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VII
Michael Stoddart stared at Poirot in amazement. He said:
“General Grant? General Grant?”
“Precisely, mon cher. The whole mise en scène, you know, was what you would call ‘very
bogus.’ The Buddhas, the Benares brass, the Indian servant! And the gout, too! It is out of date,
the gout. It is old, old gentlemen who have the gout—not the fathers of young ladies of nineteen.
“Moreover I made quite certain. As I go out, I stumble, I clutch at the gouty foot. So
perturbed is the gentleman by what I have been saying that he did not even notice. Oh yes, he is
very, very bogus, that General! Tout de même, it is a smart idea. The retired Anglo-Indian General,
the well-known comic figure with a liver and a choleric temper, he settles down—not amongst
other retired Anglo-Indian Army officers—oh no, he goes to a milieu far too expensive for the
usual retired Army man. There are rich people there, people from London, an excellent field to
market the goods. And who would suspect four lively, attractive, young girls? If anything comes
out, they will be considered as victims—that for a certainty!”
“What was your idea exactly when you went to see the old devil? Did you want to put the
wind up him?”
“Yes. I wanted to see what would happen. I had not long to wait. The girls had their orders.
Anthony Hawker, actually one of their victims, was to be the scapegoat. Sheila was to tell me
about the flask in the hall. She nearly could not bring herself to do so—but the other girl rapped
out an angry ‘Sheila’ at her and she just faltered it out.”
Michael Stoddart got up and paced up and down. He said:
“You know, I’m not going to lose sight of that girl. I’ve got a pretty sound theory about those
adolescent criminal tendencies. If you look into the home life, you nearly always find—”
Poirot interrupted him.
He said:
“Mon cher, I have the deepest respect for your science. I have no doubt that your theories will
work admirably where Miss Sheila Kelly is concerned.”
“The others, too.”
“The others, perhaps. It may be. The only one I am sure about is the little Sheila. You will
tame her, not a doubt of it! In truth, she eats out of your hand already. . . .”
Flushing, Michael Stoddart said:
“What nonsense you talk, Poirot.”
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