IV

When Poirot reached home, George said:

“Chief Inspector¹ Japp is here, sir.”

Japp grinned in a rueful way as Poirot came into the room.

“Here I am, old boy. Come round to say: ‘Aren’t you a marvel²? How do you do it? What makesyou think of these things?’”

“All this meaning—? But pardon, you will have some refreshment³? A sirop? Or perhaps thewhisky?”

“The whisky is good enough for me.”

A few minutes later he raised his glass, observing:

“Here’s to Hercule Poirot who is always right!”

“No, no, mon ami.”

“Here we had a lovely case of suicide. H.P. says it’s murder—wants it to be murder—and dashit all, it is murder!”

“Ah? So you agree at last?”

“Well, nobody can say I’m pigheaded. I don’t fly in the face of evidence. The trouble was therewasn’t any evidence before.”

“But there is now?”

“Yes, and I’ve come round to make the amend⁴ honourable⁵, as you call it, and present the titbitto you on toast, as it were.”

“I am all agog⁶, my good Japp.”

“All right. Here goes. The pistol that Frank Carter tried to shoot Blunt with on Saturday is atwin pistol to the one that killed Morley!”

Poirot stared: “But this is extraordinary!”

“Yes, it makes it look rather black for Master Frank.”

“It is not conclusive⁷.”

“No, but it’s enough to make us reconsider the suicide verdict. They’re a foreign make of pistoland rather an uncommon⁸ one at that!”

Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows⁹ looked like crescent moons. He said at last:

“Frank Carter? No—surely not!”

Japp breathed a sigh of exasperation¹⁰.

“What’s the matter with you, Poirot? First you will have it that Morley was murdered and that itwasn’t suicide. Then when I come and tell you we’re inclined to come round to your views youhem and ha and don’t seem to like it.”

“You really believe that Morley was murdered by Frank Carter?”

“It fits. Carter had got a grudge¹¹ against Morley—that we knew all along. He came to QueenCharlotte Street that morning—and he pretended afterwards that he had come along to tell hisyoung woman he’d got a job—but we’ve now discovered that he hadn’t got the job then. Hedidn’t get it till later in the day. He admits that now. So there’s lie No. 1. He can’t account forwhere he was at twenty-five past twelve onwards. Says he was walking in the Marylebone Road,but the first thing he can prove is having a drink in a pub at five past one. And the barman says hewas in a regular state—his hand shaking and his face as white as a sheet!”

Hercule Poirot sighed and shook his head. He murmured:

“It does not accord with my ideas.”

“What are these ideas of yours?”

“It is very disturbing what you tell me. Very disturbing indeed. Because, you see, if you areright …”

The door opened softly and George murmured deferentially¹²:

“Excuse me, sir, but …”

He got no further. Miss Gladys Nevill thrust him aside and came agitatedly¹⁴ into the room. Shewas crying.

“Oh, M. Poirot—”

“Here, I’ll be off,” said Japp hurriedly.

He left the room precipitately¹⁵.

Gladys Nevill paid his back the tribute of a venomous look.

“That’s the man—that horrid¹⁶ Inspector from Scotland Yard—it’s he who has trumped¹⁷ up awhole case against poor Frank.”

“Now, now, you must not agitate¹³ yourself.”

“But he has. First they pretend that he tried to murder this Mr. Blunt and not content with thatthey’ve accused him of murdering poor Mr. Morley.”

Hercule Poirot coughed. He said:

“I was down there, you know, at Exsham, when the shot was fired at Mr. Blunt.”

Gladys Nevill said with a somewhat confusing use of pronouns:

“But even if Frank did—did do a foolish thing like that—and he’s one of those Imperial Shirts,you know—they march with banners and have a ridiculous salute¹⁸, and of course I suppose Mr.

Blunt’s wife was a very notorious Jewess, and they just work up these poor young men—quiteharmless ones like Frank—until they think they are doing something wonderful and patriotic¹⁹.”

“Is that Mr. Carter’s defence?” asked Hercule Poirot.

“Oh no. Frank just swears he didn’t do anything and had never seen the pistol before. I haven’tspoken to him, of course—they wouldn’t let me—but he’s got a solicitor²⁰ acting²¹ for him and hetold me what Frank had said. Frank just says it’s all a frame-up.”

Poirot murmured:

“And the solicitor is of opinion that his client had better think of a more plausible²² story?”

“Lawyers are so difficult. They won’t say anything straight out. But it’s the murder charge I’mworrying about. Oh! M. Poirot, I’m sure Frank couldn’t have killed Mr. Morley. I mean really—he hadn’t any reason to.”

“Is it true,” said Poirot, “that when he came round that morning he had not yet got a job of anykind?”

“Well, really, M. Poirot, I don’t see what difference that makes. Whether he got the job in themorning or the afternoon can’t matter.”

Poirot said:

“But his story was that he came to tell you about his good luck. Now, it seems, he had as yethad no luck. Why, then, did he come?”

“Well, M. Poirot, the poor boy was dispirited and upset, and to tell the truth I believe he’d beendrinking a little. Poor Frank has rather a weak head—and the drink upset him and so he felt like—like making a row, and he came round to Queen Charlotte Street to have it out with Mr. Morley,because, you see, Frank is awfully²³ sensitive and it had upset him a lot to feel that Mr. Morleydisapproved of him, and was what he called poisoning my mind.”

“So he conceived the idea of making a scene in business hours?”

“Well—yes—I suppose that was his idea. Of course it was very wrong of Frank to think of sucha thing.”

Poirot looked thoughtfully at the tearful blonde young woman in front of him. He said:

“Did you know that Frank Carter had a pistol—or a pair of pistols?”

“Oh no, M. Poirot. I swear I didn’t. And I don’t believe it’s true, either.”

Poirot shook his head slowly in a perplexed²⁴ manner.

“Oh! M. Poirot, do help us. If I could only feel that you were on our side—”

Poirot said:

“I do not take sides. I am on the side only of the truth.”

 

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