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VIII
Sir Joseph received Hercule Poirot in his study. He said:
“Well, Mr. Poirot? Made your boast good?”
“Let me first ask you a question,” said Poirot as he seated himself. “I know who the criminal
is and I think it possible that I can produce sufficient evidence to convict this person. But in that
case I doubt if you will ever recover your money.”
“Not get back my money?”
Sir Joseph turned purple.
Hercule Poirot went on:
“But I am not a policeman. I am acting in this case solely in your interests. I could, I think,
recover your money intact, if no proceedings were taken.”
“Eh?” said Sir Joseph. “That needs a bit of thinking about.”
“It is entirely for you to decide. Strictly speaking, I suppose you ought to prosecute in the
public interest. Most people would say so.”
“I dare say they would,” said Sir Joseph sharply. “It wouldn’t be their money that had gone
west. If there’s one thing I hate it’s to be swindled. Nobody’s ever swindled me and got away
with it.”
“Well then, what do you decide?”
Sir Joseph hit the table with his fist.
“I’ll have the brass! Nobody’s going to say they got away with two hundred pounds of my
money.”
Hercule Poirot rose, crossed to the writing table, wrote out a cheque for two hundred pounds
and handed it to the other man.
Sir Joseph said in a weak voice:
“Well, I’m damned! Who the devil is this fellow?”
Poirot shook his head.
“If you accept the money, there must be no questions asked.”
Sir Joseph folded up the cheque and put it in his pocket.
“That’s a pity. But the money’s the thing. And what do I owe you, Mr. Poirot?”
“My fees will not be high. This was, as I said, a very unimportant matter.” He paused—and
added, “Nowadays nearly all my cases are murder cases. . . .”
Sir Joseph started slightly.
“Must be interesting?” he said.
“Sometimes. Curiously enough, you recall to me one of my earlier cases in Belgium, many
years ago—the chief protagonist was very like you in appearance. He was a wealthy soap
manufacturer. He poisoned his wife in order to be free to marry his secretary . . . Yes—the
resemblance is very remarkable. . . .”
A faint sound came from Sir Joseph’s lips—they had gone a queer blue colour. All the ruddy
hue had faded from his cheeks. His eyes, starting out of his head, stared at Poirot. He slipped down
a little in his chair.
Then, with a shaking hand, he fumbled in his pocket. He drew out the cheque and tore it into
pieces.
“That’s washed out—see? Consider it as your fee.”
“Oh but, Sir Joseph, my fee would not have been as large as that.”
“That’s all right. You keep it.”
“I shall send it to a deserving charity.”
“Send it anywhere you damn well like.”
Poirot leaned forward. He said:
“I think I need hardly point out, Sir Joseph, that in your position, you would do well to be
exceedingly careful.”
Sir Joseph said, his voice almost inaudible:
“You needn’t worry. I shall be careful all right.”
Hercule Poirot left the house. As he went down the steps he said to himself:
“So—I was right.”
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