Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе
Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”
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“Onlyherpowders?”
TheflushdeepenedasCynthiareplied:
“Oh,yes,Ididmakeupsomesleepingpowdersforheronce.”
“These?”
Poirotproducedtheemptyboxwhichhadcontainedpowders.
Shenodded.
“Canyoutellmewhattheywere?Sulphonal?Veronal?”
“No,theywerebromidepowders.”
“Ah!Thankyou,mademoiselle;goodmorning.”
Aswewalkedbrisklyawayfromthehouse,Iglancedathimmorethanonce.Ihadoftenbeforenoticedthat,ifanythingexcitedhim,hiseyesturnedgreenlikeacat’s.Theywereshininglikeemeraldsnow.
“Myfriend,”hebrokeoutatlast,“Ihavealittleidea,averystrange,andprobablyutterlyimpossibleidea.Andyet—itfitsin.”
Ishruggedmyshoulders.IprivatelythoughtthatPoirotwasrathertoomuchgiventothesefantasticideas.Inthiscase,surely,thetruthwasonlytooplainandapparent.
“Sothatistheexplanationoftheblanklabelonthebox,”Iremarked.“Verysimple,asyousaid.IreallywonderthatIdidnotthinkofitmyself.”
Poirotdidnotappeartobelisteningtome.
“Theyhavemadeonemorediscovery,là-bas,”heobserved,jerkinghisthumboverhisshoulderinthedirectionofStyles.“Mr.Wellstoldmeasweweregoingupstairs.”
“Whatwasit?”
“Lockedupinthedeskintheboudoir,theyfoundawillofMrs.Inglethorp’s,datedbeforehermarriage,leavingherfortunetoAlfredInglethorp.Itmusthavebeenmadejustatthetimetheywereengaged.ItcamequiteasasurprisetoWells—andtoJohnCavendishalso.
