Free Black Coffee by Agatha Christie Page B

Graham announced that he couldn't issue a death certificate and said that there would have to be an autopsy.”
    Poirot gave a slight sigh. “Yes, yes,” he murmured placatingly. “It is the result of the autopsy that Dr Graham comes to announce this morning. We shall know whether you are right or not in a very few minutes.” Poirot seemed to be about to say something further, but then checked himself. He moved to the mantelpiece and began to adjust the vase containing the spills used for lighting the fire.
    Hastings watched him affectionately. “I say, Poirot,” he laughed, “what a fellow you are for neatness.”
    “Is not the effect more pleasing now?” asked Poirot, as he surveyed the mantelpiece with his head on one side.
    Hastings snorted. “I can't say it worried me greatly before.”
    “Beware!” said Poirot, shaking an admonishing finger at him. “The symmetry, it is everything. Everywhere there should be neatness and order, especially in the little grey cells of the brain.” He tapped his head as he spoke.
    “Oh, come on, don't leap onto your hobby-horse,” Hastings begged him. “Just tell me what your precious little grey cells make of this business.”
    Poirot moved to the settee and sat before replying. He regarded Hastings steadily, his eyes narrowing like a cat's until they showed only a gleam of green. “If you would use your grey cells, and attempt to see the whole case clearly - as I attempt to do - you would perhaps perceive the truth, my friend,” he announced smugly. “However,” he continued, in a tone which suggested that he considered he was behaving with great magnanimity, “before Dr Graham arrives, let us first hear the ideas of my friend Hastings.”
    “Well,” Hastings began eagerly, “the key being found under the secretary's chair is suspicious.”
    “You think so, do you, Hastings?”
    “Of course,” his friend replied. “Highly suspicious. But, on the whole, I plump for the Italian.”
    “Ah!” Poirot murmured. “The mysterious Dr Carelli.”
    “Mysterious, exactly,” Hastings continued. “That's precisely the right word for him. What is he doing down here in the country? I'll tell you. He was after Sir Claud Amory's formula. He's almost certainly the emissary of a foreign government. You know the kind of thing I mean.”
    “I do, indeed, Hastings,” Poirot responded with a smile. “After all, I do occasionally go to the cinema, you know.”
    “And if it turns out that Sir Claud was indeed poisoned -” Hastings was now well into his stride - “it makes Dr Carelli more than ever the prime suspect. Remember the Borgias? Poison is a very Italian sort of crime. But what I'm afraid of is that Carelli will get away with the formula in his possession.”
    “He will not do that, my friend,” said Poirot, shaking his head.
    “How on earth can you be so sure?” Hastings inquired.
    Poirot leaned back in his chair and brought the tips of his fingers together in his familiar manner. “I do not exactly know, Hastings,” he admitted. “I cannot be sure, of course. But I have a little idea.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Where do you think that formula is now, my clever collaborator?” Poirot asked.
    “How should I know?”
    Poirot looked at Hastings for a moment, as though giving his friend a chance to consider the question. Then, “Think, my friend,” he said encouragingly. “Arrange your ideas. Be methodical. Be orderly. That is the secret of success.”
    When Hastings merely shook his head with a perplexed air, the detective attempted to give his colleague a clue. “There is only one place where it can be,” Poirot told him.
    “And where is that, for heaven's sake?” Hastings asked, with a distinct note of irritation in his voice.
    “In this room, of course,” Poirot announced, a triumphant Cheshire cat-like grin appearing on his face.
    “What on earth do you mean?”
    “But yes, Hastings. Just consider the facts. We know from the good Tredwell