Nineteen

BY WAY OF SWEDEN

Poirot returned to his seat and sat humming a little tune to himself.

“Unfortunate that she is so intelligent,” he murmured.

“Who?”

“Megan Barnard. Mademoiselle Megan. ‘Words,’ she snaps out. At once she perceives thatwhat I am saying means nothing at all. Everybody else was taken.”

“I thought it sounded very plausible.”

“Plausible, yes. It was just that she perceived.”

“Didn’t you mean what you said, then?”

“What I said could have been comprised into one short sentence. Instead I repeated myself adlib without anyone but Mademoiselle Megan being aware of the fact.”

“But why?”

“Eh bien—to get things going! To imbue everyone with the impression that there was work tobe done! To start—shall we say—the conversations!”

“Don’t you think any of these lines will lead to anything?”

“Oh, it is always possible.”

He chuckled.

“In the midst of tragedy we start the comedy. It is so, is it not?”

“What do you mean?”

“The human drama, Hastings! Reflect a little minute. Here are three sets of human beingsbrought together by a common tragedy. Immediately a second drama commences—tout à fait àpart. Do you remember my first case in England? Oh, so many years ago now. I brought togethertwo people who loved one another—by the simple method of having one of them arrested formurder! Nothing less would have done it! In the midst of death we are in life, Hastings…Murder, Ihave often noticed, is a great matchmaker.”

“Really, Poirot,” I cried scandalized. “I’m sure none of those people was thinking of anythingbut—”

“Oh! my dear friend. And what about yourself?”

“I?”

“Mais oui, as they departed, did you not come back from the door humming a tune?”

“One may do that without being callous.”

“Certainly, but that tune told me your thoughts.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes. To hum a tune is extremely dangerous. It reveals the subconscious mind. The tune youhummed dates, I think, from the days of the war. Comme ?a,” Poirot sang in an abominablefalsetto voice:

“Some of the time I love a brunette,

Some of the time I love a blonde

(Who comes from Eden by way of Sweden).

“What could be more revealing? Mais je crois que la blonde l’emporte sur la brunette!”

“Really, Poirot,” I cried, blushing slightly.

“C’est tout naturel. Did you observe how Franklin Clarke was suddenly at one and in sympathywith Mademoiselle Megan? How he leaned forward and looked at her? And did you also noticehow very much annoyed Mademoiselle Thora Grey was about it? And Mr. Donald Fraser, he—”

“Poirot,” I said. “Your mind is incurably sentimental.”

“That is the last thing my mind is. You are the sentimental one, Hastings.”

I was about to argue the point hotly, but at that moment the door opened.

To my astonishment it was Thora Grey who entered.

“Forgive me for coming back,” she said composedly. “But there was something that I think Iwould like to tell you, M. Poirot.”

“Certainly, mademoiselle. Sit down, will you not?”

She took a seat and hesitated for just a minute as though choosing her words.

“It is just this, M. Poirot. Mr. Clarke very generously gave you to understand just now that I hadleft Combeside by my own wish. He is a very kind and loyal person. But as a matter of fact, it isnot quite like that. I was quite prepared to stay on—there is any amount of work to be done inconnection with the collections. It was Lady Clarke who wished me to leave! I can makeallowances. She is a very ill woman, and her brain is somewhat muddled with the drugs they giveher. It makes her suspicious and fanciful. She took an unreasoning dislike to me and insisted that Ishould leave the house.”

I could not but admire the girl’s courage. She did not attempt to gloss over facts, as so manymight have been tempted to do, but went straight to the point with an admirable candour. My heartwent out to her in admiration and sympathy.

“I call it splendid of you to come and tell us this,” I said.

“It’s always better to have the truth,” she said with a little smile. “I don’t want to shelter behindMr. Clarke’s chivalry. He is a very chivalrous man.”

There was a warm glow in her words. She evidently admired Franklin Clarke enormously.

“You have been very honest, mademoiselle,” said Poirot.

“It is rather a blow to me,” said Thora ruefully. “I had no idea Lady Clarke disliked me somuch. In fact, I always thought she was rather fond of me.” She made a wry face. “One lives andlearns.”

She rose.

“That is all I came to say. Goodbye.”

I accompanied her downstairs.

“I call that very sporting of her,” I said as I returned to the room. “She has courage, that girl.”

“And calculation.”

“What do you mean—calculation?”

“I mean that she has the power of looking ahead.”

I looked at him doubtfully.

“She really is a lovely girl,” I said.

“And wears very lovely clothes. That crêpe marocain and the silver fox collar—dernier cri.”

“You’re a man milliner, Poirot. I never notice what people have on.”

“You should join a nudist colony.”

As I was about to make an indignant rejoinder, he said, with a sudden change of subject:

“Do you know, Hastings, I cannot rid my mind of the impression that already, in ourconversations this afternoon, something was said that was significant. It is odd—I cannot pin downexactly what it was…Just an impression that passed through my mind…That reminds me ofsomething I have already heard or seen or noted….”

“Something at Churston?”

“No—not at Churston…Before that…No matter, presently it will come to me….”

He looked at me (perhaps I had not been attending very closely), laughed and began once moreto hum.

“She is an angel, is she not? From Eden, by way of Sweden….”

“Poirot,” I said. “Go to the devil!”