Chapter Twenty-three
I
He looked anxiously from one red head to the other.
Sally
Finch2 and Len Bateson were conducting a conversation which Mr. Akibombo found hard
to follow.
“Do you think,” asked Sally, “that Nigel meant me to be suspected, or you?”
“Either, I should say,” replied Len. “I believe he actually took the hairs from my brush.”
“I do not understand, please,” said Mr. Akibombo. “Was it then Mr. Nigel who jumped the
balcony?”
“Nigel can jump like a cat. I couldn’t have jumped across that space. I’m far too heavy.”
“I want to apologise very deeply and
humbly3 for wholly unjustifiable suspicions.”
“That’s all right,” said Len.
“Actually, you helped a lot,” said Sally. “All your thinking—about the boracic.”
Mr. Akibombo brightened up.
“One ought to have realised all along,” said Len, “that Nigel was a
thoroughly4 maladjusted type
and—”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake—you sound just like Colin.
Frankly5, Nigel always gave me the creeps—
and at last I see why. Do you realise, Len, that if poor Sir Arthur Stanley hadn’t been
sentimental6
and had turned Nigel straight over to the police, three other people would be alive today? It’s a
solemn thought.”
“Still, one can understand what he felt about it—”
“Please, Miss Sally.”
“Yes, Akibombo?”
“If you meet my professor at University party tonight will you tell him, please, that I have done
some good thinking? My professor he says often that I have a
muddled7 thought process.”
“I’ll tell him,” said Sally.
Len Bateson was looking the picture of gloom.
“In a week’s time you’ll be back in America,” he said.
“I shall come back,” said Sally. “Or you might come and do a course over there.”
“What’s the use?”
“Akibombo,” said Sally, “would you like, one day, to be best man at a wedding?”
“What is best man, please?”
“The bridegroom, Len here for instance, gives you a ring to keep for him, and he and you go to
church very smartly dressed and at the right moment he asks you for the ring and you give it to
him, and he puts it on my finger, and the organ plays the wedding march and everybody cries. And
there we are.”
“You mean that you and Mr. Len are to be married?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Sally!”
“Unles, of course, Len doesn’t care for the idea.”
“Sally! But you don’t know—about my father—”
“So what? Of course I know. So your father’s nuts. All right, so are lots of people’s fathers.”
“It isn’t a
hereditary9 type of
mania10. I can assure you of that, Sally. If you only knew how
“I did just have a tiny suspicion.”
“In Africa,” said Mr. Akibombo, “in old days, before atomic age and scientific thought had
come, marriage customs very curious and interesting. I tell you—”
“You’d better not,” said Sally. “I have an idea they might make both Len and me blush, and
when you’ve got red hair it’s very noticeable when you blush.”
II
Hercule Poirot signed the last of the letters that Miss Lemon had laid before him.
“Très bien,” he said gravely. “Not a single mistake.”
“I don’t often make mistakes, I hope,” she said.
“Not often. But it has happened. How is your sister, by the way?”
“She is thinking of going on a cruise, M. Poirot. To the northern capitals.”
“Ah,” said Hercule Poirot.
He wondered if—possibly—on a cruise—?
Not that he himself would undertake a sea voyage—not for any inducement. . . .
The clock behind him struck one.
“The clock struck one,
The mouse ran down
Hickory, dickory, dock,”
declared Hercule Poirot.
“I beg your pardon, M. Poirot?”
“Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot.
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