Free Black Coffee by Agatha Christie Page A

looking distinctly uncomfortable, rose and turned to the French windows. “Let's have some air,” he announced. “It's very hot in here.”
    “Ah, you are like all the English,” Poirot declared, smiling. “The good open air, you will not leave it in the open. No! It must be brought inside the house.”
    “You don't mind, I hope?” Richard asked.
    “Me?” said Poirot. “No, of course not. I have adopted all the English habits. Everywhere, I am taken for an Englishman.”
    On the settee, Hastings could not help but smile to himself. “But, pardon me, Monsieur Amory, is not that window locked by some ingenious device?”
    Richard said, “But the key to it is on my father's bunch of keys, which I have here.” Taking the keys from his pocket, he moved to the French windows and undid the catch, flinging the windows open wide; moving away from him, Poirot sat on the stool, well away from the French windows and the fresh air, and shivered, while Richard took a deep breath of air and then stood for a moment looking out at the garden, before coming back to Poirot with the air of someone who has arrived at a decision.
    “Monsieur Poirot,” Richard Amory declared, “I won't beat about the bush. I know my wife begged you last night to remain, but she was upset and hysterical, and hardly knew what she was doing. I'm the person concerned, and I tell you frankly that I don't care a damn about the formula. My father was a rich man. This discovery of his was worth a great deal of money, but I don't need more than I've got, and I can't pretend to share his enthusiasm in the matter. There are explosives enough in the world already.”
    “I see,” murmured Poirot thoughtfully.
    “What I say,” continued Richard, “is that we should let the whole thing drop.”
    Poirot's eyebrows shot up, as he made his familiar gesture of surprise. “You prefer that I should depart?” he asked. “That I should make no further investigations?”
    “Yes, that's it.” Richard Amory sounded uncomfortable as he half turned away from Poirot.
    “But,” the detective persisted, “whoever stole the formula would not do so in order to make no use of it.”
    “No,” Richard admitted. He turned back to Poirot. “But still -”
    Slowly and meaningfully, Poirot continued, “Then you do not object to the - how shall I put it - the stigma?”
    “Stigma?” exclaimed Richard sharply.
    “Five people -” Poirot explained to him, “five people had the opportunity of stealing the formula. Until one is proved guilty, the other four cannot be proved innocent.”
    Tredwell had entered the room while Poirot was speaking. As Richard began to stammer irresolutely, “I - that is -” the butler interrupted him.
    “I beg your pardon, sir,” he said to his employer, “but Dr Graham is here, and would like to see you.”
    Clearly glad of the opportunity to escape further questioning from Poirot, Richard replied, “I'll come at once,” moving to the door as he spoke. Turning to Poirot, he asked formally, “Would you excuse me, please?” as he left with Tredwell.
    When the two men had departed, Hastings rose from the settee and approached Poirot, bursting with suppressed excitement.
    “I say!” he exclaimed. “Poison, eh?”
    “What, my dear Hastings?” asked Poirot.
    “Poison, surely!” Hastings repeated, nodding his head vigorously.
    Poirot surveyed his friend with an amused twinkle in his eye. “How dramatic you are, my dear Hastings!” he exclaimed. “With what swiftness and brilliance you leap to conclusions!”
    “Now then, Poirot,” Hastings protested, “you can't put me off that way. You're not going to pretend that you think the old fellow died of heart disease. What happened last night positively leaps to the eye. But I must say Richard Amory can't be a very bright sort of chap. The possibility of poison doesn't seem to have occurred to him.”
    “You think not, my friend?” asked Poirot.
    “I spotted it last night, when Dr