Two
POIROT ASKS FIVE QUESTIONS
I
“Well, Mr. Poirot?”
Philip Blake’s tone was impatient.
Poirot said:
“I have to thank you for your admirable and lucid account of the Crale tragedy.”
Philip Blake looked rather self-conscious.
“Very kind of you,” he murmured. “Really surprising how much I remembered when I got
down to it.”
Poirot said:
“It was an admirably clear narrative, but there were certain omissions, were there not?”
“Omissions” Philip Blake frowned.
Hercule Poirot said:
“Your narrative, shall we say, was not entirely frank.” His tone hardened. “I have been
informed, Mr. Blake, that on at least one night during the summer, Mrs. Crale was seen coming
out of your room at a somewhat compromising hour.”
There was a silence broken only by Philip Blake’s heavy breathing. He said at last: “Who told
you that?”
Hercule Poirot shook his head.
“It is no matter who told me. That I know, that is the point.”
Again there was a silence; then Philip Blake made up his mind. He said:
“By accident, it seems, you have stumbled upon a purely private matter. I admit that it does not
square with what I have written down. Nevertheless, it squares better than you might think. I am
forced now to tell you the truth.
“I did entertain a feeling of animosity toward Caroline Crale. At the same time I was always
strongly attracted by her. Perhaps the latter fact induced the former. I resented the power she had
over me and tried to stifle the attraction she had for me by constantly dwelling on her worst points.
I never liked her, if you understand. But it would have been easy at any moment for me to make
love to her. I had been in love with her as a boy and she had taken no notice of me. I did not find
that easy to forgive.
“My opportunity came when Amyas lost his head so completely over the Greer girl. Quite
without meaning to I found myself telling Caroline I loved her. She said quite calmly: “Yes, I have
always known that.” The insolence of the woman!
“Of course I knew that she didn’t love me, but I saw that she was disturbed and disillusioned by
Amyas’s present infatuation. That is a mood when a woman can very easily be won. She agreed to
come to me that night. And she came.”
Blake paused. He found now a difficulty in getting the words out.
“She came to my room. And then, with my arms round her, she told me quite coolly that it was
no good! After all, she said, she was a one-man woman. She was Amyas Crale’s, for better or
worse. She agreed that she had treated me very badly, but said she couldn’t help it. She asked me
to forgive her.
“And she left me. She left me! Do you wonder, Mr. Poirot, that my hatred of her was heightened
a hundredfold? Do you wonder that I have never forgiven her? For the insult she did me—as well
as for the fact that she killed the friend I loved better than anyone in the world!”
Trembling violently, Philip Blake exclaimed:
“I don’t want to speak of it, do you hear? You’ve got your answer. Now go! And never mention
the matter to me again!”
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