Lord Edgware Dies

There were half a dozen photographs all fairly alike as to type. I looked with some interest over his shoulder.

‘That were her,’ said Jobson. He pointed a decisive finger at one of Geraldine Marsh in evening dress.

‘Sure?’

‘Quite sure. Pale she was and dark.’

‘Now the man.’

Another sheaf of photographs was handed to him.

He looked at them attentively and then shook his head.

‘Well, I couldn’t say—not for sure. Either of these two might be him.’

The photographs included one of Ronald Marsh, but Jobson had not selected it. Instead he indicated two other men not unlike Marsh in type.

Jobson then departed and Japp flung the photographs on the table.

‘Good enough. Wish I could have got a clearer identification of his lordship. Of course it’s an old photograph, taken seven or eight years ago. The only one I could get hold of. Yes, I’d like a clearer identification, although the case is clear enough. Bang go a couple of alibis. Clever of you to think of it, M. Poirot.’

Poirot looked modest.

‘When I found that she and her cousin were both at the opera it seemed to me possible that they might have been together during one of the intervals. Naturally the parties they were with would assume that they had not left the Opera House. But a half-hour interval gives plenty of time to get to Regent Gate and back. The moment the new Lord Edgware laid such stress upon his alibi, I was sure something was wrong with it.’

‘You’re a nice suspicious sort of fellow, aren’t you?’ said Japp affectionately. ‘Well, you’re about right. Can’t be too suspicious in a world like this. His lordship is our man all right. Look at this.’

He produced a paper.

‘Cable from New York. They got in touch with Miss Lucie Adams. The letter was in the mail delivered to her this morning. She was not willing to give up the original unless absolutely necessary, but she willingly allowed the officer to take a copy of it and cable it to us. Here it is, and it’s as damning as you could hope for.’

Poirot took the cable with great interest. I read it over his shoulder.

Following is text to Lucie Adams, dated June 29th, 8 Rosedew Mansions, London, S.W.3. Begins, Dearest little Sister, I’m sorry I wrote such a scrappy bit last week but things were rather busy and there was a lot to see to. Well, darling, it’s been ever such a success! Notices splendid, box office good, and everybody most kind. I’ve got some real good friends over here and next year I’m thinking of taking a theatre for two months. The Russian dancer sketch went very well and the American woman in Paris too, but the Scenes at a Foreign Hotel are still the favourites, I think. I’m so excited that I hardly know what I’m writing, and you’ll see why in a minute, but first I must tell you what people have said. Mr Hergsheimer was ever so kind and he’s going to ask me to lunch to meet Sir Montagu Corner, who might do great things for me. The other night I met Jane Wilkinson and she was ever so sweet about my show and my take off of her, which brings me round to what I am going to tell you. I don’t really like her very much because I’ve been hearing a lot about her lately from someone I know and she’s behaved cruelly, I think, and in a very underhand way—but I won’t go into that now. You know that she really is Lady Edgware? I’ve heard a lot about him too lately, and he’s no beauty, I can tell you. He treated his nephew, the Captain Marsh I have mentioned to you, in the most shameful way—literally turned him out of the house and discontinued his allowance. He told me all about it and I felt awfully sorry for him. He enjoyed my show very much, he said. ‘I believe it would take in Lord Edgware himself. Look here, will you take something on for a bet?’ I laughed and said, ‘How much?’ Lucie darling, the answer fairly took my breath away. Ten thousand dollars. Ten thousand dollars, think of it—just to help someone win a silly bet. ‘Why,’ I said, ‘I’d play a joke on the King in Buckingham Palace and risk lèse majesté for that.’ Well, then, we laid our heads together and got down to details.