Lord Edgware Dies

I decided that ifI were the subject in question, I should be very much annoyed. I should, of course, conceal my vexation, but decidedly I should not like it. One would need great broadmindedness and a distinct sense of humour to appreciate such a merciless expose.

I had just arrived at these conclusions when the delightful husky laugh from the stage was echoed from behind me.

I turned my head sharply. In the seat immediately behind mine, leaning forward with her lips slightly parted, was the subject of the present imitation-Lady Edgware, better known as Jane Wilkinson.

I realized immediately that my deductions had been all wrong. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, with an expression of delight and excitement in her eyes.

As the ‘imitation’ finished, she applauded loudly, laughing and turning to her companion, a tall extremely good-looking man, of the Greek god type, whose face I recognized as one better known on the screen than on the stage. It was Bryan Martin, the hero of the screen most popular at the moment. He and Jane Wilkinson had been starred together in several screen productions.

‘Marvellous, isn’t she?’ Lady Edgware was saying.

He laughed.

‘Jane-you look all excited.’ 

‘Well, she really is too wonderful! Heaps better than I thought she’d be.’

I did not catch Bryan Martin’s amused rejoinder. Carlotta Adams had started on a fresh improvisation.

What happened later is, I shall always think, a very curious coincidence.

After the theatre, Poirot and I went on to supper at the Savoy.

At the very next table to ours were Lady Edgware, Bryan Martin and two other people whom I did not know. I pointed them out to Poirot and, as I was doing so, another couple came and took their places at the table beyond that again. The woman’s face was familiar and yet strangely enough, for the moment I could not place it.

Then suddenly I realized that it was Carlotta Adams at whom I was staring! The man I did not know. He was well-groomed, with a cheerful, somewhat vacuous face. Not a type that I admire.

Carlotta Adams was dressed very inconspicuously in black. Hers was not a face to command instant attention or recognition. It was one of those mobile sensitive faces that preeminently lend themselves to the art of mimicry. It could take on an alien character easily, but it had no very recognizable character of its own.

I imparted these reflections of mine to Poirot. He listened attentively, his egg-shaped head cocked slightly to one side whilst he darted a sharp glance at the two tables in question.

‘So that is Lady Edgware? Yes, I remember-I have seen her act. She isbelle femme.’

‘And a fine actress too.’

‘Possibly.’

‘You don’t seem convinced.’

‘I think it would depend on the setting, my friend. If she is the centre of the play, if all revolves round her-yes, then she could play her part. I doubt if she could play a small part adequately or even what is called a character part. The play must be written about her and for her. She appears to me of the type of women who are interested only in themselves.’ He paused and then added rather unexpectedly: ‘Such people go through life in great danger.’

‘Danger?’ I said, surprised.

‘I have used a word that surprises you, I see,mon ami. Yes, danger. Because, you see, a woman like that sees only one thing-herself. Such women see nothing of the dangers and hazards that surround them-the million conflicting interests and relationships of life. No, they see only their own forward path. And so-sooner or later-disaster.’

I was interested. I confessed to myself that such a point of view would not have struck me.

‘And the other?’ I asked. 

‘Miss Adams?’

His gaze swept to her table.

‘Well?’ he said, smiling. ‘What do you want me to say about her?’

‘Only how she strikes you.’

‘Mon cher, am I tonight the fortune-teller who reads the palm and tells the character?’

‘You could do it better than most,’ I rejoined.

‘It is a very pretty faith that you have in me, Hastings. It touches me. Do you not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desires and attitudes? Mais oui, c’est vrai. One makes one’s little judgments-but nine times out of ten one is wrong.’

‘Not Hercule Poirot,’ I said, smiling.

‘Even Hercule Poirot! Oh! I know very well that you have always a little idea that I am conceited, but, indeed, I assure you, I am really a very humble person.’

I laughed.

‘You-humble!’

‘It is so. Except-I confess it-that I am a little proud of my moustaches. Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them.’

‘You are quite safe,’ I said dryly. ‘You won’t. So you are not going to risk judgment on Carlotta Adams?’

‘Elle est artiste!’ said Poirot simply. ‘That covers nearly all, does it not?’ 

‘Anyway, you don’t consider that she walks through life in peril?’