Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе
Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”
Poirotmademerecapitulatethesceneofthenightbefore,listeningverycarefully,andverifyingthepositionofthevariouscups.
“SoMrs.Cavendishstoodbythetray—andpouredout.Yes.ThenshecameacrosstothewindowwhereyousatwithMademoiselleCynthia.Yes.Herearethethreecups.Andthecuponthemantelpiece,halfdrunk,thatwouldbeMr.LawrenceCavendish’s.Andtheoneonthetray?”
“JohnCavendish’s.Isawhimputitdownthere.”
“Good.One,two,three,four,five—butwhere,then,isthecupofMr.Inglethorp?”
“Hedoesnottakecoffee.”
“Thenallareaccountedfor.Onemoment,myfriend.”
Withinfinitecare,hetookadroportwofromthegroundsineachcup,sealingthemupinseparatetesttubes,tastingeachinturnashedidso.Hisphysiognomyunderwentacuriouschange.AnexpressiongatheredtherethatIcanonlydescribeashalfpuzzled,andhalfrelieved.
“Bien!”hesaidatlast.“Itisevident!Ihadanidea—butclearlyIwasmistaken.Yes,altogetherIwasmistaken.Yetitisstrange.Butnomatter!”
And,withacharacteristicshrug,hedismissedwhateveritwasthatwasworryinghimfromhismind.Icouldhavetoldhimfromthebeginningthatthisobsessionofhisoverthecoffeewasboundtoendinablindalley,butIrestrainedmytongue.Afterall,thoughhewasold,Poirothadbeenagreatmaninhisday.
“Breakfastisready,”saidJohnCavendish,cominginfromthehall.“Youwillbreakfastwithus,MonsieurPoirot?”
Poirotacquiesced.IobservedJohn.
