.

Count Foscatini was evidently prepared for their visit and immediately sent Graves out uponsome trivial errand. Here the man paused and hesitated in his story. In the end, however, headmitted that, curious as to the purport³¹ of the interview, he had not obeyed immediately, but hadlingered about endeavouring to hear something of what was going on.

The conversation was carried on in so low a tone that he was not as successful as he hadhoped; but he gathered enough to make it clear that some kind of monetary³² proposition was beingdiscussed, and that the basis of it was a threat. The discussion was anything but amicable³³. In theend, Count Foscatini raised his voice slightly, and the listener heard these words clearly:

“I have no time to argue further now, gentlemen. If you will dine with metomorrow night at eight o’clock, we will resume the discussion.”

Afraid of being discovered listening, Graves had then hurried out to do his master’s errand. Thisevening the two men had arrived punctually at eight. During dinner they had talked of indifferentmatters—politics, the weather, and the theatrical³⁴ world. When Graves had placed the port upon thetable and brought in the coffee his master told him that he might have the evening off.

“Was that a usual proceeding³⁵ of his when he had guests?” asked the inspector.

“No, sir; it wasn’t. That’s what made me think it must be some business of a very unusualkind that he was going to discuss with these gentlemen.”

That finished Graves’s story. He had gone out about 8:30, and meeting a friend, hadaccompanied him to the Metropolitan³⁶ Music Hall in Edgware Road.

Nobody had seen the two men leave, but the time of the murder was fixed³⁷ clearly enough at8:47. A small clock on the writing-table had been swept off by Foscatini’s arm, and had stopped atthat hour, which agreed with Miss?Rider’s telephonesummons.

The police surgeon had made his examination of the body, and it was now lying on thecouch. I saw the face for the first time—the olive complexion³⁸, the long nose, the luxuriant blackmoustache, and the full red lips drawn³⁹ back from the dazzlingly white teeth. Not altogether apleasant face.

“Well,” said the inspector, refastening his notebook. “The case seems clear enough. The onlydifficulty will be to lay our hands on this Signor Ascanio. I suppose his address is not in the deadman’s pocketbook by any chance?”

As Poirot had said, the late Foscatini was an orderly man. Neatly⁴⁰ written in small, precisehandwriting was the inscription⁴¹, “Signor Paolo Ascanio, Grosvenor Hotel.”

The inspector busied himself with the telephone, then turned to us with a grin.

“Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the Continent. Well,gentlemen, that’s about all we can do here. It’s a bad business, but straightforward⁴² enough. One ofthese Italian vendetta⁴³ things, as likely as not.”

Thus airily dismissed, we found our way downstairs. Dr.?Hawker was full of excitement.

“Like the beginning of a novel, eh? Real exciting stuff. Wouldn’t believe it if you read aboutit.”

Poirot did not speak. He was very thoughtful. All the evening he had hardly opened his lips.

“What says the master detective, eh?” asked Hawker, clapping him on the back. “Nothing towork your grey cells over this time.”

“You think not?”

“What could there be?”

“Well, for example, there is the window.”

“The window? But it was fastened. Nobody could have got out or in that way. I noticed itspecially.”

“And why were you able to notice it?”

The doctor looked puzzled. Poirot hastened to explain.

“It is to the curtains that I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that. And then there wasthe coffee. It was very black coffee.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Very black,” repeated Poirot. “In conjunction with that let us remember that very little of therice soufflé was eaten, and we get—what?”

“Moonshine,” laughed the doctor. “You’re pulling my leg.”

“Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly⁹ serious.”

“I don’t know what you are getting at, all the same,” I confessed. “You don’t suspect themanservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang, and put some dope in the coffee. Isuppose they’ll test his alibi⁴⁴?”

“Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me.”

“You think he has an alibi?”

“That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be enlightened on thatpoint.”

The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant⁴⁵ with succeeding events.

Signor Ascanio was arrested and charged with the murder of Count Foscatini. When arrested,he denied knowing the Count, and declared he had never been near Regent’s Court either on theevening of the crime or on the previous morning. The younger man had disappeared entirely⁴⁶.

Signor Ascanio had arrived alone at the Grosvenor Hotel from the Continent two days before themurder. All efforts to trace the second man failed.

Ascanio, however, was not sent for trial. No less a personage than the Italian Ambassadorhimself came forward and testified at the police court proceedings⁴⁷ that Ascanio had been with himat the Embassy from eight till nine that evening. The prisoner was discharged. Naturally, a lot ofpeople thought that the crime was a political one, and was being deliberately⁴⁸ hushed up.

Poirot had taken a keen interest in all these points. Nevertheless, I was somewhat surprisedwhen he suddenly informed me one morning that he was expecting a visitor at eleven o’clock, andthat the visitor was none other than Ascanio himself.

“He wishes to consult you?”

“Du tout⁴⁹, Hastings, I wish to consult him.”

“What about?”

“The Regent’s Court murder.”

“You are going to prove that he did it?”

“A man cannot be tried twice for murder, Hastings. Endeavour to have the common sense.

Ah, that is our friend’s ring.”

A few minutes later Signor Ascanio was ushered⁵⁰ in—a small, thin man with a secretive andfurtive glance in his eyes. He remained standing⁵¹, darting⁵² suspicious glances from one to the otherof us.

“Monsieur Poirot?”

My little friend tapped himself gently on the chest.

“Be seated, signor. You received my note. I am determined⁵³ to get to the bottom of thismystery. In some small measure you can aid me. Let us commence. You—in company with afriend—visited the late Count Foscatini on the morning of Tuesday the 9th—”

The Italian made an angry gesture.

“I did nothing of the sort. I have sworn in court—”

“Précisément—and I have a little idea that you have sworn falsely.”

“You threaten me? Bah! I have nothing to fear from you. I have been acquitted⁵⁴.”

“Exactly; and as I am not an imbecile, it is not with the gallows⁵⁵ I threaten you—but withpublicity. Publicity! I see that you do not like the word. I had an idea that you would not. My littleideas, you know, they are very valuable to me. Come, signor, your only chance is to be frank withme. I do not ask to know whose indiscretions brought you to England. I know this much, youcame for the special purpose of seeing Count Foscatini.”

“He was not a count,” growled⁵⁶ the Italian.

“I have already noted⁵⁷ the fact that his name does not appear in the Almanach de Gotha.

Never mind, the title of count is often useful in the profession of blackmailing⁵⁸.”

“I suppose I might as well be frank. You seem to know a good deal.”

“I have employed my grey cells to some advantage. Come, Signor Ascanio, you visited thedead man on the Tuesday morning—that is so, is it not?”

“Yes; but I never went there on the following evening. There was no need. I will tell you all.

Certain information concerning a man of great position in Italy had come into this scoundrel’spossession. He demanded a big sum of money in return for the papers. I came over to England toarrange the matter. I called upon him by appointment that morning. One of the young secretariesof the Embassy was with me. The Count was more reasonable than I had hoped, although eventhen the sum of money I paid him was a huge?one.”

“Pardon, how was it paid?”

“In Italian notes of comparatively small denomination⁵⁹. I paid over the money then and there.

He handed me the incriminating papers. I never saw him again.”

“Why did you not say all this when you were arrested?”

“In my delicate position I was forced to deny any association with the man.”

“And how do you account for the events of the evening then?”

“I can only think that someone must have deliberately impersonated me. I understand that nomoney was found in the flat.”

Poirot looked at him and shook his head.

“Strange,” he murmured. “We all have the little grey cells. And so few of us know how to usethem. Good morning, Signor Ascanio. I believe your story. It is very much as I had imagined. ButI had to make sure.”

After bowing his guest out, Poirot returned to his armchair and smiled at me.

“Let us hear M.?le Capitaine Hastings on the case.”

“Well, I suppose Ascanio is right—somebody impersonated?him.”

“Never, never will you use the brains the good God has given you. Recall to yourself somewords I uttered after leaving the flat that night. I referred to the window curtains not being drawn.

We are in the month of June. It is still light at eight o’clock. The light is failing by half past. ?avous dit quelque chose? I perceive a struggling impression that you will arrive some day. Now letus continue. The coffee was, as I said, very black. Count Foscatini’s teeth were magnificentlywhite. Coffee stains the teeth. We reason from that that Count Foscatini did not drink any coffee.

Yet there was coffee in all three cups. Why should anyone pretend Count Foscatini had drunkcoffee when he had not done so?”

I shook my head, utterly⁶⁰ bewildered.

“Come, I will help you. What evidence have we that Ascanio and his friend, or two menposing as them, ever came to the flat that night? Nobody saw them go in; nobody saw them go out.

We have the evidence of one man and of a host of inanimate objects.”

“You mean?”

“I mean knives and forks and plates and empty dishes. Ah, but it was a clever idea! Graves isa thief and a scoundrel, but what a man of method! He overhears a portion of the conversation inthe morning, enough to realize that Ascanio will be in an awkward position to defend himself. Thefollowing evening, about eight o’clock, he tells his master he is wanted at the telephone. Foscatinisits down, stretches out his hand to the telephone, and from behind Graves strikes him down withthe marble figure. Then quickly to the service telephone—dinner for three! It comes, he lays thetable, dirties the plates, knives, and forks, etc. But he has to get rid of the food too. Not only is he aman of brain; he has a resolute⁶¹ and capacious stomach! But after eating three tournedos, the ricesoufflé is too much for him! He even smokes a cigar and two cigarettes to carry out the illusion.

Ah, but it was magnificently thorough! Then, having moved on the hands of the clock to 8:47, hesmashes it and stops it. The one thing he does not do is to draw the curtains. But if there had beena real dinner party the curtains would have been drawn as soon as the light began to fail. Then hehurries out, mentioning the guests to the lift man in passing. He hurries to a telephone box, and asnear as possible to 8:47 rings up the doctor with his master’s dying cry. So successful is his ideathat no one ever inquires if a call was put through from Flat 11 at that time.”

“Except Hercule Poirot, I suppose?” I said sarcastically⁶².

“Not even Hercule Poirot,” said my friend, with a smile. “I am about to inquire now. I had toprove my point to you first. But you will see, I shall be right; and then Japp, to whom I havealready given a hint, will be able to arrest the respectable Graves. I wonder how much of themoney he has spent.”

Poirot was right. He always is, confound him!

 

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