The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie Page A

Mary to keep them apart if she can.”
    “Will she be able to do so?”
    “The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting
     her.”
    “You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?” I asked, as we reached the door of the
     locked room.
    Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went
     straight to the desk, and John followed him.
    “My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe,” he said.
    Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys. “Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this
     morning.”
    “But it's not locked now.”
    “Impossible!”
    “See.” And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
    “Milles tonnerres!” cried Poirot, dumfounded. “And I - who have both the keys in my
     pocket!” He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. “En voila une affaire!
     This lock has been forced.”
    “What?”
    Poirot laid down the case again.
    “But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?” These exclamations
     burst from us disjointedly.
    Poirot answered them categorically - almost mechanically. “Who? That is the question. Why?
     Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is
     a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it.”
    We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was
     outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically
     straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently.
    “See here, it was like this,” he said at last. “There was something in that case - some
     piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the
     murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was
     discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk,
     of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his
     presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance.”
    “But what was it?”
    “Ah!” cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. “That, I do not know! A document of some
     kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday
     afternoon. And I - ” his anger burst forth freely - “miserable animal that I am! I guessed
     nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I
     should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed -
     but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance - we must leave no stone unturned - ”
    He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently
     recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of
     sight.
    Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in
     the direction in which he had disappeared.
    “What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed
     past me like a mad bull.”
    “He's rather upset about something,” I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much
     Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's
     expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: “They haven't
     met yet, have they?”
    “Who?”
    “Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard.”
    She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner. “Do you think it would be such a
     disaster if they did meet?”
    “Well, don't you?” I said, rather taken aback.
    “No.” She was smiling in her quiet way. “I should like to see a good flare up. It would
     clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little.”
    “John doesn't think so,” I remarked. “He's anxious to keep them