III

It was a bare hour later when a card was brought to Lady Horbury.

‘M. Hercule Poirot.’

She thrust it aside. ‘Who is he? I can’t see him!’

‘He said, m’lady, that he was here at the request of Mr Raymond Barraclough.’

‘Oh.’ She paused. ‘Very well, show him in.’

The butler departed, reappeared.

‘M. Hercule Poirot.’

Exquisitely¹ dressed in the most dandiacal style, M. Poirot entered, bowed.

The butler closed the door. Cicely took a step forward.

‘Mr Barraclough sent you—?’

‘Sit down, Madame.’ His tone was kindly² but authoritative³.

Mechanically she sat. He took a chair near her. His manner was fatherly and reassuring⁴.

‘Madame, I entreat⁵ you, look upon me as a friend. I come to advise you. You are, I know, ingrave trouble.’

She murmured faintly, ‘I don’t—’

‘Ecoutez, Madame, I do not ask you to give away your secrets. It is unnecessary. I know thembeforehand. That is the essence of being a good detective—to know.’

‘A detective?’ Her eyes widened. ‘I remember—you were on the plane. It was you—’

‘Precisely, it was me. Now, Madame, let us get to business. As I said just now, I do not pressyou to confide⁶ in me. You shall not start by telling me things. I will tell to you. This morning, notan hour ago, you had a visitor. That visitor—his name was Brown, perhaps?’

‘Robinson,’ said Cicely faintly.

‘It is the same thing — Brown, Smith, Robinson — he uses them in turn. He came here toblackmail you, Madame. He has in his possession certain proofs of—shall we say—indiscretion?

Those proofs were once in the keeping of Madame Giselle. Now this man has them. He offersthem to you for, perhaps, seven thousand pounds.’

‘Eight.’

‘Eight, then. And you, Madame, will not find it easy to get that sum very quickly?’

‘I can’t do it—I simply can’t do it…I’m in debt already. I don’t know what to do…’

‘Calm yourself, Madame. I come to assist you.’

She stared at him.

‘How do you know all this?’

‘Simply, Madame, because I am Hercule Poirot. Eh bien, have no fears—place yourself in myhands—I will deal with this Mr Robinson.’

‘Yes,’ said Cicely sharply. ‘And how much will you want?’

Hercule Poirot bowed.

‘I shall ask only a photograph, signed, of a very beautiful lady…’

She cried out, ‘Oh, dear, I don’t know what to do…My nerves…I’m going mad.’

‘No, no, all is well. Trust Hercule Poirot. Only, Madame, I must have the truth—the whole truth—do not keep anything back or my hands will be tied.’

‘And you’ll get me out of this mess?’

‘I swear to you solemnly that you will never hear of Mr Robinson again.’

She said, ‘All right. I’ll tell you everything.’

‘Good. Now then, you borrowed money from this woman Giselle?’

Lady Horbury nodded.

‘When was that? When did it begin, I mean?’

‘Eighteen months ago. I was in a hole.’

‘Gambling?’

‘Yes. I had an appalling⁷ run of luck.’

‘And she lent you as much as you wanted?’

‘Not at first. Only a small sum to begin with.’

‘Who sent you to her?’

‘Raymond—Mr Barraclough told me that he had heard she lent money to Society women.’

‘But later she lent you more?’

‘Yes—as much as I wanted. It seemed like a miracle at the time.’

‘It was Madame Giselle’s special kind of miracle,’ said Poirot drily. ‘I gather that before thenyou and Mr Barraclough had become—er—friends?’

‘Yes.’

‘But you were very anxious that your husband should not know about it?’

Cicely cried angrily, ‘Stephen’s a prig. He’s tired of me. He wants to marry someone else. He’dhave jumped at the thought of divorcing me.’

‘And you did not want—divorce?’

‘No. I—I—’

‘You liked your position—and also you enjoyed the use of a very ample income. Quite so. Lesfemmes, naturally, they must look after themselves. To proceed—there arose the question ofrepayment?’

‘Yes, and I—I couldn’t pay back the money. And then the old devil turned nasty. She knewabout me and Raymond. She’d found out places and dates and everything—I can’t think how.’

‘She had her methods,’ said Poirot drily. ‘And she threatened, I suppose, to send all thisevidence to Lord Horbury?’

‘Yes, unless I paid up.’

‘And you couldn’t pay?’

‘No.’

‘So her death was quite providential?’

Cicely Horbury said earnestly, ‘It seemed too, too wonderful.’

‘Ah, precisely—too, too wonderful. But it made you a little nervous, perhaps?’

‘Nervous?’

‘Well, after all, Madame, you alone of anyone on the plane had a motive⁸ for desiring her death.’

She drew in her breath sharply.

‘I know. It was awful. I was in an absolute state about it.’

‘Especially since you had been to see her in Paris the night before, and had had something of ascene with her?’

‘The old devil! She wouldn’t budge⁹ an inch. I think she actually enjoyed it. Oh, she was a beastthrough and through! I came away like a rag.’

‘And yet you said at the inquest that you had never seen the woman before?’

‘Well, naturally, what else could I say?’

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

‘You, Madame, could say nothing else.’

‘It’s been too ghastly—nothing but lies—lies—lies. That dreadful inspector¹⁰ man has been hereagain and again badgering me with questions. But I felt pretty safe. I could see he was only tryingit on. He didn’t know anything.’

‘If one does guess, one should guess with assurance.’

‘And then,’ continued Cicely, pursuing her own line of thought, ‘I couldn’t help feeling that ifanything were to leak out, it would have leaked out at once. I felt safe—till that awful letteryesterday.’

‘You have not been afraid all this time?’

‘Of course I’ve been afraid!’

‘But of what? Of exposure, or of being arrested for murder?’

The colour ebbed¹¹ away from her cheeks.

‘Murder—but I didn’t—Oh, you don’t believe that! I didn’t kill her. I didn’t!’

‘You wanted her dead…’

‘Yes, but I didn’t kill her…Oh, you must believe me—you must. I never moved from my seat. I—’

She broke off. Her beautiful blue eyes were fixed¹² on him imploringly¹³.

Hercule Poirot nodded soothingly¹⁴.

‘I believe you, Madame, for two reasons—first, because of your sex, and secondly¹⁵ because of—a wasp¹⁶.’

She stared at him.

‘A wasp?’

‘Exactly. That does not make sense to you, I see. Now, then, let us attend to the matter in hand.

I will deal with this Mr Robinson. I pledge you my word that you shall never see or hear of himagain. I will settle his—his—I have forgotten the word—his bacon? No, his goat. Now in returnfor my services I will ask you two little questions. Was Mr Barraclough in Paris the day before themurder?’

‘Yes, we dined together. But he thought it better I should go and see the woman alone.’

‘Ah, he did, did he? Now, Madame, one further question: Your stage name before you weremarried was Cicely Bland¹⁷. Was that your real name?’

‘No, my real name is Martha Jebb. But the other—’

‘Made a better professional name. And you were born—where?’

‘Doncaster. But why—’

‘Mere curiosity. Forgive me. And now, Lady Horbury, will you permit me to give you someadvice? Why not arrange with your husband a discreet¹⁸ divorce?’

‘And let him marry that woman?’

‘And let him marry that woman. You have a generous heart, Madame; and besides, you will besafe—oh, so safe—and your husband he will pay you an income.’

‘Not a very large one.’

‘Eh bien, once you are free you will marry a millionaire.’

‘There aren’t any nowadays.’

‘Ah, do not believe that, Madame. The man who had three millions perhaps now he has twomillions—eh bien, it is still enough.’

Cicely laughed.

‘You’re very persuasive¹⁹, M. Poirot. And are you really sure that dreadful man will never botherme again?’

‘On the word of Hercule Poirot,’ said that gentleman solemnly.

 

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