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Updated: May 24, 2025
Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all. "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?" "I know, but, still, who else is there?" "Can't you guess?" "No." I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice. "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered. "Impossible!" "Not at all." "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?"
A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an extraordinary manner. In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. The moments flew. Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion. At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room.
"Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly. "But but I thought you thought so too?" Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea. "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?" Poirot nodded. "Have you never suspected it?"
What more could she have told us, if she had had time? At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He addressed himself to John: "Mr.
But they are both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of John Cavendish's arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big decision?" "Yes, I quite understood your distress."
I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste: "Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!" Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman.
A little cry broke from her lips: "You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prison to me!" "I understand," I said, "but but don't do anything rash." "Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence. Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for: "You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"
If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary coco for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample except Poirot," I added, with belated recognition. "Yes, but what about the bitter taste that coco won't disguise?"
Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?" "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky." "Yes, but it was possible." "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash." But I had remembered something else.
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases. "These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal. No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.
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