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Cast aside your official reticence, and tell me all." "It’s quite irregular, sir." "My dear inspector, when we are becoming such fast friends?" "Well, sir, Anna Rosenburg was a German-Jewess who lived at Hampstead. With no visible means of livelihood, she grew yearly richer and richer." "I’m just the opposite," commented Anthony. "I have a visible means of livelihood and I get yearly poorer and poorer. Perhaps I should do better if I lived in Hampstead. I’ve always heard Hampstead is very bracing." "At one time," continued Verrall, "she was a secondhand clothes dealer—" "That explains it," interrupted Anthony. "I remember selling my uniform after the war—not khaki, the other stuff. The whole flat was full of red trousers and gold lace, spread out to best advantage. A fat man in a check suit arrived in a Rolls-Royce with a factotum complete with bag. He bid one pound ten for the lot. In the end I threw in a hunting coat and some Zeiss glasses to make up the two pounds, at a given signal the factotum opened the bag and shovelled the goods inside, and the fat man tendered me a ten-pound note and asked me for change." "About ten years ago," continued the inspector, "there were several Spanish political refugees in London—amongst them a certain Don Fernando Ferrarez with his young wife and child. They were very poor, and the wife was ill. Anna Rosenburg visited the place where they were lodging and asked if they had anything to sell. Don Fernando was out, and his wife decided to part with a very wonderful Spanish shawl, embroidered in a marvellous manner, which had been one of her husband’s last presents to her before flying from Spain. When Don Fernando returned, he flew into a terrible rage on hearing the shawl had been sold, and tried vainly to recover it. When he at last succeeded in finding the secondhand clothes woman in question, she declared that she had resold the shawl to a woman whose name she did not know. Don Fernando was in despair. Two months later he was stabbed in the street and died as a result of his wounds. From that time onward, Anna Rosenburg seemed suspiciously flush of money. In the ten years that followed, her house was burgled no less than eight times. Four of the attempts were frustrated and nothing was taken, on the other four occasions, an embroidered shawl of some kind was amongst the booty." The inspector paused, and then went on in obedience to an urgent gesture from Anthony. "A week ago, Carmen Ferrarez, the young daughter of Don Fernando, arrived in this country from a convent in France. Her first action was to seek out Anna Rosenburg at Hampstead. There she is reported to have had a violent scene with the old woman, and her words at leaving were overheard by one of the servants. " "You have it still," she cried. "All these years you have grown rich on it—but I say to you solemnly that in the end it will bring you bad luck. You have no moral right to it, and the day will come when you will wish you had never seen the Shawl of the Thousand Flowers." " "Three days after that, Carmen Ferrarez disappeared mysteriously from the hotel where she was staying. In her room was found a name and address—the name of Conrad Fleckman, and also a note from a man purporting to be an antique dealer asking if she were disposed to part with a certain embroidered shawl which he believed she had in her possession. The address given on the note was a false one. "It is clear that the shawl is the centre of the whole mystery. Yesterday morning Conrad Fleckman called upon Anna Rosenburg. She was shut up with him for an hour or more, and when he left she was obliged to go to bed, so white and shaken was she by the interview. But she gave orders that if he came to see her again he was always to be admitted. Last night she got up and went out about nine o’clock, and did not return. She was found this morning in the house occupied by Conrad Fleckman, stabbed through the heart. On the floor beside her was—what do you think?" "The shawl?" breathed Anthony. "The Shawl of a Thousand Flowers." "Something far more gruesome than that. Something which explained the whole mysterious business of the shawl and made its hidden value clear . .

"We could not take the risk of arresting Jones with nothing to go upon." There was a silence and then Joyce said, "And that is all, is it?" "That is the case as it has stood for the last year. The true solution is now in the hands of Scotland Yard, and in two or three days" time you will probably read of it in the newspapers." "The true solution," said Joyce thoughtfully. "I wonder. Let’s all think for five minutes and then speak." Raymond West nodded and noted the time on his watch. When the five minutes were up he looked over at Dr Pender. "Will you speak first?" he said. The old man shook his head. "I confess," he said, "that I am utterly baffled. I can but think that the husband in some way must be the guilty party, but how he did it I cannot imagine. I can only suggest that he must have given her the poison in some way that has not yet been discovered, although how in that case it should have come to light after all this time I cannot imagine." "Joyce?" "The companion!" said Joyce decidedly. "The companion every time! How do we know what motive she may have had? Just because she was old and stout and ugly it doesn’t follow that she wasn’t in love with Jones herself. She may have hated the wife for some other reason. Think of being a companion – always having to be pleasant and agree and stifle yourself and bottle yourself up. One day she couldn’t bear it any longer and then she killed her. She probably put the arsenic in the bowl of corn-flour and all that story about eating it herself is a lie." "Mr Petherick?" The lawyer joined the tips of his fingers together professionally. "I should hardly like to say. On the facts I should hardly like to say." "But you have got to, Mr Petherick," said Joyce. "You can’t reserve judgement and say "without prejudice", and be legal. You have got to play the game." "On the facts," said Mr Petherick, "there seems nothing to be said. It is my private opinion, having seen, alas, too many cases of this kind, that the husband was guilty. The only explanation that will cover the facts seems to be that Miss Clark for some reason or other deliberately sheltered him. There may have been some financial arrangement made between them. He might realize that he would be suspected, and she, seeing only a future of poverty before her, may have agreed to tell the story of drinking the cornflour in return for a substantial sum to be paid to her privately. If that was the case it was of course most irregular. Most irregular indeed." "I disagree with you all," said Raymond. "You have forgotten the one important factor in the case. The doctor’s daughter. I will give you my reading of the case. The tinned lobster was bad. It accounted for the poisoning symptoms. The doctor was sent for. He finds Mrs Jones, who has eaten more lobster than the others, in great pain, and he sends, as you told us, for some opium pills. He does not go himself, he sends. Who will give the messenger the opium pills? Clearly his daughter. Very likely she dispenses his medicines for him. She is in love with Jones and at this moment all the worst instincts in her nature rise and she realizes that the means to procure his freedom are in her hands. The pills she sends contain pure white arsenic. That is my solution." "And now, Sir Henry, tell us," said Joyce eagerly. "One moment," said Sir Henry."Miss Marple has not yet spoken." Miss Marple was shaking her head sadly. "Dear, dear," she said. "I have dropped another stitch. I have been so interested in the story. A sad case, a very sad case. It reminds me of old Mr Hargraves who lived up at the Mount. His wife never had the least suspicion – until he died, leaving all his money to a woman he had been living with and by whom he had five children. She had at one time been their housemaid. Such a nice girl, Mrs Hargraves always said – thoroughly to be relied upon to turn the mattresses every day – except Fridays, of course. And there was old Hargraves keeping this woman in a house in the neighbouring town and continuing to be a Churchwarden and to hand round the plate every Sunday."

Come now, let’s have it. Did he say anything?" "As to what, sir?" Colonel Pikeaway stared hard at him and scratched his ear. "Oh, all right," he grumbled. "Hush up this and don’t say that. Overdo it in my opinion! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you don’t know, and there it is." "I think there was something—" Edmundson spoke cautiously and with reluctance. "Something important that Bob might have wanted to tell me." "Ah," said Colonel Pikeaway, with the air of a man who has at last pulled the cork out of a bottle. "Interesting. Let’s have what you know." "It’s very little, sir. Bob and I had a kind of simple code. We’d cottoned on to the fact that all the telephones in Ramat were being tapped. Bob was in the way of hearing things at the Palace, and I sometimes had a bit of useful information to pass on to him. So if one of us rang the other up and mentioned a girl or girls, in a certain way, using the term "out of this world" for her, it meant something was up!" "Important information of some kind or other?" "Yes. Bob rang me up using those terms the day the whole show started. I was to meet him at our usual rendezvous—outside one of the banks. But rioting broke out in that particular quarter and the police closed the road. I couldn’t make contact with Bob or he with me. He flew Ali out the same afternoon." "I see," said Pikeaway. "No idea where he was telephoning from?" "No. It might have been anywhere." "Pity." He paused and then threw out casually: "Do you know Mrs. Sutcliffe?" "You mean Bob Rawlinson’s sister? I met her out there, of course. She was there with a schoolgirl daughter. I don’t know her well." "Were she and Bob Rawlinson very close?" Edmundson considered. "No, I shouldn’t say so. She was a good deal older than he was, and rather much of the elder sister. And he didn’t much like his brother-in-law—always referred to him as a pompous ass." "So he is! One of our prominent industrialists—and how pompous can they get! So you don’t think it likely that Bob Rawlinson would have confided an important secret to his sister?" "It’s difficult to say—but no, I shouldn’t think so." "I shouldn’t either," said Colonel Pikeaway. He sighed. "Well, there we are, Mrs. Sutcliffe and her daughter are on their way home by the long sea route. Dock at Tilbury on the Eastern Queen tomorrow." He was silent for a moment or two, whilst his eyes made a thoughtful survey of the young man opposite him. Then, as though having come to a decision, he held out his hand and spoke briskly. "Very good of you to come." "I’m only sorry I’ve been of such little use. You’re sure there’s nothing I can do?" "No. No. I’m afraid not." John Edmundson went out. The discreet young man came back. "Thought I might have sent him to Tilbury to break the news to the sister," said Pikeaway. "Friend of her brother’s—all that. But I decided against it. Inelastic type. That’s the F.O. training. Not an opportunist. I’ll send round what’s his name." "Derek?" "That’s right," Colonel Pikeaway nodded approval. "Getting to know what I mean quite well, ain’t you?" "I try my best, sir." "Trying’s not enough. You have to succeed. Send me along Ronnie first. I’ve got an assignment for him." II Colonel Pikeaway was apparently just going off to sleep again when the young man called Ronnie entered the room. He was tall, dark, muscular, and had a gay and rather impertinent manner. Colonel Pikeaway looked at him for a moment or two and then grinned. "How’d you like to penetrate into a girls" school?" he asked. "A girls" school?" The young man lifted his eyebrows. "That will be something new! What are they up to? Making bombs in the chemistry class?" "Nothing of that kind. Very superior high-class school. Meadowbank." "Meadowbank!" the young man whistled. "I can’t believe it!" "Hold your impertinent tongue and listen to me.

"The last time," murmured Elise with grim satisfaction. "Ah, monsieur, I wish it were over and done with." The sharp ting of an electric bell sounded. "There she is, that great gendarme of a woman," continued the old servant. "Why can't she go and pray decently for her little one's soul in a church, and burn a candle to Our Blessed Lady? Does not the good God know what is best for us?" "Answer the bell, Elise," said Raoul peremptorily. She threw him a look, but obeyed. In a minute or two she returned ushering in the visitor. "I will tell my mistress you are here, madame." Raoul came forward to shake hands with Madame Exe. Simone's words floated back to his memory. "So big and so black." She was a big woman, and the heavy black of French mourning seemed almost exaggerated in her case. Her voice when she spoke was very deep. "I fear I am a little late, monsieur." "A few minutes only," said Raoul, smiling. "Madame Simone is lying down. I am sorry to say she is far from well, very nervous and overwrought." Her hand, which she was just withdrawing, closed on his suddenly like a vise. "But she will sit?" she demanded sharply. "Oh, yes, madame." Madame Exe gave a sigh of relief, and sank into a chair, loosening one of the heavy black veils that floated round her. "Ah, monsieur!" she murmured, "you cannot imagine, you cannot conceive the wonder and the joy of these séances to me! My little one! My Amelie! To see her, to hear her, even - perhaps - yes, perhaps to be even able to - stretch out my hand and touch her." Raoul spoke quickly and peremptorily. "Madame Exe - how can I explain? - on no account must you do anything except under my express directions, otherwise there is the gravest danger." "Danger to me?" "No, madame," said Raoul, "to the medium. You must understand that the phenomena that occur are explained by Science in a certain way. I will put the matter very simply, using no technical terms. A spirit, to manifest itself, has to use the actual physical substance of the medium. You have seen the vapor of fluid issuing from the lips of the medium. This finally condenses and is built up into the physical semblance of the spirit's dead body. But this ectoplasm we believe to be the actual substance of the medium. We hope to prove this some day by careful weighing and testing - but the great difficulty is the danger and pain which attends the medium on any handling of the phenomena. Were anyone to seize hold of the materialization roughly, the death of the medium might result." Madame Exe had listened to him with close attention. "That is very interesting, monsieur. Tell me, shall not a time come when the materialization shall advance so far that it shall be capable of detachment from its parent, the medium?" "That is a fantastic speculation, madame." She persisted. "But, on the facts, not impossible?" "Quite impossible today." "But perhaps in the future?" He was saved from answering, for at that moment Simone entered. She looked languid and pale, but had evidently regained entire control of herself. She came forward and shook hands with Madame Exe, though Raoul noticed the faint shiver that passed through her as she did so. "I regret, madame, to hear that you are indisposed," said Madame Exe. "It is nothing," said Simone rather brusquely. "Shall we begin?" She went to the alcove and sat down in the armchair. Suddenly Raoul in his turn felt a wave of fear pass over him. "You are not strong enough," he exclaimed. "We had better cancel the séance. Madame Exe will understand." "Monsieur!" Madame Exe rose indignantly. "Yes, yes, it is better not, I am sure of it." "Madame Simone promised me one last sitting." "That is so," agreed Simone quietly, "and I am prepared to carry out my promise." "I hold you to it, madame," said the other woman. "I do not break my word," said Simone coldly. "Do not fear, Raoul," she added gently, "after all, it is for the last time - the last time, thank God."

Before doing so, he just glanced into his wife’s room to make sure that there was nothing she wanted. He discovered the electric light on and his wife lying in bed stabbed through the heart. She had been dead at least an hour—probably longer. The following were the points made. There was another door in Mrs Rhodes’s room leading into the corridor. This door was locked and bolted on the inside. The only window in the room was closed and latched. According to Mr Rhodes nobody had passed through the room in which he was sitting except a chambermaid bringing hot-water bottles. The weapon found in the wound was a stiletto dagger which had been lying on Mrs Rhodes’s dressing- table. She was in the habit of using it as a paper knife. There were no fingerprints on it. The situation boiled down to this—no one but Mr Rhodes and the chambermaid had entered the victim’s room. I enquired about the chambermaid. "That was our first line of enquiry," said Mr Petherick. "Mary Hill is a local woman. She had been chambermaid at the Crown for ten years. There seems absolutely no reason why she should commit a sudden assault on a guest. She is, in any case, extraordinarily stupid, almost half-witted. Her story has never varied. She brought Mrs Rhodes her hot-water bottle and says the lady was drowsy—just dropping off to sleep. Frankly, I cannot believe, and I am sure no jury would believe, that she committed the crime." Mr Petherick went on to mention a few additional details. At the head of the staircase in the Crown Hotel is a kind of miniature lounge where people sometimes sit and have coffee. A passage goes off to the right and the last door in it is the door into the room occupied by Mr Rhodes. The passage then turns sharply to the right again and the first door round the corner is the door into Mrs Rhodes’s room. As it happened, both these doors could be seen by witnesses. The first door—that into Mr Rhodes’s room, which I will call A, could be seen by four people, two commercial travellers and an elderly married couple who were having coffee. According to them nobody went in or out of door A except Mr Rhodes and the chambermaid. As to the other door in the passage B, there was an electrician at work there and he also swears that nobody entered or left door B except the chambermaid. It was certainly a very curious and interesting case. On the face of it, it looked as though Mr Rhodes must have murdered his wife. But I could see that Mr Petherick was quite convinced of his client’s innocence and Mr Petherick was a very shrewd man. At the inquest Mr Rhodes had told a hesitating and rambling story about some woman who had written threatening letters to his wife. His story, I gathered, had been unconvincing in the extreme. Appealed to by Mr Petherick, he explained himself. "Frankly," he said, "I never believed it. I thought Amy had made most of it up." Mrs Rhodes, I gathered, was one of those romantic liars who go through life embroidering everything that happens to them. The amount of adventures that, according to her own account, happened to her in a year was simply incredible. If she slipped on a bit of banana peel it was a case of near escape from death. If a lampshade caught fire she was rescued from a burning building at the hazard of her life. Her husband got into the habit of discounting her statements. Her tale as to some woman whose child she had injured in a motor accident and who had vowed vengeance on her—well—Mr Rhodes had simply not taken any notice of it. The incident had happened before he married his wife and although she had read him letters couched in crazy language, he had suspected her of composing them herself. She had actually done such a thing once or twice before. She was a woman of hysterical tendencies who craved ceaselessly for excitement. Now, all that seemed to me very natural—indeed, we have a young woman in the village who does much the same thing. The danger with such people is that when anything at all extraordinary really does happen to them, nobody believes they are speaking the truth. It seemed to me that that was what had happened in this case. The police, I gathered, merely believed that Mr Rhodes was making up this unconvincing tale in order to avert suspicion from himself.

He frowned, paused a minute, and then went on with a change of tone. "But I’m wandering from the point. You wanted to know what was the last time I saw my father? As I’ve told you, it was after tea—might have been a little past six. The old man was in good spirits then—a bit tired, perhaps. I went away and left him with Horbury. I never saw him again." "Where were you at the time of his death?" "In the dining-room with brother Alfred. Not a very harmonious after-dinner session. We were in the middle of a pretty sharp argument when we heard the noise overhead. Sounded as though ten men were wrestling up there. And then poor old Father screamed. It was like killing a pig. The sound of it paralysed Alfred. He just sat there with his jaw dropping. I fairly shook him back to life, and we started off upstairs. The door was locked. Had to break it open. Took some doing, too. How the devil that door came to be locked, I can’t imagine! There was no one in the room but Father, and I’m damned if anyone could have got away through the windows." Superintendent Sugden said: "The door was locked from the outside." "What?" Harry stared. "But I’ll swear the key was on the inside." Poirot murmured: "So you noticed that?" Harry Lee said sharply: "I do notice things. It’s a habit of mine." He looked sharply from one face to the other. "Is there anything more you want to know, gentlemen?" Johnson shook his head. "Thank you, Mr Lee, not for the moment. Perhaps you will ask the next member of the family to come along?" "Certainly I will." He walked to the door and went out without looking back. The three men looked at each other. Colonel Johnson said: "What about it, Sugden?" The superintendent shook his head doubtfully. He said: "He’s afraid of something. I wonder why?…" XI Magdalene Lee paused effectively in the doorway. One long slender hand touched the burnished platinum sheen of her hair. The leaf-green velvet frock she wore clung to the delicate lines of her figure. She looked very young and a little frightened. The three men were arrested for a moment looking at her. Johnson’s eyes showed a sudden surprised admiration. Superintendent Sugden’s showed no animation, merely the impatience of a man anxious to get on with his job. Hercule Poirot’s eyes were deeply appreciative (as she saw) but the appreciation was not for her beauty, but for the effective use she made of it. She did not know that he was thinking to himself: "Jolie mannequin, la petite. Mais elle a les yeux durs." Colonel Johnson was thinking: "Damned good-looking girl. George Lee will have trouble with her if he doesn’t look out. Got an eye for a man all right." Superintendent Sugden was thinking: "Empty-headed vain piece of goods. Hope we get through with her quickly." "Will you sit down, Mrs Lee? Let me see, you are—?" "Mrs George Lee." She accepted the chair with a warm smile of thanks. "After all," the glance seemed to say, "although you are a man and a policeman, you are not so dreadful after all." The tail-end of the smile included Poirot. Foreigners were so susceptible where women were concerned. About Superintendent Sugden she did not bother. She murmured, twisting her hands together in a pretty distress: "It’s all so terrible. I feel so frightened." "Come, come, Mrs Lee," said Colonel Johnson kindly but briskly. "It’s been a shock, I know, but it’s all over now. We just want an account from you of what happened this evening." She cried out: "But I don’t know anything about it—I don’t indeed." For a moment the chief constable’s eyes narrowed. He said gently: "No, of course not." "We only arrived here yesterday. George would make me come here for Christmas! I wish we hadn’t. I’m sure I shall never feel the same again!" "Very upsetting—yes." "I hardly know George’s family, you see. I’ve only seen Mr Lee once or twice—at our wedding and once since. Of course I’ve seen Alfred and Lydia more often, but they’re really all quite strangers to me." Again the wide-eyed frightened-child look.

He went to see his Uncle Sydney and was received coldly. Enid was engaged to be married to a solicitor, and Uncle Sydney was not too pleased about it. Nell and her mother were away for Easter. On their return Vernon rang up and said he must see her immediately. He arrived with a white face and burning eyes. "Nell, do you know what I’ve heard? Everyone has been saying that you are going to marry George Chetwynd. George Chetwynd! " "Who said so?" "Lots of people. They say you go round with him everywhere." Nell looked frightened and unhappy. "I wish you wouldn’t believe things. And Vernon, don’t look so – so accusing. It’s perfectly true that he has asked me to marry him – twice, as a matter of fact." "That old man?" "Oh, Vernon, don’t be ridiculous. He’s only about forty-one or two." "Nearly double your age. Why, I thought he wanted to marry your mother, perhaps." Nell laughed in spite of herself. "Oh, dear, I wish he would. Mother’s really awfully handsome still." "That’s what I thought that night at Ranelagh. I never guessed – I never dreamed – that it was you! Or hadn’t it begun then?" "Oh, yes, it had begun – as you call it. That was why Mother was so angry that night – at my going off alone with you." "And I never guessed! Nell, you might have told me!" "Told you what? There wasn’t anything to tell – then!" "No, I suppose not. I’m being an idiot. But I do know he’s awfully rich. I get frightened sometimes. Oh, darling Nell, it was beastly of me to doubt you – even for a minute. As though you’d ever care how rich anyone were." Nell said irritably: "Rich, rich, rich! You harp on that. He’s awfully kind and awfully nice, too." "Oh, I dare say." "He is, Vernon. Really he is." "It’s nice of you to stick up for him, darling, but he must be an insensitive sort of brute to hang round after you’ve refused him twice." Nell did not answer. She looked at him in a way he did not understand – something piteous and appealing and yet defiant in that strange limpid gaze. It was as though she looked at him from a world so far removed from his that they might be on different spheres. He said: "I feel ashamed of myself, Nell. But you’re so lovely – everyone must want you …" She broke down suddenly – began to cry. He was startled. She cried on, sobbed on his shoulder. "I don’t know what to do – I don’t know what to do. I’m so unhappy. If I could only talk to you." "But you can talk to me, darling. I’m here listening." "No, no, no … I can never talk to you. You don’t understand. It’s all no use …" She cried on. He kissed her, soothed her, poured out all his love … When he had gone, her mother came into the room, an open letter in her hand. She did not appear to notice Nell’s tear-stained face. "George Chetwynd sails for America on the 30th of May," she remarked, as she went across to her desk. "I don’t care when he sails," said Nell rebelliously. Mrs Vereker did not answer. That night Nell knelt longer than usual by her narrow white bed. "Oh, God, please let me marry Vernon. I want to so much. I do love him so. Please let things come right and let us be married. Make something happen … Please God …" 2 At the end of April Abbots Puissants was let. Vernon came to Nell in some excitement. "Nell, will you marry me now? We could just manage. It’s a bad let – an awfully bad one, but I simply had to take it. You see, there’s been the mortgage interest to pay and all the expenses of the upkeep while it’s been unlet. I’ve had to borrow for all that and now, of course, it’s got to be paid back. We’ll be pretty short for a year or two, but then it won’t be so bad …" He talked on, explaining the financial details. "I’ve been into it all, Nell. I have really. Sensibly, I mean.

It was Nurse Craven who appeared first upon the scene. She was there in an incredibly short time and at once set about in a business-like way to stop the bleeding. Franklin arrived at a run soon afterwards. Between them they got her into the house and to bed: Franklin dressed and bandaged the wound and sent for her own doctor and Nurse Craven stayed with her. I ran across Franklin just as he left the telephone. "How is she?" "Oh, she’ll pull through all right. It missed any vital spot, luckily. How did it happen?" I told him. He said: "I see. Where’s the old boy? He’ll be feeling knocked out, I shouldn’t wonder. Probably needs attention more than she does. I shouldn’t say his heart is any too good." We found Colonel Luttrell in the smoking-room. He was a blue colour round the mouth and looked completely dazed. He said brokenly: "Daisy? Is she – how is she?" Franklin said quickly: "She’ll be all right, sir. You needn’t worry." "I – thought – rabbit – nibbling the bark – don’t know how I came to make such a mistake. Light in my eyes." "These things happen," said Franklin drily. "I’ve seen one or two of them in my time. Look here, sir, you’d better let me give you a pick-me-up. You’re not feeling too good." "I’m all right. Can I – can I go to her?" "Not just now. Nurse Craven is with her. But you don’t need to worry. She’s all right. Dr Oliver will be here presently and he’ll tell you the same." I left the two of them together and went out into the evening sunshine. Judith and Allerton were coming along the path towards me. His head was bent to hers and they were both laughing. Coming on top of the tragedy that had just happened, it made me feel very angry. I called sharply to Judith and she looked up, surprised. In a few words I told them what had occurred. "What an extraordinary thing to happen," was my daughter’s comment. She did not seem nearly as perturbed as she should have been, I thought. Allerton’s manner was outrageous. He seemed to take the whole thing as a good joke. "Serve the old harridan damn well right," he observed. "Think the old boy did it on purpose?" "Certainly not," I said sharply. "It was an accident." "Yes, but I know these accidents. Damned convenient sometimes. My word, if the old boy shot her deliberately I take off my hat to him." "It was nothing of the kind," I said angrily. "Don’t be too sure. I’ve known two men who shot their wives. Cleaning his revolver one was. The other fired point-blank at her as a joke, he said. Didn’t know the thing was loaded. Got away with it, both of them. Damned good release, I should say myself." "Colonel Luttrell," I said coldly, "isn’t that type of man." "Well you couldn’t say it wouldn’t be a blessed release, could you?" demanded Allerton pertinently. "They hadn’t just had a row or anything, had they?" I turned away angrily, at the same time trying to hide a certain perturbation. Allerton had come a little too near the mark. For the first time a doubt crept into my mind. It was not bettered by meeting Boyd Carrington. He had been for a stroll down towards the lake, he explained. When I told him the news he said at once: "You don’t think he meant to shoot her, do you, Hastings?" "My dear man." "Sorry, sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was only, for the moment, one wondered . . . She – she gave him a bit of provocation, you know." We were both silent for a moment as we remembered the scene we had so unwillingly overheard. I went upstairs feeling unhappy and worried, and rapped on Poirot’s door. He had already heard through Curtiss of what had occurred, but he was eager for full details. Since my arrival at Styles I had got into the way of reporting most of my daily encounters and conversations in full detail. In this way I felt that the dear old fellow felt less cut off.

"The world," said Mr. Lippincott, "is a very evil place." It was perhaps a stupid thing to say, but quite suddenly I asked him a question. "Does Ellie’s death benefit anyone?" I asked. He looked at me sharply. "That’s a very curious question. Why do you ask that?" "I don’t know," I said, "it just came into my head." "It benefits you," he said. "Of course," I said. "I take that for granted. I really meant—does it benefit anyone else?" Mr. Lippincott was silent for quite a long time. "If you mean," he said, "does Fenella’s will benefit certain other people in the way of legacies, that is so in a minor degree. Some old servants, an old governess, one or two charities but nothing of any particular moment. There’s a legacy to Miss Andersen but not a large one for she has already, as you probably know, settled a very considerable sum on Miss Andersen." I nodded. Ellie had told me she was doing that. "You were her husband. She had no other near relations. But I take it that your question did not mean specifically that." "I don’t know quite what I meant by it," I said. "But somehow or other, you’ve succeeded, Mr. Lippincott, in making me feel suspicious. Suspicious of I don’t know who, or why. Only—well, suspicious. I don’t understand finance," I added. "No, that is quite apparent. Let me say only that I have no exact knowledge, no exact suspicions of any kind. At someone’s death there is usually an accounting of their affairs. This may take place quickly or it may be delayed for a period of many years." "What you really mean," I said, "is that some of the others quite likely might put a few fast ones over and ball up things generally. Get me perhaps to sign releases—whatever you call the things." "If Fenella’s affairs were not, shall we say, in the healthy state they ought to be, then—yes, possibly her premature death might be, shall we say, fortunate for someone, we will name no names, someone perhaps who could cover his traces more easily if he had a fairly simple person, if I may say so, like yourself to deal with. I will go that far but I do not wish to speak further on the matter. It would not be equitable to do so." There was a simple funeral service held in the little church. If I could have stayed away I would have done so. I hated all those people who were staring at me lining up outside the church. Curious eyes. Greta pulled me through things. I don’t think I’d realized until now what a strong, reliable character she was. She made the arrangements, ordered flowers, arranged everything. I understood better now how Ellie had come to depend upon Greta as she had done. There aren’t many Gretas in the world. The people in the church were mostly our neighbours—some, even, that we had hardly known. But I noticed one face that I had seen before, but which I could not at the moment place. When I got back to the house, Carson told me there was a gentleman in the drawing room waiting to see me. "I can’t see anyone today. Send him away. You shouldn’t have let him in!" "Excuse me, sir. He said he was a relation." "A relation?" Suddenly I remembered the man I’d seen in the church. Carson was handing me a card. It meant nothing to me for a moment. Mr. William R. Pardoe. I turned it over and shook my head. Then I handed it to Greta. "Do you know by any chance who this is?" I said. "His face seemed familiar but I couldn’t place it. Perhaps it’s one of Ellie’s friends." Greta took it from me and looked at it. Then she said: "Of course." "Who is it?" "Uncle Reuben. You remember. Ellie’s cousin. She’s spoken of him to you, surely?" I remembered then why the face had seemed familiar to me. Ellie had had several photographs in her sitting room of her various relations carelessly placed about the room. That was why the face had been so familiar. I had seen it so far only in a photograph. "I’ll come," I said. I went out of the room and into the drawing room. Mr.

"You—but why? What?" The nobleman spluttered impotently. "My little idea was to bring things to a head," explained Poirot placidly. "Bring things to a head! Oh, my God!" cried Lord Yardly. "And the ruse succeeded," said Poirot cheerfully. "Therefore, milord, I have much pleasure in returning you—this!" With a dramatic gesture he produced a glittering object. It was a great diamond. "The Star of the East," gasped Lord Yardly. "But I don’t understand—" "No?" said Poirot. "It makes no matter. Believe me, it was necessary for the diamond to be stolen. I promised you that it would be preserved to you, and I have kept my word. You must permit me to keep my little secret. Convey, I beg of you, the assurance of my deepest respect to Lady Yardly, and tell her how pleased I am to be able to restore her jewel to her. What beau temps, is it not? Good day, milord." And smiling and talking, the amazing little man conducted the bewildered nobleman to the door. He returned gently rubbing his hands. "Poirot," I said. "Am I quite demented?" "No, mon ami, but you are, as always, in a mental fog." "How did you get the diamond?" "From Mr. Rolf." "Rolf?" "Mais oui! The warning letters, the Chinaman, the article in Society Gossip, all sprang from the ingenious brain of Mr. Rolf! The two diamonds, supposed to be so miraculously alike—bah! they did not exist. There was only one diamond, my friend! Originally in the Yardly collection, for three years it has been in the possession of Mr. Rolf. He stole it this morning with the assistance of a touch of grease paint at the corner of each eye! Ah, I must see him on the film, he is indeed an artist, celui-là!" "But why should he steal his own diamond?" I asked, puzzled. "For many reasons. To begin with, Lady Yardly was getting restive." "Lady Yardly?" "You comprehend she was left much alone in California. Her husband was amusing himself elsewhere. Mr. Rolf was handsome, he had an air about him of romance. But au fond, he is very businesslike, ce monsieur! He made love to Lady Yardly, and then he blackmailed her. I taxed the lady with the truth the other night, and she admitted it. She swore that she had only been indiscreet, and I believe her. But, undoubtedly, Rolf had letters of hers that could be twisted to bear a different interpretation. Terrified by the threat of a divorce, and the prospect of being separated from her children, she agreed to all he wished. She had no money of her own, and she was forced to permit him to substitute a paste replica for the real stone. The coincidence of the date of the appearance of "The Western Star" struck me at once. All goes well. Lord Yardly prepares to range himself—to settle down. And then comes the menace of the possible sale of the diamond. The substitution will be discovered. Without doubt she writes off frantically to Gregory Rolf who has just arrived in England. He soothes her by promising to arrange all—and prepares for a double robbery. In this way he will quiet the lady, who might conceivably tell all to her husband, an affair which would not suit our blackmailer at all, he will have £50,000 insurance money (aha, you had forgotten that!), and he will still have the diamond! At this point I put my fingers in the pie. The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery—and does it very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She has already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs—" "But we saw the necklace round her neck!" I objected. "I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the door beforehand is child’s play!

"There’s water, to put it out, or wood, or a kettle." "It must be one syllable, I suppose? What about wood, then?" "You couldn’t put anything into wood, though." "There’s no one syllable word instead of water, but there must be one syllable things you can put on a fire in the kettle line." "Saucepans," mused Tuppence. "Frying pans. How about pan? or pot? What’s a word beginning pan or pot that is something you cook?" "Pottery," suggested Tommy. "You bake that in the fire. Wouldn’t that be near enough?" "The rest of it doesn’t fit. Pancakes? No. Oh! bother." They were interrupted by the little serving maid, who told them that dinner would be ready in a few minutes. "Only Mrs. Lumley, she wanted to know if you like your potatoes fried, or boiled in their jackets? She’s got some of each." "Boiled in their jackets," said Tuppence promptly. "I love potatoes—" She stopped dead with her mouth open. "What’s the matter, Tuppence? Have you seen a ghost?" "Tommy," cried Tuppence. "Don’t you see? That’s it! The word, I mean. Potatoes! "My first you put on glowing coal’—that’s pot. "And into it you put my whole." "My second really is the first." That’s A, the first letter of the alphabet. "My third mislikes the wintry blast’—cold toes of course!" "You’re right, Tuppence. Very clever of you. But I’m afraid we’ve wasted an awful lot of time over nothing. Potatoes don’t fit in at all with missing treasure. Half a sec, though. What did you read out just now, when we were going through the box? Something about a recipe for New Potatoes. I wonder if there’s anything in that." He rummaged hastily through the pile of recipes. "Here it is. "To KEEP NEW POTATOES. Put the new potatoes into tins and bury them in the garden. Even in the middle of winter, they will taste as though freshly dug." "We’ve got it," screamed Tuppence. "That’s it. The treasure is in the garden, buried in a tin." "But I asked the gardener. He said he’d never buried anything." "Yes, I know, but that’s because people never really answer what you say, they answer what they think you mean. He knew he’d never buried anything out of the common. We’ll go tomorrow and ask him where he buried the potatoes." The following morning was Christmas Eve. By dint of inquiry they found the old gardener’s cottage. Tuppence broached the subject after some minutes" conversation. "I wish one could have new potatoes at Christmas time," she remarked. "Wouldn’t they be good with turkey? Do people round here ever bury them in tins? I’ve heard that keeps them fresh." "Ay, that they do," declared the old man. "Old Miss Deane, up to the Red House, she allus had three tins buried every summer, and as often as not forgot to have ’em dug up again!" "In the bed by the house, as a rule, didn’t she?" "No, over against the wall by the fir tree." Having got the information they wanted, they soon took their leave of the old man, presenting him with five shillings as a Christmas box. "And now for Monica," said Tommy. "Tommy! You have no sense of the dramatic. Leave it to me. I’ve got a beautiful plan. Do you think you could manage to beg, borrow or steal a spade?" Somehow or other, a spade was duly produced, and that night, late, two figures might have been seen stealing into the grounds of the Red House. The place indicated by the gardener was easily found, and Tommy set to work. Presently his spade rang on metal, and a few seconds later he had unearthed a big biscuit tin. It was sealed round with adhesive plaster and firmly fastened down, but Tuppence, by the aid of Tommy’s knife, soon managed to open it. Then she gave a groan. The tin was full of potatoes. She poured them out, so that the tin was completely empty, but there were no other contents. "Go on digging, Tommy."

They frequently go out after dinner—sometimes in the garden, sometimes down to the quay." Battle nodded. Hurstall left the room. He passed Jones in the doorway. Jones looked excited. He said: "It’s a cinch, sir. I’ve got all their prints. There’s only one lot fills the bill. Of course I’ve only been able to make a rough comparison as yet, but I’ll bet they’re the right ones." "Well?" said Battle. "The prints on that niblick, sir, were made by Mr. Nevile Strange." Battle leaned back in his chair. "Well," he said, "that seems to settle it, doesn’t it?" IV They were in the Chief Constable’s office—three men with grave worried faces. Major Mitchell said with a sigh: "Well, I suppose there’s nothing to be done but arrest him?" Leach said quietly: "Looks like it, sir." Mitchell looked across at Superintendent Battle. "Cheer up, Battle," he said kindly. "Your best friend isn’t dead." Superintendent Battle sighed. "I don’t like it," he said. "I don’t think any of us like it," said Mitchell. "But we’ve ample evidence, I think, to apply for a warrant." "More than ample," said Battle. "In fact if we don’t apply for one, anybody might ask why the dickens not?" Battle nodded an unhappy head. "Let’s go over it," said the Chief Constable. "You’ve got motive—Strange and his wife come into a considerable sum of money at the old lady’s death. He’s the last person known to have seen her alive—he was heard quarrelling with her. The suit he wore that night had bloodstains on it, of course, most damning of all, his fingerprints were found on the actual weapon—and no one else’s." "And yet sir," said Battle, "you don’t like it either." "I’m damned if I do." "What is it exactly you don’t like about it, sir?" Major Mitchell rubbed his nose. "Makes the fellow out a bit too much of a fool, perhaps?" he suggested. "And yet, sir, they do behave like fools sometimes." "Oh I know—I know. Where would we be if they didn’t?" Battle said to Leach: "What don’t you like about it, Jim?" Leach stirred unhappily. "I’ve always liked Mr. Strange. Seen him on and off down here for years. He’s a nice gentleman—and he’s a sportsman." "I don’t see," said Battle slowly, "why a good tennis player shouldn’t be a murderer as well. There’s nothing against it." He paused. "What I don’t like is the niblick." "The niblick?" asked Mitchell, slightly puzzled. "Yes, sir, or alternatively, the bell. The bell or the niblick—not both." He went on in his slow careful voice. "What do we think actually happened? Did Mr. Strange go to her room, have a quarrel, lose his temper, and hit her over the head with a niblick? If so, and it was unpremeditated, how did he happen to have a niblick with him? It’s not the sort of thing you carry about with you in the evenings." "He might have been practising swings—something like that." "He might—but nobody says so. Nobody saw him doing it. The last time anybody saw him with a niblick in his hand was about a week previously when he was practising sand shots down on the sands. As I look at it, you see, you can’t have it both ways. Either there was a quarrel and he lost his temper—and, mind you, I’ve seen him on the courts, and in one of these tournament matches these tennis stars are all het up and a mass of nerves, and if their tempers fray easily it’s going to show. I’ve never seen Mr. Strange ruffled. I should say he’d got an excellent control over his temper—better than most—and yet we’re suggesting that he goes berserk and hits a frail old lady over the head." "There’s another alternative, Battle," said the Chief Constable. "I know, sir. The theory that it was premeditated. He wanted the old lady’s money. That fits in with the bell—which entailed the doping of the maid—but it doesn’t fit in with the niblick and the quarrel! If he’d made up his mind to do her in, he’d be very careful not to quarrel with her.

I told him I thought it had been a very nicely managed and gentlemanly performance. "We do this sort of thing so well in this country." "What did you think of the medical evidence?" "Rather a facer. Why didn’t you tell me about it?" "You were away. Did you consult your specialist?" "Yes, I did." "I believe I remember him vaguely. A lot of moustache." "Oceans of it," I agreed. "He’s very proud of that moustache." "He must be quite old." "Old but not gaga," I said. "Why did you really go to see him? Was it purely the milk of human kindness?" "You have such a suspicious policeman’s mind, Dick! It was mainly that. But I admit to curiosity, too. I wanted to hear what he had to say about our own particular setup. You see, he’s always talked what I call a lot of cock about its being easy to solve a case by just sitting in your chair, bringing the tips of your fingers symmetrically together, closing your eyes and thinking. I wanted to call his bluff." "Did he go through that procedure for you?" "He did." "And what did he say?" Dick asked with some curiosity. "He said," I told him, "that it must be a very simple murder." "Simple, my God!" said Hardcastle, roused. "Why simple?" "As far as I could gather," I said, "because the whole setup was so complex." Hardcastle shook his head. "I don’t see it," he said. "It sounds like one of those clever things that young people in Chelsea say, but I don’t see it. Anything else?" "Well, he told me to talk to the neighbours. I assured him we had done so." "The neighbours are even more important now in view of the medical evidence." "The presumption being that he was doped somewhere else and brought to Number 19 to be killed?" Something familiar about the words struck me. "That’s more or less what Mrs. What’s-her-name, the cat woman, said. It struck me at the time as a rather interesting remark." "Those cats," said Dick, and shuddered. He went on: "We’ve found the weapon, by the way. Yesterday." "You have? Where?" "In the cattery. Presumably thrown there by the murderer after the crime." "No fingerprints, I suppose?" "Carefully wiped. And it could be anybody’s knife—slightly used—recently sharpened." "So it goes like this. He was doped—then brought to Number 19—in a car? Or how?" "He could have been brought from one of the houses with an adjoining garden." "Bit risky, wouldn’t it have been?" "It would need audacity," Hardcastle agreed, "and it would need a very good knowledge of the neighbourhood’s habits. It’s more likely that he would have been brought in a car." "That would have been risky too. People notice a car." "Nobody did. But I agree that the murderer couldn’t know that they wouldn’t. Passersby would have noted a car stopping at Number 19 that day—" "I wonder if they would notice," I said. "Everyone’s so used to cars. Unless, of course, it had been a very lush car—something unusual, but that’s not likely—" "And of course it was the lunch hour. You realize, Colin, that this brings Miss Millicent Pebmarsh back into the picture? It seems farfetched to think of an able-bodied man being stabbed by a blind woman—but if he was doped—" "In other words "if he came there to be killed," as our Mrs. Hemming put it, he arrived by appointment quite unsuspiciously, was offered a sherry or a cocktail—the Mickey Finn took effect and Miss Pebmarsh got to work. Then she washed up the Mickey Finn glass, arranged the body neatly on the floor, threw the knife into her neighbour’s garden, and tripped out as usual." "Telephoning to the Cavendish Secretarial Bureau on the way—" "And why should she do that? And ask particularly for Sheila Webb?" "I wish we knew." Hardcastle looked at me. "Does she know? The girl herself?" "She says not." "She says not," Hardcastle repeated tonelessly. "I’m asking you what you think about it?" I didn’t speak for a moment or two. What did I think? I had to decide right now on my course of action. The truth would come out in the end.

"I think Molly will be coming back there." II Molly came up the path from the sea. Her eyes stared fixedly ahead of her. Occasionally, under her breath, she gave a little whimper…. She went up the steps of the loggia, paused a moment, then pushed open the window and walked into the bedroom. The lights were on, but the room itself was empty. Molly went across to the bed and sat down. She sat for some minutes, now and again passing her hand over her forehead and frowning. Then, after a quick surreptitious glance round, she slipped her hand under the mattress and brought out the book that was hidden there. She bent over it, turning the pages to find what she wanted. Then she raised her head as a sound of running footsteps came from outside. With a quick guilty movement she pushed the book behind her back. Tim Kendal, panting and out of breath, came in, and uttered a great sigh of relief at the sight of her. "Thank God. Where have you been, Molly? I’ve been searching everywhere for you." "I went to the creek." "You went—" he stopped. "Yes. I went to the creek. But I couldn’t wait there. I couldn’t. There was someone in the water—and she was dead." "You mean—Do you know I thought it was you. I’ve only just found out it was Lucky." "I didn’t kill her. Really, Tim, I didn’t kill her. I’m sure I didn’t. I mean—I’d remember if I did, wouldn’t I?" Tim sank slowly down on the end of the bed. "You didn’t—Are you sure that—? No. No, of course you didn’t!" He fairly shouted the words. "Don’t start thinking like that, Molly. Lucky drowned herself. Of course she drowned herself. Hillingdon was through with her. She went and lay down with her face in the water—" "Lucky wouldn’t do that. She’d never do that. But I didn’t kill her. I swear I didn’t." "Darling, of course you didn’t!" He put his arms round her but she pulled herself away. "I hate this place. It ought to be all sunlight. It seemed to be all sunlight. But it isn’t. Instead there’s a shadow—a big black shadow … And I’m in it—and I can’t get out—" Her voice had risen to a shout. "Hush, Molly. For God’s sake, hush!" He went into the bathroom, came back with a glass. "Look. Drink this. It’ll steady you." "I—I can’t drink anything. My teeth are chattering so." "Yes you can, darling. Sit down. Here, on the bed." He put his arm round her. He approached the glass to her lips. "There you are now. Drink it." A voice spoke from the window. "Jackson," said Miss Marple clearly. "Go over. Take that glass from him and hold it tightly. Be careful. He’s strong and he may be pretty desperate." There were certain points about Jackson. He was a man with a great love for money, and money had been promised him by his employer, that employer being a man of stature and authority. He was also a man of extreme muscular development heightened by his training. His not to reason why, his but to do. Swift as a flash he had crossed the room. His hand went over the glass that Tim was holding to Molly’s lips, his other arm had fastened round Tim. A quick flick of the wrist and he had the glass. Tim turned on him wildly, but Jackson held him firmly. "What the devil—let go of me. Let go of me. Have you gone mad? What are you doing?" Tim struggled violently. "Hold him, Jackson," said Miss Marple. "What’s going on? What’s the matter here?" Supported by Esther Walters, Mr. Rafiel came through the window. "You ask what’s the matter?" shouted Tim. "Your man’s gone mad, stark, staring mad, that’s what’s the matter. Tell him to let go of me." "No," said Miss Marple. Mr. Rafiel turned to her. "Speak up, Nemesis," he said. "We’ve got to have chapter and verse of some kind."

At various times I heard fellow passengers coming to bed. Fragments of conversation, laughing good nights, floated in through the open transom. Then, silence. Most of the lights went out. There was still one in the passage outside, and there was therefore a certain amount of light in my cabin. I heard eight bells go. The hour that followed seemed the longest I had ever known. I consulted my watch surreptitiously to be sure I had not overshot the time. If my deductions were wrong, if nothing happened at one o’clock, I should have made a fool of myself, and spent all the money I had in the world on a mare’s nest. My heart beat painfully. Two bells went overhead. One o’clock! And nothing. Wait—what was that? I heard the quick light patter of feet running—running along the passage. Then with the suddenness of a bombshell my cabin door burst open and a man almost fell inside. "Save me," he said hoarsely. "They’re after me." It was not a moment for argument or explanation. I could hear footsteps outside. I had about forty seconds in which to act. I had sprung to my feet and was standing facing the stranger in the middle of the cabin. A cabin does not abound in hiding places for a six-foot man. With one arm I pulled out my cabin trunk. He slipped down behind it under the bunk. I raised the lid. At the same time, with the other hand I pulled down the washbasin. A deft movement and my hair was screwed into a tiny knot on the top of my head. From the point of view of appearance it was inartistic, from another standpoint it was supremely artistic. A lady, with her hair screwed into an unbecoming knob and in the act of removing a piece of soap from her trunk with which, apparently, to wash her neck, could hardly be suspected of harbouring a fugitive. There was a knock at the door, and without waiting for me to say "Come in" it was pushed open. I don’t know what I expected to see. I think I had vague ideas of Mr. Pagett brandishing a revolver. Or my missionary friend with a sandbag, or some other lethal weapon. But I certainly did not expect to see a night stewardess, with an inquiring face and looking the essence of respectability. "I beg your pardon, miss, I thought you called out." "No," I said, "I didn’t." "I’m sorry for interrupting you." "That’s all right," I said. "I couldn’t sleep. I thought a wash would do me good." It sounded rather as though it were a thing I never had as a general rule. "I’m so sorry, miss," said the stewardess again. "But there’s a gentleman about who’s rather drunk and we are afraid he might get into one of the ladies" cabins and frighten them." "How dreadful!" I said, looking alarmed. "He won’t come in here, will he?" "Oh, I don’t think so, miss. Ring the bell if he does. Good night." "Good night." I opened the door and peeped down the corridor. Except for the retreating form of the stewardess, there was nobody in sight. Drunk! So that was the explanation of it. My histrionic talents had been wasted. I pulled the cabin trunk out a little farther and said: "Come out at once, please," in an acid voice. There was no answer. I peered under the bunk. My visitor lay immoveable. He seemed to be asleep. I tugged at his shoulder. He did not move. "Dead drunk," I thought vexedly. "What am I to do?" Then I saw something that made me catch my breath, a small scarlet spot on the floor. Using all my strength, I succeeded in dragging the man out into the middle of the cabin. The dead whiteness of his face showed that he had fainted. I found the cause of his fainting easily enough. He had been stabbed under the left shoulder blade—a nasty deep wound. I got his coat off and set to work to attend to it. At the sting of the cold water he stirred, then sat up. "Keep still, please," I said. He was the kind of young man who recovers his faculties very quickly. He pulled himself to his feet and stood there swaying a little.

"We’ll carve him up, boys. Eh, little horses? We’ll slash Monsieur Detective’s face open for him. He won’t be the first one tonight." They came on, steady, purposeful—the razor blades flashed. . . . And then, startling in its crisp transatlantic tones, a voice said: "Stick ’em up." They swerved round. Schwartz, dressed in a peculiarly vivid set of striped pyjamas stood in the doorway. In his hand he held an automatic." "Stick ’em up, guys. I’m pretty good at shooting." He pressed the trigger—and a bullet sang past the big man’s ear and buried itself in the woodwork of the window. Three pairs of hands were raised rapidly. Schwartz said: "Can I trouble you, M. Poirier?" Hercule Poirot was out of bed in a flash. He collected the gleaming weapons and passed his hands over the three men’s bodies to make sure that they were not armed. Schwartz said: "Now then, march! There’s a big cupboard just along the corridor. No window in it. Just the thing." He marched them into it and turned the key on them. He swung round to Poirot, his voice breaking with pleasurable emotion. "If that doesn’t just show? Do you know, M. Poirier, there were folks in Fountain Springs who laughed at me because I said I was going to take a gun abroad with me. "Where do you think you’re going?" they asked. "Into the jungle?" Well, sir, I’d say the laugh is with me. Did you ever see such an ugly bunch of toughs?" Poirot said: "My dear Mr. Schwartz, you appeared in the nick of time. It might have been a drama on the stage! I am very much in your debt." "That’s nothing. Where do we go from here? We ought to turn these boys over to the police and that’s just what we can’t do! It’s a knotty problem. Maybe we’d better consult the manager." Hercule Poirot said: "Ah, the manager. I think first we will consult the waiter—Gustave—alias Inspector Drouet. But yes—the waiter Gustave is really a detective." Schwartz stared at him. "So that’s why they did it!" "That is why who did what?" "This bunch of crooks got to you second on the list. They’d already carved up Gustave." "What?" "Come with me. The doc’s busy on him now." Drouet’s room was a small one on the top floor. Dr. Lutz, in a dressing gown, was busy bandaging the injured man’s face. He turned his head as they entered. "Ah! It is you, Mr. Schwartz? A nasty business, this. What butchers! What inhuman monsters!" Drouet lay still, moaning faintly. Schwartz asked: "Is he in danger?" "He will not die if that is what you mean. But he must not speak—there must be no excitement. I have dressed the wounds—there will be no risk of septicæmia." The three men left the room together. Schwartz said to Poirot: "Did you say Gustave was a police officer?" Hercule Poirot nodded. "But what was he doing up at Rochers Neiges?" "He was engaged in tracking down a very dangerous criminal." In a few words Poirot explained the situation. Dr. Lutz said: "Marrascaud? I read about the case in the paper. I should much like to meet that man. There is some deep abnormality there! I should like to know the particulars of his childhood." "For myself," said Hercule Poirot. "I should like to know exactly where he is at this minute." Schwartz said: "Isn’t he one of the three we locked in the cupboard?" Poirot said in a dissatisfied voice: "It is possible—yes, but me, I am not sure . . . I have an idea—" He broke off, staring down at the carpet. It was of a light buff colour and there were marks on it of a deep rusty brown. Hercule Poirot said: "Footsteps—footsteps that have trodden, I think, in blood and they lead from the unused wing of the hotel. Come—we must be quick!"

She shook her head. "It beats me," said Vincent. Then he added quietly: "Will you wait a minute or two? I will get the papers." Theo sat down in a chair. He went into the other room. Presently he returned and delivered a small package into her hand. "Thank you," said Theo. "Have you a match?" Taking the matchbox he proffered, she knelt down by the fireplace. When the papers were reduced to a pile of ashes, she stood up. "Thank you," she said again. "Not at all," he answered formally. "Let me get you a taxi." He put her into it, saw her drive away. A strange, formal little interview. After the first, they had not even dared look at each other. Well, that was that, the end. He would go away, abroad, try and forget. Theo leaned her head out of the window and spoke to the taxi driver. She could not go back at once to the house in Chelsea. She must have a breathing space. Seeing Vincent again had shaken her horribly. If only - if only. But she pulled herself up. Love for her husband she had none - but she owed him loyalty. He was down, she must stick by him. Whatever else he might have done, he loved her; his offence had been committed against society, not against her. The taxi meandered on through the wide streets of Hampstead. They came out on the heath, and a breath of cool, invigorating air fanned Theo's cheeks. She had herself in hand again now. The taxi sped back towards Chelsea. Richard came out to meet her in the hall. "Well," he demanded, "you've been a long time." "Have I?" "Yes - a very long time. Is it - all right?" He followed her, a cunning look in his eyes. His hands were shaking. "It's - it's all right, eh?" he said again. "I burnt them myself." "Oh!" She went on into the study, sinking into a big armchair. Her face was dead white and her whole body drooped with fatigue. She thought to herself: "If only I could go to sleep now and never, never wake up again!" Richard was watching her. His glance, shy, furtive, kept coming and going. She noticed nothing. She was beyond noticing. "It went off quite all right, eh?" "I've told you so." "You're sure they were the right papers? Did you look?" "No." "But then - " "I'm sure, I tell you. Don't bother me, Richard. I can't bear any more tonight." Richard shifted nervously. "No, no. I'm sure." He fidgeted about the room. Presently he came over to her, laid a hand on her shoulder. She shook it off. "Don't touch me." She tried to laugh. "I'm sorry, Richard. My nerves are on edge. I feel I can't bear to be touched." "I know. I understand." Again he wandered up and down. "Theo," he burst out suddenly. "I'm damned sorry." "What?" She looked up, vaguely startled. "I oughtn't to have let you go there at this time of night. I never dreamed that you'd be subjected to any - unpleasantness.'' "Unpleasantness?" She laughed. The word seemed to amuse her. "You don't know! Oh, Richard, you don't know!" "I don't know what?" She said very gravely, looking straight in front of her: "What this night has cost me." "My God! Theo! I never meant - You - you did that, for me? The swine! Theo - Theo - I couldn't have known. I couldn't have guessed. My God!" He was kneeling by her now stammering, his arms round her, and she turned and looked at him with faint surprise, as though his words had at last really penetrated to her attention. "I - I never meant - " "You never meant what, Richard?" Her voice startled him. "Tell me. What was it that you never meant?" "Theo, don't let us speak of it. I don't want to know. I want never to think of it." She was staring at him, wide awake now, with every faculty alert. Her words came clear and distinct: "You never meant - What do you think happened?" "It didn't happen, Theo. Let's say it didn't happen."

"Dennis?" I raised my eyebrows in slight surprise but with a trace of amusement too. "I think it would be better." She added, still in the same awkward manner: "I’m sorry about Dennis. I didn’t think he—anyway, I’m sorry." We left it at that. Twenty-three On the way back, I proposed to Griselda that we should make a detour and go round by the barrow. I was anxious to see if the police were at work and if so, what they had found. Griselda, however, had things to do at home, so I was left to make the expedition on my own. I found Constable Hurst in charge of operations. "No sign so far, sir," he reported. "And yet it stands to reason that this is the only place for a cache." His use of the word cache puzzled me for a moment, as he pronounced it catch, but his real meaning occurred to me almost at once. "Whatimeantersay is, sir, where else could the young woman be going starting into the wood by that path? It leads to Old Hall, and it leads here, and that’s about all." "I suppose," I said, "that Inspector Slack would disdain such a simple course as asking the young lady straight out." "Anxious not to put the wind up her," said Hurst. "Anything she writes to Stone or he writes to her may throw light on things—once she knows we’re on to her, she’d shut up like that." Like what exactly was left in doubt, but I personally doubted Miss Gladys Cram ever being shut up in the way described. It was impossible to imagine her as other than overflowing with conversation. "When a man’s an h’impostor, you want to know why he’s an h’impostor," said Constable Hurst didactically. "Naturally," I said. "And the answer is to be found in this here barrow—or else why was he forever messing about with it?" "A raison d’être for prowling about," I suggested, but this bit of French was too much for the constable. He revenged himself for not understanding it by saying coldly: "That’s the h’amateur’s point of view." "Anyway, you haven’t found the suitcase," I said. "We shall do, sir. Not a doubt of it." "I’m not so sure," I said. "I’ve been thinking. Miss Marple said it was quite a short time before the girl reappeared empty-handed. In that case, she wouldn’t have had time to get up here and back." "You can’t take any notice of what old ladies say. When they’ve seen something curious, and are waiting all eager like, why, time simply flies for them. And anyway, no lady knows anything about time." I often wonder why the whole world is so prone to generalize. Generalizations are seldom if ever true and are usually utterly inaccurate. I have a poor sense of time myself (hence the keeping of my clock fast) and Miss Marple, I should say, has a very acute one. Her clocks keep time to the minute and she herself is rigidly punctual on every occasion. However, I had no intention of arguing with Constable Hurst on the point. I wished him good afternoon and good luck and went on my way. It was just as I was nearing home that the idea came to me. There was nothing to lead up to it. It just flashed into my brain as a possible solution. You will remember that on my first search of the path, the day after the murder, I had found the bushes disturbed in a certain place. They proved, or so I thought at the time, to have been disturbed by Lawrence, bent on the same errand as myself. But I remembered that afterwards he and I together had come upon another faintly marked trail which proved to be that of the Inspector. On thinking it over, I distinctly remembered that the first trail (Lawrence’s) had been much more noticeable than the second, as though more than one person had been passing that way. And I reflected that that was probably what had drawn Lawrence’s attention to it in the first instance. Supposing that it had originally been made by either Dr. Stone or else Miss Cram? I remembered, or else I imagined remembering, that there had been several withered leaves on broken twigs. If so, the trail could not have been made the afternoon of our search. I was just approaching the spot in question.

I know that she’s an American subject. I know that she’s had three husbands, one Italian, one German and one Russian, and that in consequence she has made useful what I think are called "contacts" in three countries. I know that she manages to buy very expensive clothes and live in a very luxurious manner, and that there is some slight uncertainty as to where the income comes from which permits her to do so." With a grin, Sir George Carrington murmured: "Your spies have not been inactive, Charles, I see." "I know," Lord Mayfield continued, "that in addition to having a seductive type of beauty, Mrs. Vanderlyn is also a very good listener, and that she can display a fascinating interest in what we call "shop." That is to say, a man can tell her all about his job and feel that he is being intensely interesting to the lady! Sundry young officers have gone a little too far in their zeal to be interesting, and their careers have suffered in consequence. They have told Mrs. Vanderlyn a little more than they should have done. Nearly all the lady’s friends are in the Services—but last winter she was hunting in a certain county near one of our largest armament firms, and she formed various friendships not at all sporting in character. To put it briefly, Mrs. Vanderlyn is a very useful person to . . ." He described a circle in the air with his cigar. "Perhaps we had better not say to whom! We will just say to a European power—and perhaps to more than one European power." Carrington drew a deep breath. "You take a great load off my mind, Charles." "You thought I had fallen for the siren? My dear George! Mrs. Vanderlyn is just a little too obvious in her methods for a wary old bird like me. Besides, she is, as they say, not quite so young as she once was. Your young squadron leaders wouldn’t notice that. But I am fifty-six, my boy. In another four years I shall probably be a nasty old man continually haunting the society of unwilling debutantes." "I was a fool," said Carrington apologetically, "but it seemed a bit odd—" "It seemed to you odd that she should be here, in a somewhat intimate family party just at the moment when you and I were to hold an unofficial conference over a discovery that will probably revolutionize the whole problem of air defence?" Sir George Carrington nodded. Lord Mayfield said, smiling: "That’s exactly it. That’s the bait." "The bait?" "You see, George, to use the language of the movies, we’ve nothing actually "on" the woman. And we want something! She’s got away with rather more than she should in the past. But she’s been careful—damnably careful. We know what she’s been up to, but we’ve got no definite proof of it. We’ve got to tempt her with something big." "Something big being the specification of the new bomber?" "Exactly. It’s got to be something big enough to induce her to take a risk—to come out into the open. And then—we’ve got her!" Sir George grunted. "Oh, well," he said. "I dare say it’s all right. But suppose she won’t take the risk?" "That would be a pity," said Lord Mayfield. Then he added: "But I think she will. . . ." He rose. "Shall we join the ladies in the drawing room? We mustn’t deprive your wife of her bridge." Sir George grunted: "Julia’s a damned sight too fond of her bridge. Drops a packet over it. She can’t afford to play as high as she does, and I’ve told her so. The trouble is, Julia’s a born gambler." Coming round the table to join his host, he said: "Well, I hope your plan comes off, Charles." II In the drawing room conversation had flagged more than once. Mrs. Vanderlyn was usually at a disadvantage when left alone with members of her own sex. That charming sympathetic manner of hers, so much appreciated by members of the male sex, did not for some reason or other commend itself to women. Lady Julia was a woman whose manners were either very good or very bad. On this occasion she disliked Mrs. Vanderlyn, and was bored by Mrs. Macatta, and made no secret of her feelings. Conversation languished, and might have ceased altogether but for the latter. Mrs.

He glared at Lucy. "Your home is your castle," said Lucy. "Laughing at me?" "Of course not. I think it’s very exciting to have a real country place all surrounded by town." "Quite so. Can’t see another house from here, can you? Fields with cows in them—right in the middle of Brackhampton. You hear the traffic a bit when the wind’s that way—but otherwise it’s still country." He added, without pause or change of tone, to his daughter: "Ring up that damn" fool of a doctor. Tell him that last medicine’s no good at all." Lucy and Emma retired. He shouted after them: "And don’t let that damned woman who sniffs dust in here. She’s disarranged all my books." Lucy asked: "Has Mr. Crackenthorpe been an invalid long?" Emma said, rather evasively: "Oh, for years now… This is the kitchen." The kitchen was enormous. A vast kitchen range stood cold and neglected. An Aga stood demurely beside it. Lucy asked times of meals and inspected the larder. Then she said cheerfully to Emma Crackenthorpe: "I know everything now. Don’t bother. Leave it all to me." Emma Crackenthorpe heaved a sigh of relief as she went up to bed that night. "The Kennedys were quite right," she said. "She’s wonderful." Lucy rose at six the next morning. She did the house, prepared vegetables, assembled, cooked and served breakfast. With Mrs. Kidder she made the beds and at eleven o’clock they sat down to strong tea and biscuits in the kitchen. Mollified by the fact that Lucy "had no airs about her," and also by the strength and sweetness of the tea, Mrs. Kidder relaxed into gossip. She was a small spare woman with a sharp eye and tight lips. "Regular old skinflint he is. What she has to put up with! All the same, she’s not what I call down-trodden. Can hold her own all right when she has to. When the gentlemen come down she sees to it there’s something decent to eat." "The gentlemen?" "Yes. Big family it was. The eldest, Mr. Edmund, he was killed in the war. Then there’s Mr. Cedric, he lives abroad somewhere. He’s not married. Paints pictures in foreign parts. Mr. Harold’s in the City, lives in London—married an earl’s daughter. Then there’s Mr. Alfred, he’s got a nice way with him, but he’s a bit of a black-sheep, been in trouble once or twice—and there’s Miss Edith’s husband, Mr. Bryan, ever so nice, he is—she died some years ago, but he’s always stayed one of the family, and there’s Master Alexander, Miss Edith’s little boy. He’s at school, comes here for part of the holidays always; Miss Emma’s terribly set on him." Lucy digested all this information, continuing to press tea on her informant. Finally, reluctantly, Mrs. Kidder rose to her feet. "Seem to have got along a treat, we do, this morning," she said wonderingly. "Want me to give you a hand with the potatoes, dear?" "They’re all done ready." "Well, you are a one for getting on with things! I might as well be getting along myself as there doesn’t seem anything else to do." Mrs. Kidder departed and Lucy, with time on her hands, scrubbed the kitchen table which she had been longing to do, but which she had put off so as not to offend Mrs. Kidder whose job it properly was. Then she cleaned the silver till it shone radiantly. She cooked lunch, cleared it away, washed it up, and at two-thirty was ready to start exploration. She had set out the tea things ready on a tray, with sandwiches and bread and butter covered with a damp napkin to keep them moist. She strolled round the gardens which would be the normal thing to do. The kitchen garden was sketchily cultivated with a few vegetables. The hot-houses were in ruins. The paths everywhere were overgrown with weeds. A herbaceous border near the house was the only thing that showed free of weeds and in good condition and Lucy suspected that that had been Emma’s hand.

It was the sight of Johnnie’s flaxen curls. The child was in the car beside him. "The inspector ripped out an oath. "The child was here not a minute ago," he cried. His eyes swept over us. We were all there: myself, Tredwell, Miss Collins. "When did you last see him, Mr Waverly?" "I cast my mind back, trying to remember. When the constable had called us, I had run out with the inspector, forgetting all about Johnnie. "And then there came a sound that startled us, the chiming of a church clock from the village. With an exclamation the inspector pulled out his watch. It was exactly twelve o’clock. With one common accord we ran to the council chamber; the clock there marked the hour as ten minutes past. Someone must have deliberately tampered with it, for I have never known it gain or lose before. It is a perfect timekeeper." Mr Waverly paused. Poirot smiled to himself and straightened a little mat which the anxious father had pushed askew. "A pleasing little problem, obscure and charming," murmured Poirot. "I will investigate it for you with pleasure. Truly it was planned à merveille." Mrs Waverly looked at him reproachfully. "But my boy," she wailed. Poirot hastily composed his face and looked the picture of earnest sympathy again. "He is safe, madame, he is unharmed. Rest assured, these miscreants will take the greatest care of him. Is he not to them the turkey—no, the goose—that lays the golden eggs?" "M. Poirot, I’m sure there’s only one thing to be done—pay up. I was all against it at first—but now! A mother’s feelings—" "But we have interrupted monsieur in his history," cried Poirot hastily. "I expect you know the rest pretty well from the papers," said Mr Waverly. "Of course, Inspector McNeil got on to the telephone immediately. A description of the car and the man was circulated all round, and it looked at first as though everything was going to turn out all right. A car, answering to the description, with a man and a small boy, had passed through various villages, apparently making for London. At one place they had stopped, and it was noticed that the child was crying and obviously afraid of his companion. When Inspector McNeil announced that the car had been stopped and the man and boy detained, I was almost ill with relief. You know the sequel. The boy was not Johnnie, and the man was an ardent motorist, fond of children, who had picked up a small child playing in the streets of Edenswell, a village about fifteen miles from us, and was kindly giving him a ride. Thanks to the cocksure blundering of the police, all traces have disappeared. Had they not persistently followed the wrong car, they might by now have found the boy." "Calm yourself, monsieur. The police are a brave and intelligent force of men. Their mistake was a very natural one. And altogether it was a clever scheme. As to the man they caught in the grounds, I understand that his defence has consisted all along of a persistent denial. He declared that the note and parcel were given to him to deliver at Waverly Court. The man who gave them to him handed him a ten-shilling note and promised him another if it were delivered at exactly ten minutes to twelve. He was to approach the house through the grounds and knock at the side door." "I don’t believe a word of it," declared Mrs Waverly hotly. "It’s all a parcel of lies." "En verité, it is a thin story," said Poirot reflectively. "But so far they have not shaken it. I understand, also, that he made a certain accusation?" His glance interrogated Mr Waverly. The latter got rather red again. "The fellow had the impertinence to pretend that he recognized in Tredwell the man who gave him the parcel. "Only the bloke has shaved off his moustache." Tredwell, who was born on the estate!" Poirot smiled a little at the country gentleman’s indignation. "Yet you yourself suspect an inmate of the house to have been accessory to the abduction." "Yes, but not Tredwell." "And you, madame?" asked Poirot, suddenly turning to her.

Narracott turned it over in his mind. A queer thing to happen—a very queer thing to happen. The sort of thing you couldn’t explain satisfactorily. There might be something in this spirit business after all. It was the first well-authenticated case he had come across. A very queer business altogether but, as far as he could see, though it explained Major Burnaby’s attitude, it had no practical bearing on the case as far as he himself was concerned. He had to deal with the physical world and not the psychic. It was his job to track down the murderer. And to do that he required no guidance from the spirit world. Eight MR. CHARLES ENDERBY Glancing at his watch, the Inspector realized he could just catch the train for Exeter if he hurried off. He was anxious to interview the late Captain Trevelyan’s sister as soon as possible and obtain from her the addresses of the other members of the family. So, with a hurried word of farewell to Major Burnaby, he raced off to the station. The Major retraced his steps to the Three Crowns. He had hardly put a foot across the doorstep when he was accosted by a bright young man with a very shiny head and a round, boyish face. "Major Burnaby?" said the young man. "Yes." "Of No. 1 Sittaford Cottages?" "Yes," said Major Burnaby. "I represent the Daily Wire," said the young man, "and I—" He got no further. In true military fashion of the old school, the Major exploded. "Not another word," he roared. "I know you and your kind. No decency. No reticence. Clustering round a murder like vultures round a carcass, but I can tell you, young man, you will get no information from me. Not a word. No story for your damned paper. If you want to know anything, go and ask the police, and have the decency to leave the friends of the dead man alone." The young man seemed not a whit taken aback. He smiled more encouragingly than ever. "I say, sir, you know you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. I know nothing about this murder business." This was not, strictly speaking, the truth. No one in Exhampton could pretend ignorance of the event that had shaken the quiet moorland town to its core. "I am empowered on behalf of the Daily Wire," went on the young man, "to hand you this cheque for £5,000 and congratulate you on sending in the only correct solution of our football competition." Major Burnaby was completely taken aback. "I have no doubt," continued the young man, "that you have already received our letter yesterday morning informing you of the good news." "Letter?" said Major Burnaby. "Do you realize, young man, that Sittaford is about ten feet deep in snow? What chance do you think we have had in the last few days of a regular delivery of letters?" "But doubtless you saw your name announced as winner in the Daily Wire, this morning?" "No," said Major Burnaby. "I haven’t glanced at the paper this morning." "Ah! of course not," said the young man. "This sad business. The murdered man was a friend of yours, I understand." "My best friend," said the Major. "Hard lines," said the young man tactfully averting his eyes. Then he drew from his pocket a small folded piece of mauve paper and handed it to Major Burnaby with a bow. "With the compliments of the Daily Wire," he said. Major Burnaby took it and said the only thing possible under the circumstances. "Have a drink, Mr.—er—?" "Enderby, Charles Enderby my name is. I got here last night," he explained. "Made inquiries about getting to Sittaford. We make it a point to hand cheques to winners personally. Always publish a little interview. Interests our readers. Well, everyone told me it was out of the question—the snow was falling and it simply couldn’t be done, and then with the greatest good luck I find you are actually here, staying at the Three Crowns." He smiled. "No difficulty about identification. Everybody seems to know everybody else in this part of the world." "What will you have?" said the Major. "Beer for me," said Enderby. The Major ordered two beers. "The whole place seems off its head with this murder," remarked Enderby.

A great brain, undoubtedly a great brain! And an apostle of the maxim, "If you want a thing done safely, do not do it yourself !" Here are we, every one of us incriminated up to the hilt and absolutely in his power, and not one of us has anything on him." He paused, almost as though he were expecting her to disagree with him, but she remained silent, smiling to herself as before. "Not one of us," he mused. "Still, you know, he is superstitious, the old man. Years ago, I believe, he went to one of these fortune-telling people. She prophesied a lifetime of success, but declared that his downfall would be brought about through a woman." He had interested her now. She looked up eagerly. "That is strange, very strange! Through a woman you say?" He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. "Doubtless, now that he has—retired, he will marry. Some young society beauty, who will disperse his millions faster than he acquired them." Nadina shook her head. "No, no, that is not the way of it. Listen, my friend, tomorrow I go to London." "But your contract here?" "I shall be away only one night. And I go incognito, like Royalty. No one will ever know that I have left France. And why do you think that I go?" "Hardly for pleasure at this time of the year. January, a detestable foggy month! It must be for profit, eh?" "Exactly." She rose and stood in front of him, every graceful line of her arrogant with pride. "You said just now that none of us had anything on the chief. You were wrong. I have. I, a woman, have had the wit and, yes, the courage—for it needs courage—to double-cross him. You remember the De Beer diamonds?" "Yes, I remember. At Kimberley, just before the war broke out? I had nothing to do with it, and I never heard the details, the case was hushed up for some reason, was it not? A fine haul too." "A hundred thousand pounds" worth of stones. Two of us worked it—under the "Colonel’s" orders, of course. And it was then that I saw my chance. You see, the plan was to substitute some of the De Beer diamonds for some sample diamonds brought from South America by two young prospectors who happened to be in Kimberley at the time. Suspicion was then bound to fall on them." "Very clever," interpolated the Count approvingly. "The "Colonel" is always clever. Well, I did my part—but I also did one thing which the "Colonel" had not foreseen. I kept back some of the South American stones—one or two are unique and could easily be proved never to have passed through De Beers" hands. With these diamonds in my possession, I have the whip-hand of my esteemed chief. Once the two young men are cleared, his part in the matter is bound to be suspected. I have said nothing all these years, I have been content to know that I had this weapon in reverse, but now matters are different. I want my price—and it will be big, I might almost say a staggering price." "Extraordinary," said the Count. "And doubtless you carry these diamonds about with you everywhere?" His eyes roamed gently around the disordered room. Nadina laughed softly. "You need suppose nothing of the sort. I am not a fool. The diamonds are in a safe place where no one will dream of looking for them." "I never thought you a fool, my dear lady, but may I venture to suggest that you are somewhat foolhardy? The "Colonel" is not the type of man to take kindly to being blackmailed, you know." "I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "There is only one man I have ever feared—and he is dead." The man looked at her curiously. "Let us hope that he will not come to life again, then," he remarked lightly. "What do you mean?" cried the dancer sharply. The Count looked slightly surprised. "I only meant that resurrection would be awkward for you," he explained. "A foolish joke." She gave a sigh of relief. "Oh, no, he is dead all right. Killed in the war. He was a man who once—loved me." "In South Africa?" asked the Count negligently.

"That would be rather more difficult, wouldn’t it?" "Anything else besides coffee you can think of?" "She sometimes had a glass of hot milk before she went to bed. I don’t think she did that night, though." "Can you describe to me exactly what happened that evening in the common room?" "Well, as I say, we all sat about, talked; somebody turned the wireless on. Most of the boys, I think, went out. Celia went up to bed fairly early and so did Jean Tomlinson. Sally and I sat on there fairly late. I was writing letters and Sally was mugging over some notes. I rather think I was the last to go up to bed." "It was just a usual evening, in fact?" "Absolutely, Inspector." "Thank you, Miss Hobhouse. Will you send Miss Lane to me now?" Patricia Lane looked worried, but not apprehensive. Questions and answers elicited nothing very new. Asked about the damage to Elizabeth Johnston’s papers Patricia said that she had no doubt that Celia had been responsible. "But she denied it, Miss Lane, very vehemently." "Well, of course," said Patricia. "She would. I think she was ashamed of having done it. But it fits in, doesn’t it, with all the other things?" "Do you know what I find about this case, Miss Lane? That nothing fits in very well." "I suppose," said Patricia, flushing, "that you would think it was Nigel who messed up Bess’s papers. Because of the ink. That’s such absolute nonsense. I mean, Nigel wouldn’t have used his own ink if he’d done a thing like that. He wouldn’t be such a fool. But anyway, he wouldn’t do it." "He didn’t always get on very well with Miss Johnston, did he?" "Oh, she had an annoying manner sometimes, but he didn’t really mind." Patricia Lane leaned forward earnestly. "I would like to try and make you understand one or two things, Inspector. About Nigel Chapman, I mean. You see, Nigel is really very much his own worst enemy. I’m the first to admit that he’s got a very difficult manner. It prejudices people against him. He’s rude and sarcastic and makes fun of people, and so he puts people’s backs up and they think the worst of him. But really he’s quite different from what he seems. He’s one of those shy, rather unhappy people who really want to be liked but who, from a kind of spirit of contradiction, find themselves saying and doing the opposite to what they mean to say and do." "Ah," said Inspector Sharpe. "Rather unfortunate for them, that." "Yes, but they really can’t help it, you know. It comes from having had an unfortunate childhood. Nigel had a very unhappy home life. His father was very harsh and severe and never understood him. And his father treated his mother very badly. After she died they had the most terrific quarrel and Nigel flung out of the house, and his father said that he’d never give him a penny and he must get on as well as he could without any help from him. Nigel said he didn’t want any help from his father; and wouldn’t take it if it was offered. A small amount of money came to him under his mother’s will, and he never wrote to his father or went near him again. Of course, I think that was a pity in a way, but there’s no doubt that his father is a very unpleasant man. I don’t wonder that that’s made Nigel bitter and difficult to get on with. Since his mother died, he’s never had anyone to care for him and look after him. His health’s not been good, though his mind is brilliant. He is handicapped in life and he just can’t show himself as he really is." Patricia Lane stopped. She was flushed and a little breathless as the result of her long earnest speech. Inspector Sharpe looked at her thoughtfully. He had come across many Patricia Lanes before. "In love with the chap," he thought to himself. "Don’t suppose he cares twopence for her, but probably accepts being mothered. Father certainly sounds a cantankerous old cuss, but I dare say the mother was a foolish woman who spoilt her son and by doting on him, widened the breach between him and his father. I’ve seen enough of that kind of thing."

The village was well behind her now. The moon was high in the sky. To the left and the right and in front of her, was bare stony ground, uncultivated and without a sign of human habitation. It looked flat but was really faintly contoured. It had, as far as Victoria could see, no landmarks and, she had no idea in what direction the track led. She was not learned enough in the stars to know even towards what point of the compass she was heading. There was something subtly terrifying in this large empty waste, but it was impossible to turn back. She could only go on. Pausing a few moments to get her breath back, and assuring herself by looking back over her shoulder, that her flight had not been discovered, she set forth, walking a steady three and a half miles an hour towards the unknown. Dawn came at last to find Victoria weary, footsore, and almost on the verge of hysteria. By noting the light in the sky she ascertained that she was heading roughly southwest, but since she did not know where she was, that knowledge was of little use to her. A little to the side of the road ahead of her was a kind of small compact hill or knob. Victoria left the track and made her way to the knob, the sides of which were quite steep, and climbed up to the top of it. Here she was able to take a survey of the country all around and her feeling of meaningless panic returned. For everywhere there was nothing…The scene was beautiful in the early morning light. The ground and horizon shimmered with faint pastel shades of apricot and cream and pink on which were patterns of shadows. It was beautiful but frightening. "I know what it means now," thought Victoria, "when anyone says they are alone in the world…." There was a little faint scrubby grass in dark patches here and there and some dry thorn. But otherwise there was no cultivation, and no signs of life. There was only Victoria Jones. Of the village from which she had fled there were no signs either. The road along which she had come stretched back apparently into an infinity of waste. It seemed incredible to Victoria that she could have walked so far as to have lost the village altogether from view. For a moment she had a panic-stricken yearning to go back. Somehow or other to regain touch with humankind…. Then she took herself in hand. She had meant to escape, and had escaped but her troubles were not likely to be at an end simply because she had placed several miles between her and her gaolers. A car, however old and rickety, would make short work of those miles. As soon as her escape was discovered, someone would come in search of her. And how on earth was she going to take cover or hide. There simply wasn’t anywhere to hide. She still carried the ragged black aba she had snatched up. Now tentatively she wrapped herself in its folds, pulling it down over her face. She had no idea what she looked like because she had no mirror with her. If she took off her European shoes and stockings and shuffled along with bare feet, she might possibly evade detection. A virtuously veiled Arab woman, however ragged and poor, had, she knew, all possible immunity. It would be the height of bad manners for any man to address her. But would that disguise fool Western eyes who might be out in a car looking for her. At any rate, it was the only chance. She was much too tired to go on at present. She was terribly thirsty too, but it was impossible to do anything about that. The best thing, she decided, was to lie down on the side of this hillock. She could hear a car coming and if she kept herself flattened into a little ravine which had eroded down the side of the hillock, she could get some idea of who was in the car. She could take cover by moving round the back of the hillock so as to keep out of sight of the road. On the other hand, what she badly needed was to get back to civilization, and the only means, as far as she could see, was to stop a car with Europeans in it and ask for a lift. But she must be sure that the Europeans were the right Europeans. And how on earth was she to make sure of that? Worrying over this point, Victoria quite unexpectedly fell asleep, worn out by her long trudge and her general exhaustion.

"And yet," went on Japp, "she’s a real person all right. I mean, sometimes you come across a dummy, so to speak—someone who just comes to a place and poses as a Miss Spinks—when all the time there isn’t a Miss Spinks. But this woman’s genuine—she’s got a past, a background! We know all about her from her childhood upwards! She’s led a perfectly normal, reasonable life—and suddenly, hey presto—vanish!" "There must be a reason," said Poirot. "She didn’t shoot Morley, if that’s what you mean. Amberiotis saw him alive after she left—and we’ve checked up on her movements after she left Queen Charlotte Street that morning." Poirot said impatiently: "I am not suggesting for a moment that she shot Morley. Of course she did not. But all the same—" Japp said: "If you are right about Morley, then it’s far more likely that he told her something which, although she doesn’t suspect it, gives a clue to his murderer. In that case, she might have been deliberately got out of the way." Poirot said: "All this involves an organization, some big concern quite out of proportion to the death of a quiet dentist in Queen Charlotte Street." "Don’t you believe everything Reginald Barnes tells you! He’s a funny old bird—got spies and communists on the brain." Japp got up and Poirot said: "Let me know if you have news." When Japp had gone out, Poirot sat frowning down at the table in front of him. He had definitely the feeling of waiting for something. What was it? He remembered how he had sat before, jotting down various unrelated facts and a series of names. A bird had flown past the window with a twig in its mouth. He, too, had been collecting twigs. Five, six, picking up sticks … He had the sticks—quite a number of them now. They were all there, neatly pigeonholed in his orderly mind—but he had not as yet attempted to set them in order. That was the next step—lay them straight. What was holding him up? He knew the answer. He was waiting for something. Something inevitable, foreordained, the next link in the chain. When it came—then—then he could go on…. II It was late evening a week later when the summons came. Japp’s voice was brusque over the telephone. "That you, Poirot? We’ve found her. You’d better come round. King Leopold Mansions. Battersea Park. Number 45." A quarter of an hour later a taxi deposited Poirot outside King Leopold Mansions. It was a big block of mansion flats looking out over Battersea Park. Number 45 was on the second floor. Japp himself opened the door. His face was set in grim lines. "Come in," he said. "It’s not particularly pleasant, but I expect you’ll want to see for yourself." Poirot said—but it was hardly a question: "Dead?" "What you might describe as very dead!" Poirot cocked his head at a familiar sound coming from a door on his right. "That’s the porter," said Japp. "Being sick in the scullery sink! I had to get him up here to see if he could identify her." He led the way down the passage and Poirot followed him. His nose wrinkled. "Not nice," said Japp. "But what can you expect? She’s been dead well over a month." The room they went into was a small lumber and box room. In the middle of it was a big metal chest of the kind used for storing furs. The lid was open. Poirot stepped forward and looked inside. He saw the foot first, with the shabby shoe on it and the ornate buckle. His first sight of Miss Sainsbury Seale had been, he remembered, a shoe buckle. His gaze travelled up, over the green wool coat and skirt till it reached the head. He made an inarticulate noise. "I know," said Japp. "It’s pretty horrible." The face had been battered out of all recognizable shape. Add to that the natural process of decomposition, and it was no wonder that both men looked a shade pea green as they turned away. "Oh well," said Japp. "It’s all in a day’s work—our day’s work. No doubt about it, ours is a lousy job sometimes.

Lyon—Mrs. Stanning? (She moves down to the armchair Centre.) TROTTER. Yes. MOLLIE. And that he’s a homicidal maniac (She sits) and that he will turn up here and try to kill someone—but why? TROTTER. That’s what I’ve got to find out from you. As the Superintendent sees it, there must be some connection. (To GILES) Now you state, sir, that you yourself have never had any connection with the Longridge Farm case? GILES. No. TROTTER. And the same goes for you, madam? MOLLIE. (Not at ease) I—no—I mean—no connection. TROTTER. What about servants? (MRS. BOYLE registers disapproval.) MOLLIE. We haven’t got any servants. (She rises and moves up Right to the arch.) That reminds me. Would you mind, Sergeant Trotter, if I went to the kitchen? I’ll be there if you want me. TROTTER. That’s quite all right, Mrs. Ralston. (MOLLIE exits by the archway up Right. GILES crosses up Right to the arch, but he is stopped as TROTTER speaks.) Now can I have all your names, please? MRS. BOYLE. This is quite ridiculous. We are merely staying in a kind of hotel. We only arrived yesterday. We’ve nothing to do with this place. TROTTER. You’d planned to come here in advance, though. You’d booked your rooms here ahead. MRS. BOYLE. Well, yes. All except Mr.—? (She looks at PARAVICINI.) PARAVICINI. Paravicini. (He moves to the Left end of the refectory table.) My car overturned in a snowdrift. TROTTER. I see. What I’m getting at is that anyone who’s been following you around might know very well that you were coming here. Now, there’s just one thing I want to know, and I want to know it quick. Which one of you is it that has some connection with that business at Longridge Farm? (There is a dead silence.) You’re not being very sensible, you know. One of you is in danger—deadly danger. I’ve got to know which one that is. (There is another silence.) All right, I’ll ask you one by one. (To PARAVICINI) You, first, since you seem to have arrived here more or less by accident, Mr. Pari—? PARAVICINI. Para—Paravicini. But, my dear Inspector, I know nothing, but nothing, of what you have been talking about. I am a stranger in this country. I know nothing of these local affairs of bygone years. TROTTER. (Rising and moving down to Left of MRS. BOYLE) Mrs.—? MRS. BOYLE. Boyle. I don’t see—really I consider it an impertinence . . . Why on earth should I have anything to do with such—this distressing business? (MAJOR METCALF looks sharply at her.) TROTTER. (Looking at MISS CASEWELL) miss—? MISS CASEWELL. (Slowly) Casewell. Leslie Casewell. I never heard of Longridge Farm, and I know nothing about it. TROTTER. (Moving to Right of the sofa; to MAJOR METCALF) You, sir? MAJOR METCALF. Metcalf—Major. Read about the case in the papers at the time. I was stationed at Edinburgh then. No personal knowledge. TROTTER. (To CHRISTOPHER) And you? CHRISTOPHER. Christopher Wren. I was a mere child at the time. I don’t remember even hearing about it. TROTTER. (Moving behind the sofa table) And that’s all you have to say—any of you? (There is a silence.) (Moving Centre) Well, if one of you gets murdered, you’ll have yourself to blame. Now then, Mr. Ralston, can I have a look round the house? (TROTTER exits up Right with GILES. PARAVICINI sits at the window seat.) CHRISTOPHER. (Rising) My dears, how melodramatic. He’s very attractive, isn’t he?

Neat, quick, efficient. The thugs did it that way in India. The victim doesn’t struggle or cry out—pressure on the carotid artery." "Special knowledge?" "Could be—need not. If you were thinking of doing it, you could read up the subject. There’s no practical difficulty. ’Specially with the victim quite unsuspicious—and she was unsuspicious." Poirot nodded. "Someone she knew." "Yes. They had coffee together—a cup opposite her and one opposite the—guest. Prints had been wiped off the guest’s cup very carefully but lipstick is more difficult—there were still faint traces of lipstick." "A woman, then?" "You expected a woman, didn’t you?" "Oh yes. Yes, that was indicated." Spence went on: "Mrs Upward recognized one of those photographs—the photograph of Lily Gamboll. So it ties up with the McGinty murder." "Yes," said Poirot. "It ties up with the McGinty murder." He remembered Mrs Upward’s slightly amused expression as she had said: "Mrs McGinty’s dead. How did she die? Sticking her neck out, just like I." Spence was going on: "She took an opportunity that seemed good to her—her son and Mrs Oliver were going off to the theatre. She rang up the person concerned and asked that person to come and see her. Is that how you figure it out? She was playing detective." "Something like that. Curiosity. She kept her knowledge to herself, but she wanted to find out more. She didn’t in the least realize what she was doing might be dangerous." Poirot sighed. "So many people think of murder as a game. It is not a game. I told her so. But she would not listen." "No, we know that. Well, that fits in fairly well. When young Robin started off with Mrs Oliver and ran back into the house his mother had just finished telephoning to someone. She wouldn’t say who to. Played it mysterious. Robin and Mrs Oliver thought it might be you." "I wish it had been," said Hercule Poirot. "You have no idea to whom it was that she telephoned?" "None whatever. It’s all automatic round here, you know." "The maid couldn’t help you in any way?" "No. She came in about half-past ten—she has a key to the back door. She went straight into her own room which leads off the kitchen and went to bed. The house was dark and she assumed that Mrs Upward had gone to bed and that the others had not yet returned." Spence added: "She’s deaf and pretty crotchety as well. Takes very little notice of what goes on—and I imagine does as little work as she can with as much grumbling as possible." "Not really an old faithful?" "Oh no! She’s only been with the Upwards a couple of years." A constable put his head round the door. "There’s a young lady to see you, sir," he said. "Says there’s something perhaps you ought to know. About last night." "About last night? Send her in." Deirdre Henderson came in. She looked pale and strained and, as usual, rather awkward. "I thought perhaps I’d better come," she said. "If I’m not interrupting you or anything," she added apologetically. "Not at all, Miss Henderson." Spence rose and pushed forward a chair. She sat down on it squarely in an ungainly schoolgirlish sort of way. "Something about last night?" said Spence encouragingly. "About Mrs Upward, you mean?" "Yes, it’s true, isn’t it, that she was murdered? I mean the post said so and the baker. Mother said of course it couldn’t be true—" She stopped. "I’m afraid your mother isn’t quite right there. It’s true enough. Now, you wanted to make a—to tell us something?" Deirdre nodded. "Yes," she said. "You see, I was there." A difference crept into Spence’s manner. It was, perhaps, even more gentle, but an official hardness underlay it. "You were there," he said. "At Laburnums. At what time?" "I don’t know exactly," said Deirdre. "Between half-past eight and nine, I suppose. Probably nearly nine. After dinner, anyway. You see, she telephoned to me." "Mrs Upward telephoned to you?"

And then, of course, she’d go outside and pull the door to and stand there knocking as though she’d just arrived. But the pin shows she’d already been in the house." "And it was Miss Politt who telephoned to Spenlow?" "Yes. From the post office at two-thirty – just when the bus comes and the post office would be empty." Colonel Melchett said, "But my dear Miss Marple, why? In heaven’s name, why? You can’t have a murder without a motive." "Well, I think, you know, Colonel Melchett, from all I’ve heard, that the crime dates from a long time back. It reminds me, you know, of my two cousins, Antony and Gordon. Whatever Antony did always went right for him, and with poor Gordon it was just the other way about. Race horses went lame, and stocks went down, and property depreciated. As I see it, the two women were in it together." "In what?" "The robbery. Long ago. Very valuable emeralds, so I’ve heard. The lady’s maid and the tweeny. Because one thing hasn’t been explained – how, when the tweeny married the gardener, did they have enough money to set up a flower shop? "The answer is, it was her share of the – the swag, I think is the right expression. Everything she did turned out well. Money made money. But the other one, the lady’s maid, must have been unlucky. She came down to being just a village dressmaker. Then they met again. Quite all right at first, I expect, until Mr Ted Gerard came on the scene. "Mrs Spenlow, you see, was already suffering from conscience, and was inclined to be emotionally religious. This young man no doubt urged her to "face up" and to "come clean" and I dare say she was strung up to do it. But Miss Politt didn’t see it that way. All she saw was that she might go to prison for a robbery she had committed years ago. So she made up her mind to put a stop to it all. I’m afraid, you know, that she was always rather a wicked woman. I don’t believe she’d have turned a hair if that nice, stupid Mr Spenlow had been hanged." Colonel Melchett said slowly, "We can – er – verify your theory – up to a point. The identity of the Politt woman with the lady’s maid at the Abercrombies’, but –" Miss Marple reassured him. "It will be all quite easy. She’s the kind of woman who will break down at once when she’s taxed with the truth. And then, you see, I’ve got her tape measure. I – er – abstracted it yesterday when I was trying on. When she misses it and thinks the police have got it – well, she’s quite an ignorant woman and she’ll think it will prove the case against her in some way." She smiled at him encouragingly. "You’ll have no trouble, I can assure you." It was the tone in which his favourite aunt had once assured him that he could not fail to pass his entrance examination into Sandhurst. And he had passed. Chapter 51 The Case of the Caretaker "The Case of the Caretaker" was first published in Strand Magazine, January 1942, and then in the USA in Chicago Sunday Tribune, 5 July 1942. "Well," demanded Doctor Haydock of his patient. "And how goes it today?" Miss Marple smiled at him wanly from pillows. "I suppose, really, that I’m better," she admitted, "but I feel so terribly depressed. I can’t help feeling how much better it would have been if I had died. After all, I’m an old woman. Nobody wants me or cares about me." Doctor Haydock interrupted with his usual brusqueness. "Yes, yes, typical after-reaction of this type of flu. What you need is something to take you out of yourself. A mental tonic." Miss Marple sighed and shook her head. "And what’s more," continued Doctor Haydock, "I’ve brought my medicine with me!" He tossed a long envelope on to the bed. "Just the thing for you. The kind of puzzle that is right up your street." "A puzzle?" Miss Marple looked interested. "Literary effort of mine," said the doctor, blushing a little. "Tried to make a regular story of it.

Lewis Serrocold interposed between the cringing Edgar and the menacing American. "All this can be gone into later," he said. "Ah, here’s Maverick. Take a look at him, will you, Maverick?" Dr. Maverick advanced upon Edgar with a kind of professional zest. "This won’t do, Edgar," he said. "This won’t do, you know." "He’s a dangerous lunatic," said Mildred sharply. "He’s been shooting off a revolver and raving. He only just missed my stepfather." Edgar gave a little yelp and Dr. Maverick said reprovingly: "Careful, please, Mrs. Strete." "I’m sick of all this. Sick of the way you all go on here! I tell you this man’s a lunatic." With a bound, Edgar wrenched himself away from Dr. Maverick and fell to the floor at Serrocold’s feet. "Help me. Help me. Don’t let them take me away and shut me up. Don’t let them…." An unpleasing scene, Miss Marple thought. Mildred said angrily, "I tell you he’s—" Her mother said soothingly, "Please, Mildred. Not now. He’s suffering." Walter muttered, "Suffering cripes! They’re all cuckoo round here." "I’ll take charge of him," said Dr. Maverick. "You come with me, Edgar. Bed and a sedative—and we’ll talk everything over in the morning. Now you trust me, don’t you?" Rising to his feet and trembling a little, Edgar looked doubtfully at the young doctor and then at Mildred Strete. "She said—I was a lunatic." "No, no, you’re not a lunatic." Miss Bellever’s footsteps rang purposefully across the Hall. She came in with her lips pursed together and a flushed face. "I’ve telephoned the police," she said grimly. "They will be here in a few minutes." Carrie Louise cried, "Jolly!" in tones of dismay. Edgar uttered a wail. Lewis Serrocold frowned angrily. "I told you, Jolly, I did not want the police summoned. This is a medical matter." "That’s as may be," said Miss Bellever. "I’ve my own opinion. But I had to call the police. Mr. Gulbrandsen’s been shot dead." Eight It was a moment or two before anyone took in what she was saying. Carrie Louise said incredulously: "Christian shot? Dead? Oh, surely, that’s impossible." "If you don’t believe me," said Miss Bellever, pursing her lips, and addressing not so much Carrie Louise, as the assembled company, "go and look for yourselves." She was angry. And her anger sounded in the crisp sharpness of her voice. Slowly, unbelievingly, Carrie Louise took a step towards the door. Lewis Serrocold put a hand on her shoulder. "No, dearest, let me go." He went out through the doorway. Dr. Maverick, with a doubtful glance at Edgar, followed him. Miss Bellever went with them. Miss Marple gently urged Carrie Louise into a chair. She sat down, her eyes looking hurt and stricken. "Christian—shot?" she said again. It was the bewildered, hurt tone of a child. Walter Hudd remained close by Edgar Lawson, glowering down at him. In his hand he held the gun that he had picked up from the floor. Mrs. Serrocold said in a wondering voice: "But who could possibly want to shoot Christian?" It was not a question that demanded an answer. Walter muttered under his breath: "Nuts! The whole lot of them." Stephen had moved protectively closer to Gina. Her young, startled face was the most vivid thing in the room. Suddenly the front door opened and a rush of cold air, together with a man in a big overcoat, came in. The heartiness of his greeting seemed incredibly shocking. "Hullo, everybody, what’s going on tonight? A lot of fog on the road. I had to go dead slow." For a startled moment, Miss Marple thought that she was seeing double. Surely the same man could not be standing by Gina and coming in by the door. Then she realised that it was only a likeness and not, when you looked closely, such a very strong likeness. The two men were clearly brothers with a strong family resemblance, but no more.

He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence struck me as peculiar. "Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matopos that day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?" "Of course I remember." "I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is cleared of suspicion." "Was that what you meant?" "Of course." I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained. He spoke again in a thoughtful voice: "When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted me. After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything to me. Then I met you, Anne—and all that seemed worth nothing. But youth calls to youth . . . I’ve still got my work." I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once—but you can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I looked up at him suddenly. "I think that you’ll go very far," I said dreamily. "I think that you’ve got a great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the world’s big men." I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy. "I shall be alone, though." "All the people who do really big things are." "You think so?" "I’m sure of it." He took my hand, and said in a low voice: "I’d rather have had—the other." Then Harry came striding round the corner of the house. Colonel Race rose. "Good morning—Lucas," he said. For some reason Harry flushed up to the roots of his hair. "Yes," I said gaily, "you must be known by your real name now." But Harry was still staring at Colonel Race. "So you know, sir," he said at last. "I never forget a face. I saw you once as a boy." "What’s all this about?" I asked, puzzled, looking from one to the other. It seemed a conflict of wills between them. Race won. Harry turned slightly away. "I suppose you’re right, sir. Tell her my real name." "Anne, this isn’t Harry Lucas. Harry Lucas was killed in the War. This is John Harold Eardsley." Thirty-five With his last words, Colonel Race had swung away and left us. I stood staring after him. Harry’s voice recalled me to myself. "Anne, forgive me, say you forgive me." He took my hand in his and almost mechanically I drew it away. "Why did you deceive me?" "I don’t know that I can make you understand. I was afraid of all that sort of thing—the power and fascination of wealth. I wanted you to care for me just for myself—for the man I was—without ornaments and trappings." "You mean you didn’t trust me?" "You can put it that way if you like, but it isn’t quite true. I’d become embittered, suspicious—always prone to look for ulterior motives—and it was so wonderful to be cared for in the way you cared for me." "I see," I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story he had told me. For the first time I noted discrepancies in it which I had disregarded—an assurance of money, the power to buy back the diamonds of Nadina, the way in which he had preferred to speak of both men from the point of view of an outsider. And when he had said "my friend" he had meant not Eardsley, but Lucas. It was Lucas, the quiet fellow, who had loved Nadina so deeply. "How did it come about?" I asked. "We were both reckless—anxious to get killed. One night we exchanged identification discs—for luck! Lucas was killed the next day—blown to pieces." I shuddered. "But why didn’t you tell me now? This morning? You couldn’t have doubted my caring for you by this time?" "Anne, I didn’t want to spoil it all. I wanted to take you back to the island. What’s the good of money? It can’t buy happiness. We’d have been happy on the island. I tell you I’m afraid of that other life—it nearly rotted me through once." "Did Sir Eustace know who you really were?" "Oh, yes." "And Carton?" "No. He saw us both with Nadina at Kimberley one night, but he didn’t know which was which.

What an answer to prayer. A guest house—and a charming hostess. My Rolls- Royce, alas, has run into a snowdrift. Blinding snow everywhere. I do not know where I am. Perhaps, I think to myself, I shall freeze to death. And then I take a little bag, I stagger through the snow, I see before me big iron gates. A habitation! I am saved. Twice I fall into the snow as I come up your drive, but at last I arrive and immediately—(He looks round) despair turns to joy. (Changing his manner) you can let me have a room—yes? GILES. Oh yes . . . MOLLIE. It’s rather a small one, I’m afraid. PARAVICINI. Naturally—naturally—you have other guests. MOLLIE. We’ve only just opened this place as a guest house today, and so we’re—we’re rather new at it. PARAVICINI. (Leering at MOLLIE) Charming—charming . . . GILES. What about your luggage? PARAVICINI. That is of no consequence. I have locked the car securely. GILES. But wouldn’t it be better to get it in? PARAVICINI. No, no. (He moves up to Right of GILES.) I can assure you on such a night as this, there will be no thieves abroad. And for me, my wants are very simple. I have all I need—here—in this little bag. Yes, all that I need. MOLLIE. You’d better get thoroughly warm. (PARAVICINI crosses to the fire.) I’ll see about your room. (She moves to the armchair Centre.) I’m afraid it’s rather a cold room because it faces north, but all the others are occupied. PARAVICINI. You have several guests, then? MOLLIE. There’s Mrs. Boyle and Major Metcalf and Miss Casewell and a young man called Christopher Wren—and now—you. PARAVICINI. Yes—the unexpected guest. The guest that you did not invite. The guest who just arrived—from nowhere—out of the storm. It sounds quite dramatic, does it not? Who am I? You do not know. Where do I come from? You do not know. Me, I am the man of mystery. (He laughs.) (MOLLIE laughs and looks at GILES, who grins feebly. PARAVICINI nods his head at MOLLIE in high good humour.) But now, I tell you this. I complete the picture. From now on there will be no more arrivals. And no departures either. By tomorrow—perhaps even already—we are cut off from civilization. No butcher, no baker, no milkman, no postman, no daily papers—nobody and nothing but ourselves. That is admirable—admirable. It could not suit me better. My name, by the way, is Paravicini. (He moves down to the small armchair Right.) (GILES moves to Left of MOLLIE.) PARAVICINI. Mr. and Mrs. Ralston? (He nods his head as they agree. He looks round him and moves up to Right of MOLLIE.) And this—is Monkswell Manor Guest House, you said? Good. Monkswell Manor Guest House. (He laughs.) Perfect. (He laughs.) Perfect. (He laughs and crosses to the fireplace.) (MOLLIE looks at GILES and they look at PARAVICINI uneasily as the Curtain falls.) CURTAIN Scene II SCENE: The same. The following afternoon. When Curtain rises it is not snowing, but snow can be seen banked high against the window. MAJOR METCALF is seated on the sofa reading a book, and MRS. BOYLE is sitting in the large armchair Right in front of the fire, writing on a pad on her knee. MRS. BOYLE. I consider it most dishonest not to have told me they were only just starting this place. MAJOR METCALF. Well, everything’s got to have a beginning, you know. Excellent breakfast this morning. Good coffee. Scrambled eggs, homemade marmalade. And all nicely served, too. Little woman does it all herself. MRS. BOYLE.

"I trust and pray not. But it so often happens, Doctor Haydock. That’s the sad and frightening thing. It so often happens." Seventeen Ella put down the telephone receiver, smiled to herself and came out of the public telephone box. She was pleased with herself. "Chief-Inspector God Almighty Craddock!" she said to herself. "I’m twice as good as he is at the job. Variations on the theme of: "Fly, all is discovered!’" She pictured to herself with a good deal of pleasure the reactions recently suffered by the person at the other end of the line. That faint menacing whisper coming through the receiver. "I saw you…." She laughed silently, the corners of her mouth curving up in a feline cruel line. A student of psychology might have watched her with some interest. Never until the last few days had she had this feeling of power. She was hardly aware herself of how much the heady intoxication of it affected her…. "Damn that old woman," thought Ella. She could feel Mrs. Bantry’s eyes following her as she walked up the drive. A phrase came into her head for no particular reason. The pitcher goes to the well once too often…. Nonsense. Nobody could suspect that it was she who had whispered those menacing words…. She sneezed. "Damn this hay fever," said Ella Zielinsky. When she came into her office, Jason Rudd was standing by the window. He wheeled round. "I couldn’t think where you were." "I had to go and speak to the gardener. There were—" she broke off as she caught sight of his face. She asked sharply: "What is it?" His eyes seemed set deeper in his face than ever. All the gaiety of the clown was gone. This was a man under strain. She had seen him under strain before but never looking like this. She said again: "What is it?" He held a sheet of paper out to her. "It’s the analysis of that coffee. The coffee that Marina complained about and wouldn’t drink." "You sent it to be analysed?" She was startled. "But you poured it away down the sink. I saw you." His wide mouth curled up in a smile. "I’m pretty good at sleight of hand, Ella," he said. "You didn’t know that, did you? Yes, I poured most of it away but I kept a little and I took it along to be analysed." She looked down at the paper in her hand. "Arsenic." She sounded incredulous. "Yes, arsenic." "So Marina was right about it tasting bitter?" "She wasn’t right about that. Arsenic has no taste. But her instinct was quite right." "And we thought she was just being hysterical!" "She is hysterical! Who wouldn’t be? She has a woman drop dead at her feet practically. She gets threatening notes—one after another—there’s not been anything today, has there?" Ella shook her head. "Who plants the damned things? Oh well, I suppose it’s easy enough—all these open windows. Anyone could slip in." "You mean we ought to keep the house barred and locked? But it’s such hot weather. There’s a man posted in the grounds, after all." "Yes, and I don’t want to frighten her more than she’s frightened already. Threatening notes don’t matter two hoots. But arsenic, Ella, arsenic’s different…." "Nobody could tamper with food here in the house." "Couldn’t they, Ella? Couldn’t they?" "Not without being seen. No unauthorized person—" He interrupted. "People will do things for money, Ella." "Hardly murder!" "Even that. And they mightn’t realize it was murder… The servants…." "I’m sure the servants are all right." "Giuseppe now. I doubt if I’d trust Giuseppe very far if it came to the question of money… He’s been with us some time, of course, but—" "Must you torture yourself like this, Jason?" He flung himself down in the chair. He leaned forward, his long arms hanging down between his knees. "What to do?" he said slowly and softly. "My God, what to do?" Ella did not speak. She sat there watching him. "She was happy here," said Jason. He was speaking more to himself than to Ella. He stared down between his knees at the carpet. If he had looked up, the expression on her face might perhaps have surprised him.

"The address?" asked the other sharply. Poirot nodded his head. "Might have told us something, but unfortunately it does not. The package was addressed to one of these little newspaper shops in Paris where letters and parcels are kept until called for on payment of a small commission." "Yes, but what is inside?" demanded Van Aldin impatiently. Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and disclosed a square cardboard box. He looked round him. "It is a good moment," he said quietly. "All eyes are on the tennis. Look, Monsieur!" He lifted the lid of the box for a fraction of a second. An exclamation of utter astonishment came from the millionaire. His face turned as white as chalk. "My God!" he breathed, "the rubies." He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and beamed placidly. Then suddenly the millionaire seemed to come out of his trance; he leaned across to Poirot and wrung his hand so heartily that the little man winced with pain. "This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great! You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for all, you are the goods." "It is nothing," said Poirot modestly. "Order, method, being prepared for eventualities beforehand—that is all there is to it." "And now, I suppose, the Comte de la Roche has been arrested?" continued Van Aldin eagerly. "No," said Poirot. A look of utter astonishment came over Van Aldin’s face. "But why? What more do you want?" "The Comte’s alibi is still unshaken." "But that is nonsense." "Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is nonsense, but unfortunately we have to prove it so." "In the meantime he will slip through your fingers." Poirot shook his head very energetically. "No," he said, "he will not do that. The one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice is his social position. At all costs he must stop and brazen it out." Van Aldin was still dissatisfied. "But I don’t see—" Poirot raised a hand. "Grant me a little moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea. Many people have mocked themselves at the little ideas of Hercule Poirot—and they have been wrong." "Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead. What is this little idea?" Poirot paused for a moment and then he said: "I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning. Until then, say nothing to anyone." Twenty-two M. PAPOPOLOUS BREAKFASTS M. Papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite him sat his daughter, Zia. There was a knock at the sitting room door, and a chasseur entered with a card which he brought to M. Papopolous. The latter scrutinized it, raised his eyebrows, and passed it over to his daughter. "Ah!" said M. Papopolous, scratching his left ear thoughtfully, "Hercule Poirot. I wonder now." Father and daughter looked at each other. "I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said M. Papopolous. "Zia, I hardly like this." "He was very useful to you once," his daughter reminded him. "That is true," acknowledged M. Papopolous; "also he has retired from active work, so I hear." These interchanges between father and daughter had passed in their own language. Now M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur and said in French: "Faîtes monter ce monsieur." A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely attired, and swinging a cane with a jaunty air, entered the room. "My dear M. Papopolous." "My dear M. Poirot." "And Mademoiselle Zia." Poirot swept her a low bow. "You will excuse us going on with our breakfast," said M. Papopolous, pouring himself out another cup of coffee. "Your call is—ahem!—a little early." "It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but you see, I am pressed." "Ah!" murmured M. Papopolous, "you are on an affair then?" "A very serious affair," said Poirot; "the death of Madame Kettering."

He took off his hat politely as they came abreast of him, and the Countess gave him a charming bow and smile. She was a very tall woman, superbly made. Her hair was black, so were her eyes, and her eyelashes and eyebrows were more superbly black than any Nature had ever fashioned. Mr Satterthwaite, who knew far more of feminine secrets than it is good for any man to know, rendered immediate homage to the art with which she was made up. Her complexion appeared to be flawless, of a uniform creamy white. The very faint bistre shadows under her eyes were most effective. Her mouth was neither crimson nor scarlet, but a subdued wine colour. She was dressed in a very daring creation of black and white and carried a parasol of the shade of pinky red which is most helpful to the complexion. Franklin Rudge was looking happy and important. "There goes a young fool," said Mr Satterthwaite to himself. "But I suppose it’s no business of mine and anyway he wouldn’t listen to me. Well, well, I’ve bought experience myself in my time." But he still felt rather worried, because there was a very attractive little American girl in the party, and he was sure that she would not like Franklin Rudge’s friendship with the Countess at all. He was just about to retrace his steps in the opposite direction when he caught sight of the girl in question coming up one of the paths towards him. She wore a well-cut tailor-made "suit" with a white muslin shirt waist, she had on good, sensible walking shoes, and carried a guide-book. There are some Americans who pass through Paris and emerge clothed as the Queen of Sheba, but Elizabeth Martin was not one of them. She was "doing Europe" in a stern, conscientious spirit. She had high ideas of culture and art and she was anxious to get as much as possible for her limited store of money. It is doubtful if Mr Satterthwaite thought of her as either cultured or artistic. To him she merely appeared very young. "Good morning, Mr Satterthwaite," said Elizabeth. "Have you seen Franklin–Mr Rudge–anywhere about?" "I saw him just a few minutes ago." "With his friend the Countess, I suppose," said the girl sharply. "Er–with the Countess, yes," admitted Mr Satterthwaite. "That Countess of his doesn’t cut any ice with me," said the girl in a rather high, shrill voice. "Franklin’s just crazy about her. Why I can’t think." "She’s got a very charming manner, I believe," said Mr Satterthwaite cautiously. "Do you know her?" "Slightly." "I’m right down worried about Franklin," said Miss Martin. "That boy’s got a lot of sense as a rule. You’d never think he’d fall for this sort of siren stuff. And he won’t hear a thing, he gets madder than a hornet if anyone tries to say a word to him. Tell me, anyway–is she a real Countess?" "I shouldn’t like to say," said Mr Satterthwaite. "She may be." "That’s the real Ha Ha English manner," said Elizabeth with signs of displeasure. "All I can say is that in Sargon Springs–that’s our home town, Mr Satterthwaite–that Countess would look a mighty queer bird." Mr Satterthwaite thought it possible. He forebore to point out that they were not in Sargon Springs but in the principality of Monaco, where the Countess happened to synchronize with her environment a great deal better than Miss Martin did. He made no answer and Elizabeth went on towards the Casino. Mr Satterthwaite sat on a seat in the sun, and was presently joined by Franklin Rudge. Rudge was full of enthusiasm. "I’m enjoying myself," he announced with naïve enthusiasm. "Yes, sir! This is what I call seeing life–rather a different kind of life from what we have in the States." The elder man turned a thoughtful face to him. "Life is lived very much the same everywhere," he said rather wearily. "It wears different clothes–that’s all." Franklin Rudge stared. "I don’t get you." "No," said Mr Satterthwaite. "That’s because you’ve got a long way to travel yet. But I apologize. No elderly man should permit himself to get into the habit of preaching." "Oh! that’s all right."

Somebody said to me the other day that young girls were natural inebriates, and I really don’t think that was a nice thing to say at all. And if anyone’s at all peculiar or vague in their manner, everyone says "drugs" and that’s unfair, too. They say it about Mrs. Larkin and though I don’t care for the woman, I do really think it’s nothing more than absentmindedness. She’s a great friend of your Anthony Hawker, and that’s why, if you ask me, she’s so down on the Grant girls—says they’re man-eaters! I dare say they do run after men a bit, but why not? It’s natural, after all. And they’re good-looking pieces, every one of them." Poirot interjected a question. "Mrs. Larkin? My dear man, it’s no good asking me who she is? Who’s anybody nowadays? They say she rides well and she’s obviously well off. Husband was something in the city. He’s dead, not divorced. She’s not been here very long, came here just after the Grants did. I’ve always thought she—" Old Lady Carmichael stopped. Her mouth opened, her eyes bulged. Leaning forward she struck Poirot a sharp blow across the knuckles with a paper cutter she was holding. Disregarding his wince of pain she exclaimed excitedly: "Why of course! So that’s why you’re down here! You nasty, deceitful creature, I insist on your telling me all about it." "But what is it I am to tell you all about?" Lady Carmichael aimed another playful blow which Poirot avoided deftly. "Don’t be an oyster, Hercule Poirot! I can see your moustaches quivering. Of course, it’s crime brings you down here—and you’re just pumping me shamelessly! Now let me see, can it be murder? Who’s died lately? Only old Louisa Gilmore and she was eighty-five and had dropsy too. Can’t be her. Poor Leo Staverton broke his neck in the hunting field and he’s all done up in plaster—that can’t be it. Perhaps it isn’t murder. What a pity! I can’t remember any special jewel robberies lately . . . Perhaps it’s just a criminal you’re tracking down . . . Is it Beryl Larkin? Did she poison her husband? Perhaps it’s remorse that makes her so vague." "Madame, Madame," cried Hercule Poirot. "You go too fast." "Nonsense. You’re up to something, Hercule Poirot." "Are you acquainted with the classics, Madame?" "What have the classics got to do with it?" "They have this to do with it. I emulate my great predecessor Hercules. One of the Labors of Hercules was the taming of the wild horses of Diomedes." "Don’t tell me you came down here to train horses—at your age—and always wearing patent-leather shoes! You don’t look to me as though you’d ever been on a horse in your life!" "The horses, Madame, are symbolic. They were the wild horses who ate human flesh." "How very unpleasant of them. I always do think these ancient Greeks and Romans are very unpleasant. I can’t think why clergymen are so fond of quoting from the classics—for one thing one never understands what they mean and it always seems to me that the whole subject matter of the classics is very unsuitable for clergymen. So much incest, and all those statues with nothing on—not that I mind that myself but you know what clergymen are—quite upset if girls come to church with no stockings on—let me see, where was I?" "I am not quite sure." "I suppose, you wretch, you just won’t tell me if Mrs. Larkin murdered her husband? Or perhaps Anthony Hawker is the Brighton trunk murderer?" She looked at him hopefully, but Hercule Poirot’s face remained impassive. "It might be forgery," speculated Lady Carmichael. "I did see Mrs. Larkin in the bank the other morning and she’d just cashed a fifty pound cheque to self—it seemed to me at the time a lot of money to want in cash. Oh no, that’s the wrong way round—if she was a forger she would be paying it in, wouldn’t she?

"Anyway, I wouldn’t risk doing a thing like that. The kid would probably tell its mother, and then where should I be?" I burst out laughing. "But look here," I said. "Is it really true that you can’t swim?" "I can keep myself afloat for about three strokes." "But then weren’t you taking a frightful risk? You might easily have been drowned." "I might have been, I suppose … but look here, Norreys, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t go in for heroism unless you’re prepared to be more or less heroic. Anyway, there were lots of people about. None of them wanted to get wet, of course, but somebody would be bound to do something about it. They’d do it for the kid if they wouldn’t do it for me. And there were boats. The fellow who jumped in after me held up the kid and the man with the boat arrived before I finally went under. In any case artificial respiration usually brings you back even if you have more or less drowned." His own particular engaging grin spread across his face. "It’s all so damned silly, isn’t it?" he said. "People, I mean, are such damned fools. I shall get far more kudos for going in after that kid when I couldn’t swim, than if I had dived in and saved her in the approved life- saving scientific way. Lots of people are going about now saying how damned plucky it was. If they’d any sense they’d say it was just plain damned stupid – which it was. The fellow who really did the trick – the fellow who went in after me and saved us both – he won’t get half as much kudos. He’s a first- class swimmer. He’s ruined a good suit, poor devil, and my being floundering there as well as the child just made things more difficult for him. But nobody will look at it that way – unless, perhaps, it’s people like your sister-in- law, but there aren’t many of them. "Just as well that there aren’t," he added. "The last thing you want in an election is a lot of people who think things out and really use their heads." "Didn’t you feel a qualm or two before you jumped? An uneasy feeling in the pit of the stomach?" "I hadn’t time for that. I was just so blissfully exultant that the thing was being handed to me on a platter." "I’m not sure that I see why you think this – this sort of spectacular business is necessary." His face changed. It became grim and determined. "Don’t you realize that I’ve only got the one asset? I’ve no looks to speak of. I’m not a first-class speaker. I’ve no background – no influence. I’ve no money. I was born with one talent –" he laid a hand on my knee – "physical courage. Do you think, if I hadn’t been a VC, that I’d ever have been put up as Conservative candidate here?" "But, my dear fellow, isn’t a VC enough for you?" "You don’t understand psychology, Norreys. One silly stunt like this morning has far more effect than a VC gained in southern Italy. Italy’s a long way off. They didn’t see me win that VC – and unfortunately I can’t tell them about it. I could make them see it all right if I did tell them … I’d take them along with me and by the time I’d finished, they’d have won that VC too! But the conventions of this country don’t allow me to do that. No, I’ve got to look modest and mutter that it was nothing – any chap could have done it. Which is nonsense – very few chaps could have done what I did. Half a dozen in the regiment could have – not more. You want judgment, you know, and calculation and the coolness not to be flurried, and you’ve got in a way to enjoy what you’re doing." He was silent for a moment or two. Then he said, "I meant to get a VC when I joined up." "My dear Gabriel!" He turned his ugly intent little face towards me, with the shining eyes. "You’re right – you can’t say definitely you’ll get a thing like that. You’ve got to have luck. But I meant to try for it. I saw then that it was my big chance.

I hoped up to the end for a suspicion of foul play, but it all seemed most regrettably straightforward." "What bloodthirsty instincts you have, Frankie." "I know. It’s probably atavism (however do you pronounce it?—I’ve never been sure). Don’t you think so? I’m sure I’m atavistic. My nickname at school was Monkey Face." "Do monkeys like murder?" queried Bobby. "You sound like a correspondence in a Sunday paper," said Frankie. "Our correspondents" views on this subject are solicited." "You know," said Bobby, reverting to the original topic, "I don’t agree with you about the female Cayman. Her photograph was lovely." "Touched up—that’s all," interrupted Frankie. "Well, then, it was so much touched up that you wouldn’t have known them for the same person." "You’re blind," said Frankie. "The photographer had done all that the art of photography could do, but it was still a nasty bit of work." "I absolutely disagree with you," said Bobby coldly. "Anyway, where did you see it?" "In the local Evening Echo." "It probably reproduced badly." "It seems to me you’re absolutely batty," said Frankie crossly, "over a painted-up raddled bitch—yes, I said bitch—like the Cayman." "Frankie," said Bobby, "I’m surprised at you. In the Vicarage drive, too. Semi-holy ground, so to speak." "Well, you shouldn’t have been so ridiculous." There was a pause, then Frankie’s sudden fit of temper abated. "What is ridiculous," she said, "is to quarrel about the damned woman. I came to suggest a round of golf. What about it?" "OK, chief," said Bobby happily. They set off amicably together and their conversation was of such things as slicing and pulling and how to perfect a chip shot on to the green. The recent tragedy passed quite out of mind until Bobby, holing a long putt at the eleventh to halve the hole, suddenly gave an exclamation. "What is it?" "Nothing. I’ve just remembered something." "What?" "Well, these people, the Caymans—they came round and asked if the fellow had said anything before he died—and I told them he hadn’t." "Well?" "And now I’ve just remembered that he did." "Not one of your brightest mornings, in fact." "Well, you see, it wasn’t the sort of thing they meant. That’s why, I suppose, I didn’t think of it." "What did he say?" asked Frankie curiously. "He said: "Why didn’t they ask Evans?" " "What a funny thing to say. Nothing else?" "No. He just opened his eyes and said that—quite suddenly—and then died, poor chap." "Oh, well," said Frankie, turning it over in her mind. "I don’t see that you need worry. It wasn’t important." "No, of course not. Still, I wish I’d just mentioned it. You see, I said he’d said nothing at all." "Well, it amounts to the same thing," said Frankie. "I mean, it isn’t like—"Tell Gladys I always loved her," or "The will is in the walnut bureau," or any of the proper romantic Last Words there are in books." "You don’t think it’s worth writing about it to them?" "I shouldn’t bother. It couldn’t be important." "I expect you’re right," said Bobby and turned his attention with renewed vigour to the game. But the matter did not really dismiss itself from his mind. It was a small point but it fretted him. He felt very faintly uncomfortable about it. Frankie’s point of view was, he felt sure, the right and sensible one. The thing was of no importance—let it go. But his conscience continued to reproach him faintly. He had said that the dead man had said nothing. That wasn’t true. It was all very trivial and silly but he couldn’t feel quite comfortable about it. Finally, that evening, on an impulse, he sat down and wrote to Mr. Cayman. Dear Mr. Cayman, I have just remembered that your brother-in-law did actually say something before he died. I think the exact words were, "Why didn’t they ask Evans?" I apologize for not mentioning this this morning, but I attached no importance to the words at the time and so, I suppose, they slipped my memory. Yours truly, Robert Jones. On the next day but one he received a reply: Dear Mr. Jones (wrote Mr.

"Constable Legg took the call, sir," Craddock was saying. "He seems to have acted very well, with promptitude and presence of mind. And it can’t have been easy. About a dozen people all trying to talk at once, including one of those Mittel Europas who go off at the deep end at the mere sight of a policeman. Made sure she was going to be locked up, and fairly screamed the place down." "Deceased has been identified?" "Yes, sir. Rudi Scherz. Swiss Nationality. Employed at the Royal Spa Hotel, Medenham Wells, as a receptionist. If you agree, sir, I thought I’d take the Royal Spa Hotel first, and go out to Chipping Cleghorn afterwards. Sergeant Fletcher is out there now. He’ll see the bus people and then go on to the house." Rydesdale nodded approval. The door opened, and the Chief Constable looked up. "Come in, Henry," he said. "We’ve got something here that’s a little out of the ordinary." Sir Henry Clithering, ex-Commissioner of Scotland Yard, came in with slightly raised eyebrows. He was a tall, distinguished-looking elderly man. "It may appeal to even your blasé palate," went on Rydesdale. "I was never blasé," said Sir Henry indignantly. "The latest idea," said Rydesdale, "is to advertise one’s murders beforehand. Show Sir Henry that advertisement, Craddock." "The North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette," said Sir Henry. "Quite a mouthful." He read the half inch of print indicated by Craddock’s finger. "H’m, yes, somewhat unusual." "Any line on who inserted this advertisement?" asked Rydesdale. "By the description, sir, it was handed in by Rudi Scherz himself—on Wednesday." "Nobody questioned it? The person who accepted it didn’t think it odd?" "The adenoidal blonde who receives the advertisements is quite incapable of thinking, I should say, sir. She just counted the words and took the money." "What was the idea?" asked Sir Henry. "Get a lot of the locals curious," suggested Rydesdale. "Get them all together at a particular place at a particular time, then hold them up and relieve them of their spare cash and valuables. As an idea, it’s not without originality." "What sort of a place is Chipping Cleghorn?" asked Sir Henry. "A large sprawling picturesque village. Butcher, baker, grocer, quite a good antique shop—two tea shops. Self-consciously a beauty spot. Caters for the motoring tourist. Also highly residential. Cottages formerly lived in by agricultural labourers now converted and lived in by elderly spinsters and retired couples. A certain amount of building done round about in Victorian times." "I know," said Sir Henry. "Nice old Pussies and retired Colonels. Yes, if they noticed that advertisement they’d all come sniffing round at 6:30 to see what was up. Lord, I wish I had my own particular old Pussy here. Wouldn’t she like to get her nice ladylike teeth into this. Right up her street it would be." "Who’s your own particular Pussy, Henry? An aunt?" "No," Sir Henry sighed. "She’s no relation." He said reverently: "She’s just the finest detective God ever made. Natural genius cultivated in a suitable soil." He turned upon Craddock. "Don’t you despise the old Pussies in this village of yours, my boy," he said. "In case this turns out to be a high-powered mystery, which I don’t suppose for a moment it will, remember that an elderly unmarried woman who knits and gardens is streets ahead of any detective sergeant. She can tell you what might have happened and what ought to have happened and even what actually did happen! And she can tell you why it happened!" "I’ll bear that in mind, sir," said Detective-Inspector Craddock in his most formal manner, and nobody would have guessed that Dermot Eric Craddock was actually Sir Henry’s godson and was on easy and intimate terms with his godfather. Rydesdale gave a quick outline of the case to his friend. "They’d all turn up at 6:30, I grant you that," he said. "But would that Swiss fellow know they would? And another thing, would they be likely to have much loot on them to be worth the taking?"

"First, to despatch this note by special messenger." This was done, and reentering the taxi Poirot gave the address to the driver. "Eighty-eight Prince Albert Road, Clapham." "So we are going there?" "Mais oui. Though frankly I fear we shall be too late. Our bird will have flown, Hastings." "Who is our bird?" Poirot smiled. "The inconspicuous Mr. Simpson." "What?" I exclaimed. "Oh, come now, Hastings, do not tell me that all is not clear to you now!" "The cook was got out of the way, I realize that," I said, slightly piqued. "But why? Why should Simpson wish to get her out of the house? Did she know something about him?" "Nothing whatever." "Well, then—" "But he wanted something that she had." "Money? The Australian legacy?" "No, my friend—something quite different." He paused a moment and then said gravely: "A battered tin trunk. . . ." I looked sideways at him. His statement seemed so fantastic that I suspected him of pulling my leg, but he was perfectly grave and serious. "Surely he could buy a trunk if he wanted one," I cried. "He did not want a new trunk. He wanted a trunk of pedigree. A trunk of assured respectability." "Look here, Poirot," I cried, "this really is a bit thick. You’re pulling my leg." He looked at me. "You lack the brains and the imagination of Mr. Simpson, Hastings. See here: On Wednesday evening, Simpson decoys away the cook. A printed card and a printed sheet of notepaper are simple matters to obtain, and he is willing to pay £150 and a year’s house rent to assure the success of his plan. Miss Dunn does not recognize him—the beard and the hat and the slight colonial accent completely deceive her. That is the end of Wednesday—except for the trifling fact that Simpson has helped himself to fifty thousand pounds" worth of negotiable securities." "Simpson—but it was Davis—" "If you will kindly permit me to continue, Hastings! Simpson knows that the theft will be discovered on Thursday afternoon. He does not go to the bank on Thursday, but he lies in wait for Davis when he comes out to lunch. Perhaps he admits the theft and tells Davis he will return the securities to him—anyhow he succeeds in getting Davis to come to Clapham with him. It is the maid’s day out, and Mrs. Todd was at the sales, so there is no one in the house. When the theft is discovered and Davis is missing, the implication will be overwhelming. Davis is the thief! Mr. Simpson will be perfectly safe, and can return to work on the morrow like the honest clerk they think him." "And Davis?" Poirot made an expressive gesture, and slowly shook his head. "It seems too cold-blooded to be believed, and yet what other explanation can there be, mon ami. The one difficulty for a murderer is the disposal of the body—and Simpson had planned that out beforehand. I was struck at once by the fact that although Eliza Dunn obviously meant to return that night when she went out (witness her remark about the stewed peaches) yet her trunk was all ready packed when they came for it. It was Simpson who sent word to Carter Paterson to call on Friday and it was Simpson who corded up the box on Thursday afternoon. What suspicion could possibly arise? A maid leaves and sends for her box, it is labelled and addressed ready in her name, probably to a railway station within easy reach of London. On Saturday afternoon, Simpson, in his Australian disguise, claims it, he affixes a new label and address and redespatches it somewhere else, again "to be left till called for." When the authorities get suspicious, for excellent reasons, and open it, all that can be elicited will be that a bearded colonial despatched it from some junction near London. There will be nothing to connect it with 88 Prince Albert Road. Ah! Here we are." Poirot’s prognostications had been correct. Simpson had left days previously. But he was not to escape the consequences of his crime. By the aid of wireless, he was discovered on the Olympia, en route to America. A tin trunk, addressed to Mr. Henry Wintergreen, attracted the attention of railway officials at Glasgow.

After all, if a woman is thrown from her horse and has serious injuries and dies without recovering consciousness, well – a doctor wouldn’t normally be suspicious, would he? He’d put it down to shock or something." Doctor Haydock nodded. "Why did you suspect?" asked Miss Marple. "It wasn’t any particular cleverness on my part," said Doctor Haydock. "It was just the trite, well-known fact that a murderer is so pleased with his cleverness that he doesn’t take proper precautions. I was just saying a few consolatory words to the bereaved husband – and feeling damned sorry for the fellow, too – when he flung himself down on the settee to do a bit of play-acting and a hypodermic syringe fell out of his pocket. "He snatched it up and looked so scared that I began to think. Harry Laxton didn’t drug; he was in perfect health; what was he doing with a hypodermic syringe? I did the autopsy with a view to certain possibilities. I found strophanthin. The rest was easy. There was strophanthin in Laxton’s possession, and Bella Edge, questioned by the police, broke down and admitted to having got it for him. And finally old Mrs Murgatroyd confessed that it was Harry Laxton who had put her up to the cursing stunt." "And your niece got over it?" "Yes, she was attracted by the fellow, but it hadn’t gone far." The doctor picked up his manuscript. "Full marks to you, Miss Marple – and full marks to me for my prescription. You’re looking almost yourself again." Chapter 52 The Case of the Perfect Maid "The Case of the Perfect Maid" was first published as "The Perfect Maid" in Strand Magazine, April 1942, and then in the USA as "The Maid Who Disappeared" in the Chicago Sunday Tribune, 13 September 1942. "Oh, if you please, madam, could I speak to you a moment?" It might be thought that this request was in the nature of an absurdity, since Edna, Miss Marple’s little maid, was actually speaking to her mistress at the moment. Recognizing the idiom, however, Miss Marple said promptly, "Certainly, Edna, come in and shut the door. What is it?" Obediently shutting the door, Edna advanced into the room, pleated the corner of her apron between her fingers, and swallowed once or twice. "Yes, Edna?" said Miss Marple encouragingly. "Oh, please, ma’am, it’s my cousin, Gladdie." "Dear me," said Miss Marple, her mind leaping to the worst – and, alas, the most usual conclusion. "Not – not in trouble?" Edna hastened to reassure her. "Oh, no, ma’am, nothing of that kind. Gladdie’s not that kind of girl. It’s just that she’s upset. You see, she’s lost her place." "Dear me, I am sorry to hear that. She was at Old Hall, wasn’t she, with the Miss – Misses – Skinner?" "Yes, ma’am, that’s right, ma’am. And Gladdie’s very upset about it – very upset indeed." "Gladys has changed places rather often before, though, hasn’t she?" "Oh, yes, ma’am. She’s always one for a change, Gladdie is. She never seems to get really settled, if you know what I mean. But she’s always been the one to give the notice, you see!" "And this time it’s the other way round?" asked Miss Marple dryly. "Yes, ma’am, and it’s upset Gladdie something awful." Miss Marple looked slightly surprised. Her recollection of Gladys, who had occasionally come to drink tea in the kitchen on her "days out’, was a stout, giggling girl of unshakably equable temperament. Edna went on. "You see, ma’am, it’s the way it happened – the way Miss Skinner looked." "How," enquired Miss Marple patiently, "did Miss Skinner look?" This time Edna got well away with her news bulletin. "Oh, ma’am, it was ever such a shock to Gladdie. You see, one of Miss Emily’s brooches was missing, and such a hue and cry for it as never was, and of course nobody likes a thing like that to happen; it’s upsetting, ma’am, if you know what I mean.

They remain childish longer. Childish in the clothes they like to wear, childish with their floating hair. Even their mini skirts represent a worship of childishness. Their Baby Doll nightdresses, their gymslips and shorts—all children’s fashions. They wish not to become adult—not to have to accept our kind of responsibility. And yet like all children, they want to be thought grown up, and free to do what they think are grown up things. And that leads sometimes to tragedy and sometimes to the aftermath of tragedy." "Are you thinking of some particular case?" "No. No, not really. I’m only thinking—well, shall we say letting possibilities pass through my mind. I cannot believe that Elizabeth Temple had a personal enemy. An enemy ruthless enough to wish to take an opportunity of killing her. What I do think—" he looked at Miss Marple, "—would you like to make a suggestion?" "Of a possibility? Well, I think I know or guess what you are suggesting. You are suggesting that Miss Temple knew something, knew some fact or had some knowledge that would be inconvenient or even dangerous to somebody if it was known." "Yes, I do feel exactly that." "In that case," said Miss Marple, "it seems indicated that there is someone on our coach tour who recognized Miss Temple or knew who she was, but who perhaps after the passage of some years was not remembered or might even not have been recognized by Miss Temple. It seems to throw it back on our passengers, does it not?" She paused. "That pullover you mentioned—red and black checks, you said?" "Oh yes? The pullover—" He looked at her curiously. "What was it that struck you about that?" "It was very noticeable," said Miss Marple. "That is what your words led me to infer. It was very mentionable. So much so that the girl Joanna mentioned it specifically." "Yes. And what does that suggest to you?" "The trailing of flags," said Miss Marple thoughtfully. "Something that will be seen, remembered, observed, recognized." "Yes." Professor Wanstead looked at her with encouragement. "When you describe a person you have seen, seen not close at hand but from a distance, the first thing you will describe will be their clothes. Not their faces, not their walk, not their hands, not their feet. A scarlet tam-o’-shanter, a purple cloak, a bizarre leather jacket, a pullover of brilliant reds and blacks. Something very recognizable, very noticeable. The object of it being that when that person removes that garment, gets rid of it, sends it by post in a parcel to some address, say, about a hundred miles away, or thrusts it in a rubbish bin in a city or burns it or tears it up or destroys it, she or he will be the one person modestly and rather drably attired who will not be suspected or looked at or thought of. It must have been meant, that scarlet and black check jersey. Meant so that it will be recognized again though actually it will never again be seen on that particular person." "A very sound idea," said Professor Wanstead. "As I have told you," continued the Professor, "Fallowfield is situated not very far from here. Sixteen miles, I think. So this is Elizabeth Temple’s part of the world, a part she knows well with people in it that she also might know well." "Yes. It widens the possibilities," said Miss Marple. "I agree with you," she said presently, "that the attacker is more likely to have been a man than a woman. That boulder, if it was done with intent, was sent on its course very accurately. Accuracy is more a male quality than a female one. On the other hand there might easily have been someone on our coach, or possibly in the neighbourhood, who saw Miss Temple in the street, a former pupil of hers in past years. Someone whom she herself might not recognize after a period of time. But the girl or woman would have recognized her, because a Headmaster or Headmistress of over sixty is not unlike the same Headmaster or Headmistress at the age of fifty. She is recognizable. Some woman who recognized her former mistress and also knew that her mistress knew something damaging about her. Someone who might in some way prove a danger to her." She sighed. "I myself do not know this part of the world at all.

But as I say, Alison Wilde never thought of anybody else but herself— She was the sort of person who tells you what they’ve done and what they’ve seen and what they’ve felt and what they’ve heard. They never mention what any other people said or did. Life is a kind of one-way track—just their own progress through it. Other people seem to them just like—like wallpaper in a room." She paused and then said, "I think Heather Badcock was that kind of person." Mrs. Bantry said, "You think she was the sort of person who might have butted into something without knowing what she was doing?" "And without realising that it was a dangerous thing to do," said Miss Marple. She added, "It’s the only reason I can possibly think of why she should have been killed. If of course," added Miss Marple, "we are right in assuming that murder has been committed." "You don’t think she was blackmailing someone?" Mrs. Bantry suggested. "Oh, no," Miss Marple assured her. "She was a kind, good woman. She’d never have done anything of that kind." She added vexedly, "The whole thing seems to me very unlikely. I suppose it can’t have been—" "Well?" Mrs. Bantry urged her. "I just wondered if it might have been the wrong murder," said Miss Marple thoughtfully. The door opened and Dr. Haydock breezed in, Miss Knight twittering behind him. "Ah, at it already, I see," said Dr. Haydock, looking at the two ladies. "I came in to see how your health was," he said to Miss Marple, "but I needn’t ask. I see you’ve begun to adopt the treatment that I suggested." "Treatment, Doctor?" Dr. Haydock pointed a finger at the knitting that lay on the table beside her. "Unravelling," he said. "I’m right, aren’t I?" Miss Marple twinkled very slightly in a discreet, old-fashioned kind of way. "You will have your joke, Doctor Haydock," she said. "You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, my dear lady. I’ve known you too many years. Sudden death at Gossington Hall and all the tongues of St. Mary Mead are wagging. Isn’t that so? Murder suggested long before anybody even knows the result of the inquest." "When is the inquest to be held?" asked Miss Marple. "The day after tomorrow," said Dr. Haydock, "and by that time," he said, "you ladies will have reviewed the whole story, decided on the verdict and decided on a good many other points too, I expect. Well," he added, "I shan’t waste my time here. It’s no good wasting time on a patient that doesn’t need my ministrations. Your cheeks are pink, your eyes are bright, you’ve begun to enjoy yourself. Nothing like having an interest in life. I’ll be on my way." He stomped out again. "I’d rather have him than Sandford any day," said Mrs. Bantry. "So would I," said Miss Marple. "He’s a good friend, too," she added thoughtfully. "He came, I think, to give me the go-ahead sign." "Then it was murder," said Mrs. Bantry. They looked at each other. "At any rate, the doctors think so." Miss Knight brought in cups of coffee. For once in their lives, both ladies were too impatient to welcome this interruption. When Miss Knight had gone Miss Marple started immediately. "Now then, Dolly, you were there—" "I practically saw it happen," said Mrs. Bantry, with modest pride. "Splendid," said Miss Marple. "I mean—well, you know what I mean. So you can tell me just exactly what happened from the moment she arrived." "I’d been taken into the house," said Mrs. Bantry. "Snob status." "Who took you in?" "Oh, a willowy-looking young man. I think he’s Marina Gregg’s secretary or something like that. He took me in, up the staircase. They were having a kind of reunion reception committee at the top of the stairs." "On the landing?" said Miss Marple, surprised. "Oh, they’ve altered all that. They’ve knocked the dressing room and bedroom down so that you’ve got a big sort of alcove, practically a room. It’s very attractive looking." "I see.

Strange. KAY. What about last night? BATTLE. What did you do—say from after dinner, onwards? KAY. I had a headache. I—I went to bed quite early. BATTLE. How early? KAY. I don’t know exactly. It was about a quarter to ten, I think. TREVES. (Interposing gently.) Ten minutes to ten. KAY. Was it? I wouldn’t know to the minute. BATTLE. We’ll take it was ten minutes to ten. (He makes a sign to Benson. Benson makes a note in his book.) Did your husband accompany you? KAY. No. BATTLE. (After a pause.) What time did he come to bed? KAY. I’ve no idea. You’d better ask him that. LEACH. (Crossing to L. of Kay.) The door between your room and your husband’s is locked. Was it locked when you went to bed? KAY. Yes. LEACH. Who locked it? KAY. I did. BATTLE. Was it usual for you to lock it? KAY. No. BATTLE. (Rising.) Why did you do so last night, Mrs. Strange? (Kay does not reply. Leach moves up R. C.) TREVES. (After a pause.) I should tell them, Kay. KAY. I suppose if I don’t, you will. Oh, well, then. You can have it. Nevile and I had a row—a flaming row. (Leach looks at Benson, who makes a note.) I was furious with him. I went to bed and locked the door because I was still in a flaming rage with him. BATTLE. I see—what was the trouble about? KAY. Does it matter? I don’t see how it concerns . . . BATTLE. You’re not compelled to answer, if you’d rather not. KAY. Oh, I don’t mind. My husband has been behaving like a perfect fool. It’s all that woman’s fault, though. BATTLE. What woman? KAY. Audrey—his first wife. It was she who got him to come here in the first place. BATTLE. I understood that it was Mr. Strange’s idea. KAY. Well, it wasn’t. It was hers. BATTLE. But why should Mrs. Audrey Strange have suggested it? (During the following speech, Leach crosses slowly to the door L.) KAY. To cause trouble, I suppose. Nevile thinks it was his own idea—poor innocent. But he never thought of such a thing until he met Audrey in the Park one day in London, and she put the idea into his head and made him believe he’d thought of it himself. I’ve seen her scheming mind behind it from the first. She’s never taken me in. BATTLE. Why should she be so anxious for you all to come here together? KAY. (Quickly and breathlessly.) Because she wanted to get hold of Nevile again. That’s why. She’s never forgiven him for going off with me. This is her revenge. She got him to fix it so that we’d be here together and then she got to work on him. She’s been doing it ever since we arrived. (Battle crosses above the card table to C.) She’s clever, damned clever. She knows just how to look pathetic and elusive. Poor sweet, injured little kitten—with all her blasted claws out. TREVES. Kay—Kay . . . BATTLE. I see. Surely, if you felt so strongly, you could have objected to this arrangement of coming here? KAY. Do you think I didn’t try? Nevile was set on it. He insisted. BATTLE. But you’re quite sure it wasn’t his idea? KAY. I’m positive. That white-faced little cat planned it all. TREVES. You have no actual evidence on which to base such an assertion, Kay. KAY. (Rising and crossing to R. of Treves.) I know, I tell you, and you know it, too, though you won’t admit it. Audrey’s been . . . BATTLE. Come and sit down, Mrs. Strange.

"What’s terrible?" said Joanna, struggling into wakefulness. "Poor Mrs. Symmington." She paused dramatically. "Dead." "Dead?" Joanna sat up in bed, now wide awake. "Yes, miss, yesterday afternoon, and what’s worse, took her own life." "Oh no, Partridge?" Joanna was really shocked—Mrs. Symmington was not, somehow, the sort of person you associated with tragedies. "Yes, miss, it’s the truth. Did it deliberate. Not but what she was drove to it, poor soul." "Drove to it?" Joanna had an inkling of the truth then. "Not—?" Her eyes questioned Partridge and Partridge nodded. "That’s right, miss. One of them nasty letters!" "What did it say?" But that, to Partridge’s regret, she had not succeeded in learning. "They’re beastly things," said Joanna. "But I don’t see why they should make one want to kill oneself." Partridge sniffed and then said with meaning: "Not unless they were true, miss." "Oh," said Joanna. She drank her tea after Partridge had left the room, then she threw on a dressing-gown and came in to me to tell me the news. I thought of what Owen Griffith had said. Sooner or later the shot in the dark went home. It had done with Mrs. Symmington. She, apparently the most unlikely of women, had had a secret… It was true, I reflected, that for all her shrewdness she was not a woman of much stamina. She was the anaemic clinging type that crumples easily. Joanna nudged me and asked me what I was thinking about. I repeated to her what Owen had said. "Of course," said Joanna waspishly, "he would know all about it. That man thinks he knows everything." "He’s clever," I said. "He’s conceited," said Joanna. She added, "Abominably conceited!" After a minute or two she said: "How awful for her husband—and for the girl. What do you think Megan will feel about it?" I hadn’t the slightest idea and said so. It was curious that one could never gauge what Megan would think or feel. Joanna nodded and said: "No, one never does know with changelings." After a minute or two she said: "Do you think—would you like—I wonder if she’d like to come and stay with us for a day or two? It’s rather a shock for a girl that age." "We might go along and suggest it," I agreed. "The children are all right," said Joanna. "They’ve got that governess woman. But I expect she’s just the sort of creature that would drive someone like Megan mad." I thought that was very possible. I could imagine Elsie Holland uttering platitude after platitude and suggesting innumerable cups of tea. A kindly creature, but not, I thought, the person for a sensitive girl. I had thought myself of bringing Megan away, and I was glad that Joanna had thought of it spontaneously without prompting from me. We went down to the Symmingtons" house after breakfast. We were a little nervous, both of us. Our arrival might look like sheer ghoulish curiosity. Luckily we met Owen Griffith just coming out through the gate. He looked worried and preoccupied. He greeted me, however, with some warmth. "Oh, hallo, Burton. I’m glad to see you. What I was afraid would happen sooner or later has happened. A damnable business!" "Good morning, Dr. Griffith," said Joanna, using the voice she keeps for one of our deafer aunts. Griffith started and flushed. "Oh—oh, good morning, Miss Burton." "I thought perhaps," said Joanna, "that you didn’t see me." Owen Griffith got redder still. His shyness enveloped him like a mantle. "I’m— I’m so sorry—preoccupied—I didn’t." Joanna went on mercilessly: "After all, I am life size." "Merely kit-kat," I said in a stern aside to her. Then I went on: "My sister and I, Griffith, wondered whether it would be a good thing if the girl came and stopped with us for a day or two? What do you think? I don’t want to butt in—but it must be rather grim for the poor child. What would Symmington feel about it, do you think?" Griffith turned the idea over in his mind for a moment or two.

My line of country entirely. He wanted me to see this young man and talk with him, visit him, make a professional appraisal of him and give him my opinion." "Very interesting," said Miss Marple. "Yes, I call that very interesting. After all, your friend—I mean your Governor—was a man of experience, a man who loved justice. He was a man whom you’d be willing to listen to. Presumably then, you did listen to him." "Yes," said Professor Wanstead, "I was deeply interested. I saw the subject, as I will call him, I approached him from several different attitudes. I talked to him, I discussed various changes likely to occur in the law. I told him it might be possible to bring down a lawyer, a Queen’s Counsel, to see what points there might be in his favour, and other things. I approached him as a friend but also as an enemy so that I could see how he responded to different approaches, and I also made a good many physical tests, such as we use very frequently nowadays. I will not go into those with you because they are wholly technical." "Then what did you think in the end?" "I thought," said Professor Wanstead, "I thought my friend was likely to be right. I did not think that Michael Rafiel was a murderer." "What about the earlier case you mentioned?" "That told against him, of course. Not in the jury’s mind, because of course they did not hear about that until after the judge’s summing up, but certainly in the judge’s mind. It told against him, but I made a few enquiries myself afterwards. He had assaulted a girl. He had conceivably raped her, but he had not attempted to strangle her and in my opinion—I have seen a great many cases which come before the Assizes—it seemed to me highly unlikely that there was a very definite case of rape. Girls, you must remember, are far more ready to be raped nowadays than they used to be. Their mothers insist, very often, that they should call it rape. The girl in question had had several boyfriends who had gone further than friendship. I did not think it counted very greatly as evidence against him. The actual murder case—yes, that was undoubtedly murder—but I continued to feel by all tests, physical tests, mental tests, psychological tests, none of them accorded with this particular crime." "Then what did you do?" "I communicated with Mr. Rafiel. I told him that I would like an interview with him on a certain matter concerning his son. I went to him. I told him what I thought, what the Governor thought, that we had no evidence, that there were no grounds of appeal, at present, but that we both believed that a miscarriage of justice had been committed. I said I thought possibly an enquiry might be held, it might be an expensive business, it might bring out certain facts that could be laid before the Home Office, it might be successful, it might not. There might be something there, some evidence if you looked for it. I said it would be expensive to look for it but I presumed that would make no difference to anyone in his position. I had realized by that time that he was a sick man, a very ill man. He told me so himself. He told me that he had been in expectation of an early death, that he’d been warned two years ago that death could not be delayed for what they first thought was about a year, but later they realized that he would last rather longer because of his unusual physical strength. I asked him what he felt about his son." "And what did he feel about his son?" said Miss Marple. "Ah, you want to know that. So did I. He was, I think, extremely honest with me even if—" "—even if rather ruthless?" said Miss Marple. "Yes, Miss Marple. You are using the right word. He was a ruthless man, but he was a just man and an honest man. He said, "I’ve known what my son was like for many years. I have not tried to change him because I don’t believe that anyone could change him. He is made a certain way. He is crooked. He’s a bad lot. He’ll always be in trouble. He’s dishonest. Nobody, nothing could make him go straight. I am well assured of that. I have in a sense washed my hands of him.

gives me a free hand. He said to me yesterday: "Thank Heaven, there’s one sane person in the world. You’re never likely to fall in love with a crook, Blackie, are you?" I said I didn’t think I was likely to fall in love with anybody. R.G. said: "Let’s start a few new hares in the City." He’s really rather a mischievous devil sometimes and he sails terribly near the wind. "You’re quite determined to keep me on the straight and narrow path aren’t you, Blackie?" he said the other day. And I shall too! I can’t understand how people can’t see when a thing’s dishonest—but R.G. really and truly doesn’t. He only knows what is actually against the law. Belle only laughs at all this. She thinks the fuss about Sonia is all nonsense. "Sonia has her own money," she said. "Why shouldn’t she marry this man if she wants to?" I said it might turn out to be a terrible mistake and Belle said, "It’s never a mistake to marry a man you want to marry—even if you regret it." And then she said, "I suppose Sonia doesn’t want to break with Randall because of money. Sonia’s very fond of money." No more now. How is father? I won’t say Give him my love. But you can if you think it’s better to do so. Have you seen more people? You really must not be morbid, darling. Sonia asks to be remembered to you. She has just come in and is closing and unclosing her hands like an angry cat sharpening its claws. I think she and R.G. have had another row. Of course Sonia can be very irritating. She stares you down with that cool stare of hers. Lots of love, darling, and buck up. This iodine treatment may make a lot of difference. I’ve been enquiring about it and it really does seem to have good results. Your loving sister, Letitia. Miss Marple folded the letter and handed it back. She looked abstracted. "Well, what do you think about her?" Craddock urged. "What picture do you get of her?" "Of Sonia? It’s difficult, you know, to see anyone through another person’s mind … Determined to get her own way—that, definitely, I think. And wanting the best of two worlds…." "Closing and unclosing her hands like an angry cat," murmured Craddock. "You know, that reminds me of someone…." He frowned. "Making enquiries …" murmured Miss Marple. "If we could get hold of the result of those inquiries," said Craddock. "Does that letter remind you of anything in St. Mary Mead?" asked Bunch, rather indistinctly since her mouth was full of pins. "I really can’t say it does, dear … Dr. Blacklock is, perhaps, a little like Mr. Curtiss the Wesleyan Minister. He wouldn’t let his child wear a plate on her teeth. Said it was the Lord’s Will if her teeth stuck out. "After all," I said to him, "you do trim your beard and cut your hair. It might be the Lord’s Will that your hair should grow out." He said that was quite different. So like a man. But that doesn’t help us with our present problem." "We’ve never traced that revolver, you know. It wasn’t Rudi Scherz. If I knew who had had a revolver in Chipping Cleghorn—" "Colonel Easterbrook has one," said Bunch. "He keeps it in his collar drawer." "How do you know, Mrs. Harmon?" "Mrs. Butt told me. She’s my daily. Or rather, my twice weekly. Being a military gentleman, she said, he’d naturally have a revolver and very handy it would be if burglars were to come along." "When did she tell you this?" "Ages ago. About six months ago, I should think." "Colonel Easterbrook?" murmured Craddock. "It’s like those pointer things at fairs, isn’t it?" said Bunch, still speaking through a mouthful of pins. "Go round and round and stop at something different every time." "You’re telling me," said Craddock and groaned. "Colonel Easterbrook was up at Little Paddocks to leave a book there one day.

He said he’d take all her meals up to her and all that. Well now, I do think that was rather nice of him, don’t you, M. Poirot?" "It shows a consideration," said Poirot, thoughtfully, "which seems almost out of character." "Oh, I don’t know. You can have family affections at the same time as wishing to prey on a rich young girl. Sarah will be very rich, you know, not only with what we leave her—and of course that won’t be very much because most of the money goes with the place to Colin, my grandson. But her mother was a very rich woman and Sarah will inherit all her money when she’s twenty-one. She’s only twenty now. No, I do think it was nice of Desmond to mind about his sister. And he didn’t pretend she was anything very wonderful or that. She’s a shorthand typist, I gather—does secretarial work in London. And he’s been as good as his word and does carry up trays to her. Not all the time, of course, but quite often. So I think he has some nice points. But all the same," said Mrs. Lacey with great decision, "I don’t want Sarah to marry him." "From all I have heard and been told," said Poirot, "that would indeed be a disaster." "Do you think it would be possible for you to help us in any way?" asked Mrs. Lacey. "I think it is possible, yes," said Hercule Poirot, "but I do not wish to promise too much. For the Mr. Desmond Lee-Wortleys of this world are clever, Madame. But do not despair. One can, perhaps, do a little something. I shall at any rate, put forth my best endeavours, if only in gratitude for your kindness in asking me here for this Christmas festivity." He looked round him. "And it cannot be so easy these days to have Christmas festivities." "No, indeed," Mrs. Lacey sighed. She leaned forward. "Do you know, M. Poirot, what I really dream of—what I would love to have?" "But tell me, Madame." "I simply long to have a small, modern bungalow. No, perhaps not a bungalow exactly, but a small, modern, easy-to-run house built somewhere in the park here, and live in it with an absolute up-to-date kitchen and no long passages. Everything easy and simple." "It is a very practical idea, Madame." "It’s not practical for me," said Mrs. Lacey. "My husband adores this place. He loves living here. He doesn’t mind being slightly uncomfortable, he doesn’t mind the inconveniences and he would hate, simply hate, to live in a small modern house in the park!" "So you sacrifice yourself to his wishes?" Mrs. Lacey drew herself up. "I do not consider it a sacrifice, M. Poirot," she said. "I married my husband with the wish to make him happy. He has been a good husband to me and made me very happy all these years, and I wish to give happiness to him." "So you will continue to live here," said Poirot. "It’s not really too uncomfortable," said Mrs. Lacey. "No, no," said Poirot, hastily. "On the contrary, it is most comfortable. Your central heating and your bathwater are perfection." "We spent a lot of money in making the house comfortable to live in," said Mrs. Lacey. "We were able to sell some land. Ripe for development, I think they call it. Fortunately right out of sight of the house on the other side of the park. Really rather an ugly bit of ground with no nice view, but we got a very good price for it. So that we have been able to have as many improvements as possible." "But the service, Madame?" "Oh, well, that presents less difficulty than you might think. Of course, one cannot expect to be looked after and waited upon as one used to be. Different people come in from the village. Two women in the morning, another two to cook lunch and wash it up, and different ones again in the evening. There are plenty of people who want to come and work for a few hours a day. Of course for Christmas we are very lucky. My dear Mrs. Ross always comes in every Christmas. She is a wonderful cook, really first-class.

Let this be all among friends. You are welcome to search where you will in my boat. Ah, perhaps you think that I have here my cousin, Lady Stubbs? You think, perhaps, she has run away from her husband and taken shelter with me? But search, gentlemen, by all means search." The search was duly undertaken. It was a thorough one. In the end, striving to conceal their chagrin, the two police officers took leave of Mr. de Sousa. "You have found nothing? How disappointing. But I told you that was so. You will perhaps have some refreshment now. No?" He accompanied them to where their boat lay alongside. "And for myself?" he asked. "I am free to depart? You understand it becomes a little boring here. The weather is good. I should like very much to proceed to Plymouth." "If you would be kind enough, sir, to remain here for the inquest—that is tomorrow—in case the Coroner should wish to ask you anything." "Why, certainly. I want to do all that I can. But after that?" "After that, sir," said Superintendent Baldwin, his face wooden, "you are, of course, at liberty to proceed where you will." The last thing they saw as the launch moved away from the yacht was de Sousa’s smiling face looking down on them. II The inquest was almost painfully devoid of interest. Apart from the medical evidence and evidence of identity, there was little to feed the curiosity of the spectators. An adjournment was asked for and granted. The whole proceedings had been purely formal. What followed the inquest, however, was not quite so formal. Inspector Bland spent the afternoon taking a trip in that well-known pleasure steamer, the Devon Belle. Leaving Brixwell at about three o’clock, it rounded the headland, proceeded around the coast, entered the mouth of the Helm and went up the river. There were about two hundred and thirty people on board besides Inspector Bland. He sat on the starboard side of the boat, scanning the wooded shore. They came round a bend in the river and passed the isolated grey tiled boathouse that belonged to Hoodown Park. Inspector Bland looked surreptitiously at his watch. It was just quarter past four. They were coming now close beside the Nasse boathouse. It nestled remote in its trees with its little balcony and its small quay below. There was no sign apparent that there was anyone inside the boathouse, though as a matter of fact, to Inspector Bland’s certain knowledge, there was someone inside. P.C. Hoskins, in accordance with orders, was on duty there. Not far from the boathouse steps was a small launch. In the launch were a man and girl in holiday kit. They were indulging in what seemed like some rather rough horseplay. The girl was screaming, the man was playfully pretending he was going to duck her overboard. At that same moment a stentorian voice spoke through a megaphone. "Ladies and gentlemen," it boomed, "you are now approaching the famous village of Gitcham where we shall remain for three-quarters of an hour and where you can have a crab or lobster tea, as well as Devonshire cream. On your right are the grounds of Nasse House. You will pass the house itself in two or three minutes, it is just visible through the trees. Originally the home of Sir Gervase Folliat, a contemporary of Sir Francis Drake who sailed with him in his voyage to the new world, it is now the property of Sir George Stubbs. On your left is the famous Gooseacre Rock. There, ladies and gentlemen, it was the habit to deposit scolding wives at low tide and leave them there until the water came up to their necks." Everybody on the Devon Belle stared with fascinated interest at the Gooseacre Rock. Jokes were made and there were many shrill giggles and guffaws. While this was happening, the holidaymaker in the boat, with a final scuffle, did push his lady friend overboard. Leaning over, he held her in the water, laughing and saying, "No, I don’t pull you out till you’ve promised to behave." Nobody, however, observed this with the exception of Inspector Bland.

"Was that a usual proceeding of his when he had guests?" asked the inspector. "No, sir; it wasn’t. That’s what made me think it must be some business of a very unusual kind that he was going to discuss with these gentlemen." That finished Graves’s story. He had gone out about 8:30, and meeting a friend, had accompanied him to the Metropolitan Music Hall in Edgware Road. Nobody had seen the two men leave, but the time of the murder was fixed clearly enough at 8:47. A small clock on the writing-table had been swept off by Foscatini’s arm, and had stopped at that hour, which agreed with Miss Rider’s telephone summons. The police surgeon had made his examination of the body, and it was now lying on the couch. I saw the face for the first time—the olive complexion, the long nose, the luxuriant black moustache, and the full red lips drawn back from the dazzlingly white teeth. Not altogether a pleasant face. "Well," said the inspector, refastening his notebook. "The case seems clear enough. The only difficulty will be to lay our hands on this Signor Ascanio. I suppose his address is not in the dead man’s pocketbook by any chance?" As Poirot had said, the late Foscatini was an orderly man. Neatly written in small, precise handwriting was the inscription, "Signor Paolo Ascanio, Grosvenor Hotel." The inspector busied himself with the telephone, then turned to us with a grin. "Just in time. Our fine gentleman was off to catch the boat train to the Continent. Well, gentlemen, that’s about all we can do here. It’s a bad business, but straightforward enough. One of these Italian vendetta things, as likely as not." Thus airily dismissed, we found our way downstairs. Dr. Hawker was full of excitement. "Like the beginning of a novel, eh? Real exciting stuff. Wouldn’t believe it if you read about it." Poirot did not speak. He was very thoughtful. All the evening he had hardly opened his lips. "What says the master detective, eh?" asked Hawker, clapping him on the back. "Nothing to work your grey cells over this time." "You think not?" "What could there be?" "Well, for example, there is the window." "The window? But it was fastened. Nobody could have got out or in that way. I noticed it specially." "And why were you able to notice it?" The doctor looked puzzled. Poirot hastened to explain. "It is to the curtains that I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that. And then there was the coffee. It was very black coffee." "Well, what of it?" "Very black," repeated Poirot. "In conjunction with that let us remember that very little of the rice soufflé was eaten, and we get—what?" "Moonshine," laughed the doctor. "You’re pulling my leg." "Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly serious." "I don’t know what you are getting at, all the same," I confessed. "You don’t suspect the manservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang, and put some dope in the coffee. I suppose they’ll test his alibi?" "Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me." "You think he has an alibi?" "That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be enlightened on that point." The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant with succeeding events. Signor Ascanio was arrested and charged with the murder of Count Foscatini. When arrested, he denied knowing the Count, and declared he had never been near Regent’s Court either on the evening of the crime or on the previous morning. The younger man had disappeared entirely. Signor Ascanio had arrived alone at the Grosvenor Hotel from the Continent two days before the murder. All efforts to trace the second man failed. Ascanio, however, was not sent for trial. No less a personage than the Italian Ambassador himself came forward and testified at the police court proceedings that Ascanio had been with him at the Embassy from eight till nine that evening. The prisoner was discharged.

I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I gave them to Tiglath Pileser, but even he wouldn’t eat them so I had to throw them out of the window." "Tiglath Pileser," said Bunch, stroking the vicarage cat, who was purring against her knee, "is very particular about what fish he eats. I often tell him he’s got a proud stomach!" "And your tooth, dear? Did you have it seen to?" "Yes," said Bunch. "It didn’t hurt much, and I went to see Aunt Jane again, too. . . ." "Dear old thing," said Julian. "I hope she’s not failing at all." "Not in the least," said Bunch, with a grin. The following morning Bunch took a fresh supply of chrysanthemums to the church. The sun was once more pouring through the east window, and Bunch stood in the jewelled light on the chancel steps. She said very softly under her breath, "Your little girl will be all right. I’ll see that she is. I promise." Then she tidied up the church, slipped into a pew and knelt for a few moments to say her prayers before returning to the vicarage to attack the piled-up chores of two neglected days.

That is what anyone, anyone with a grain of sense and who had access to the medicine would certainly do! "Sooner or later Mrs Boynton takes a dose and dies—and even if the digitalis is discovered in the bottle it may be set down as a mistake of the chemist who made it up. Certainly nothing can be proved! "Why, then, the theft of the hypodermic needle? "There can be only two explanations of that—either Dr Gerard overlooked the syringe and it was never stolen, or else the syringe was taken because the murderer had not got access to the medicine—that is to say the murderer was not a member of the Boynton family. Those two first facts point overwhelmingly to an outsider as having committed the crime! "I saw that—but I was puzzled, as I say, by the strong evidences of guilt displayed by the Boynton family. Was it possible that, in spite of that consciousness of guilt, the Boynton family were innocent? I set out to prove—not the guilt—but the innocence of those people! "That is where we stand now. The murder was committed by an outsider—that is, by someone who was not sufficiently intimate with Mrs Boynton to enter her tent or to handle her medicine bottle." He paused. "There are three people in this room who are, technically, outsiders, but who have a definite connection with the case. "Mr Cope, whom we will consider first, has been closely associated with the Boynton family for some time. Can we discover motive and opportunity on his part? It seems not. Mrs Boynton’s death has affected him adversely—since it has brought about the frustration of certain hopes. Unless Mr Cope’s motive was an almost fanatical desire to benefit others, we can find no reason for his desiring Mrs Boynton’s death. (Unless, of course, there is a motive about which we are entirely in the dark. We do not know what Mr Cope’s dealings with the Boynton family have been.)" Mr Cope said with dignity: "This seems to me a little farfetched, M. Poirot. You must remember I had absolutely no opportunity for committing this deed and, in any case I hold very strong views as to the sanctity of human life." "Your position certainly seems impeccable," said Poirot with gravity. "In a work of fiction you would be strongly suspected on that account." He turned a little in his chair. "We now come to Miss King. Miss King had a certain amount of motive and she had the necessary medical knowledge and is a person of character and determination, but since she left the camp before three-thirty with the others and did not return to it until six o’clock, it seems difficult to see where she could have got her opportunity. "Next we must consider Dr Gerard. Now here we must take into account the actual time that the murder was committed. According to Mr Lennox Boynton’s last statement, his mother was dead at four thirty-five. According to Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce, she was alive at four-sixteen when they started on their walk. That leaves exactly twenty minutes unaccounted for. Now, as these two ladies walked away from the camp, Dr Gerard passed them going to it. There is no one to say what Dr Gerard’s movements were when he reached the camp because the two ladies" backs were towards it. They were walking away from it. Therefore it is perfectly possible for Dr Gerard to have committed the crime. Being a doctor, he could easily counterfeit the appearance of malaria. There is, I should say, a possible motive. Dr Gerard might have wished to save a certain person whose reason (perhaps more vital a loss than loss of life) was in danger, and he may have considered the sacrifice of an old and worn-out life worth it!" "Your ideas," said Dr Gerard, "are fantastic!" Without taking any notice, Poirot went on: "But if so, why did Gerard call attention to the possibility of foul play? It is quite certain that, but for his statement to Colonel Carbury, Mrs Boynton’s death would have been put down to natural causes. It was Dr Gerard who first pointed out the possibility of murder. That, my friends," said Poirot, "does not make common sense!" "Doesn’t seem to," said Colonel Carbury gruffly. "There is one more possibility," said Poirot. "Mrs Lennox Boynton just now negatived strongly the possibility of her young sister-in-law being guilty.

"Nice to have Nasse lived in again. We were all so afraid it was going to be a hotel. You know what it is nowadays; one drives through the country and passes place after place with the board up "Guest House" or "Private Hotel" or "Hotel A.A. Fully Licensed." All the houses one stayed in as a girl—or where one went to dances. Very sad. Yes, I’m glad about Nasse and so is poor dear Amy Folliat, of course. She’s had such a hard life—but never complains, I will say. Sir George has done wonders for Nasse—and not vulgarized it. Don’t know whether that’s the result of Amy Folliat’s influence—or whether it’s his own natural good taste. He has got quite good taste, you know. Very surprising in a man like that." "He is not, I understand, one of the landed gentry?" said Poirot cautiously. "He isn’t even really Sir George—was christened it, I understand. Took the idea from Lord George Sanger’s Circus, I suspect. Very amusing really. Of course we never let on. Rich men must be allowed their little snobberies, don’t you agree? The funny thing is that in spite of his origins George Stubbs would go down perfectly well anywhere. He’s a throwback. Pure type of the eighteenth-century country squire. Good blood in him, I’d say. Father a gent and mother a barmaid, is my guess." Mrs. Masterton interrupted herself to yell to a gardener. "Not by that rhododendron. You must leave room for the skittles over to the right. Right—not left!" She went on: "Extraordinary how they can’t tell their left from their right. The Brewis woman is efficient. Doesn’t like poor Hattie, though. Looks at her sometimes as though she’d like to murder her. So many of these good secretaries are in love with their boss. Now where do you think Jim Warburton can have got to? Silly the way he sticks to calling himself "Captain." Not a regular soldier and never within miles of a German. One has to put up, of course, with what one can get these days—and he’s a hard worker—but I feel there’s something rather fishy about him. Ah! Here are the Legges." Sally Legge, dressed in slacks and a yellow pullover, said brightly: "We’ve come to help." "Lots to do," boomed Mrs. Masterton. "Now, let me see…" Poirot, profiting by her inattention, slipped away. As he came round the corner of the house on to the front terrace he became a spectator of a new drama. Two young women, in shorts, with bright blouses, had come out from the wood and were standing uncertainly looking up at the house. In one of them he thought he recognized the Italian girl of yesterday’s lift in the car. From the window of Lady Stubbs" bedroom Sir George leaned out and addressed them wrathfully. "You’re trespassing," he shouted. "Please?" said the young woman with the green headscarf. "You can’t come through here. Private." The other young woman, who had a royal blue headscarf, said brightly: "Please? Nassecombe Quay…" She pronounced it carefully. "It is this way? Please." "You’re trespassing," bellowed Sir George. "Please?" "Trespassing! No way through. You’ve got to go back. BACK! The way you came." They stared as he gesticulated. Then they consulted together in a flood of foreign speech. Finally, doubtfully, blue-scarf said: "Back? To Hostel?" "That’s right. And you take the road—road round that way." They retreated unwillingly. Sir George mopped his brow and looked down at Poirot. "Spend my time turning people off," he said. "Used to come through the top gate. I’ve padlocked that. Now they come through the woods, having got over the fence. Think they can get down to the shore and the quay easily this way. Well, they can, of course, much quicker. But there’s no right of way—never has been. And they’re practically all foreigners—don’t understand what you say, and just jabber back at you in Dutch or something."

And–and here they all are among our own books and others. Only, we’ve got such a terrible lot now of books, and the shelves we had made I don’t think are going to be nearly enough. What about your special sanctum? Is there room there for more books?" "No, there isn’t," said Tommy. "There’s not going to be enough for my own." "Oh dear, oh dear," said Tuppence, "that’s so like us. Do you think we might have to build on an extra room?" "No," said Tommy, "we’re going to economize. We said so the day before yesterday. Do you remember?" "That was the day before yesterday," said Tuppence. "Time alters. What I am going to do now is put in these shelves all the books I really can’t bear to part with. And then–and then we can look at the others and–well, there might be a children’s hospital somewhere and there might, anyway, be places which would like books." "Or we could sell them," said Tommy. "I don’t suppose they’re the sort of books people would want to buy very much. I don’t think there are any books of rare value or anything like that." "You never know your luck," said Tommy. "Let’s hope something out of print will fulfil some bookseller’s long-felt want." "In the meantime," said Tuppence, "we have to put them into the shelves, and look inside them, of course, each time to see whether it’s a book I do really want and I can really remember. I’m trying to get them roughly–well, you know what I mean, sort of sorted. I mean, adventure stories, fairy stories, children’s stories and those stories about schools, where the children were always very rich–L. T. Meade, I think. And some of the books we used to read to Deborah when she was small, too. How we all used to love Winnie the Pooh. And there was The Little Grey Hen too, but I didn’t care very much for that." "I think you’re tiring yourself," said Tommy. "I think I should leave off what you’re doing now." "Well, perhaps I will," said Tuppence, "but I think if I could just finish this side of the room, just get the books in here…" "Well, I’ll help you," said Tommy. He came over, tilted the case so that the books fell out, gathered up armfuls of them and went to the shelves and shoved them in. "I’m putting the same sized ones together, it looks neater," he said. "Oh, I don’t call that sorting," said Tuppence. "Sorting enough to get on with. We can do more of that later. You know, make everything really nice. We’ll sort it on some wet day when we can’t think of anything else to do." "The trouble is we always can think of something else to do." "Well now, there’s another seven in there. Now then, there’s only this top corner. Just bring me that wooden chair over there, will you? Are its legs strong enough for me to stand on it? Then I can put some on the top shelf." With some care he climbed on the chair. Tuppence lifted up to him an armful of books. He insinuated them with some care on to the top shelf. Disaster only happened with the last three which cascaded to the floor, narrowly missing Tuppence. "Oh," said Tuppence, "that was painful." "Well, I can’t help it. You handed me up too many at once." "Oh well, that does look wonderful," said Tuppence, standing back a little. "Now then, if you’ll just put these in the second shelf from the bottom, there’s a gap there, that will finish up this particular caseful anyway. It’s a good thing too. These ones I’m doing this morning aren’t really ours, they’re the ones we bought. We may find treasures." "We may," said Tommy. "I think we shall find treasures. I think I really shall find something. Something that’s worth a lot of money, perhaps." "What do we do then? Sell it?" "I expect we’ll have to sell it, yes," said Tuppence. "Of course we might just keep it and show it to people. You know, not exactly boasting, but just say, you know: "Oh yes, we’ve got really one or two interesting finds." I think we shall make an interesting find, too."

The major part of his baggage. We hadn’t been quite sure what to do about it. Of course," Miss Gorringe went on hastily, "we know the Canon is, well—somewhat forgetful sometimes." "You may well say that!" "It makes it a little difficult for us. We are so fully booked up. His room is actually booked for another guest." She added: "You have no idea where he is?" With bitterness Mrs. McCrae said: "The man might be anywhere!" She pulled herself together. "Well, thank you, Miss Gorringe." "Anything I can do—" Miss Gorringe suggested helpfully. "I dare say I’ll hear soon enough," said Mrs. McCrae. She thanked Miss Gorringe again and rang off. She sat by the telephone, looking upset. She did not fear for the Canon’s personal safety. If he had had an accident she would by now have been notified. She felt sure of that. On the whole the Canon was not what one could call accident prone. He was what Mrs. McCrae called to herself "one of the scatty ones," and the scatty ones seemed always to be looked after by a special providence. Whilst taking no care or thought, they could still survive even a Panda crossing. No, she did not visualize Canon Pennyfather as lying groaning in a hospital. He was somewhere, no doubt innocently and happily prattling with some friend or other. Maybe he was abroad still. The difficulty was that Archdeacon Simmons was arriving this evening and Archdeacon Simmons would expect to find a host to receive him. She couldn’t put Archdeacon Simmons off because she didn’t know where he was. It was all very difficult, but it had, like most difficulties, its bright spot. Its bright spot was Archdeacon Simmons. Archdeacon Simmons would know what to do. She would place the matter in his hands. Archdeacon Simmons was a complete contrast to her employer. He knew where he was going, and what he was doing, and was always cheerfully sure of knowing the right thing to be done and doing it. A confident cleric. Archdeacon Simmons, when he arrived, to be met by Mrs. McCrae’s explanations, apologies and perturbation, was a tower of strength. He, too, was not alarmed. "Now don’t you worry, Mrs. McCrae," he said in his genial fashion, as he sat down to the meal she had prepared for his arrival. "We’ll hunt the absentminded fellow down. Ever heard that story about Chesterton? G. K. Chesterton, you know, the writer. Wired to his wife when he’d gone on a lecture tour "Am at Crewe Station. Where ought I to be?’" He laughed. Mrs. McCrae smiled dutifully. She did not think it was very funny because it was so exactly the sort of thing that Canon Pennyfather might have done. "Ah," said Archdeacon Simmons, with appreciation, "one of your excellent veal cutlets! You’re a marvellous cook, Mrs. McCrae. I hope my old friend appreciates you." Veal cutlets having been succeeded by some small castle puddings with a blackberry sauce which Mrs. McCrae had remembered was one of the Archdeacon’s favourite sweets, the good man applied himself in earnest to the tracking down of his missing friend. He addressed himself to the telephone with vigour and a complete disregard for expense, which made Mrs. McCrae purse her lips anxiously, although not really disapproving, because definitely her master had got to be tracked down. Having first dutifully tried the Canon’s sister who took little notice of her brother’s goings and comings and as usual had not the faintest idea where he was or might be, the Archdeacon spread his net farther afield. He addressed himself once more to Bertram’s Hotel and got details as precisely as possible. The Canon had definitely left there on the early evening of the 19th. he had with him a small BEA handbag, but his other luggage had remained behind in his room, which he had duly retained. He had mentioned that he was going to a conference of some kind at Lucerne. He had not gone direct to the airport from the hotel.

"Your letters is on the hall table, miss. And there’s one as went to Daisymead by mistake. Always doing that, aren’t they? Does look a bit alike, Dane and Daisy, and the writing’s so bad I don’t wonder this time. They’ve been away there and the house shut up, they only got back and sent it round today. Said as how they hoped it wasn’t important." Miss Marple picked up her correspondence. The letter to which Kitty had referred was on top of the others. A faint chord of remembrance stirred in Miss Marple’s mind at the sight of the blotted scrawled handwriting. She tore it open. Dear Madam, I hope as you’ll forgive me writing this but I really don’t know what to do indeed I don’t and I never meant no harm. Dear madam, you’ll have seen the newspapers it was murder they say but it wasn’t me that did it, not really, because I would never do anything wicked like that and I know as how he wouldn’t either. Albert, I mean. I’m telling this badly, but you see we met last summer and was going to be married only Bert hadn’t got his rights, he’d been done out of them, swindled by this Mr. Fortescue who’s dead. And Mr. Fortescue he just denied everything and of course everybody believed him and not Bert because he was rich and Bert was poor. But Bert had a friend who works in a place where they make these new drugs and there’s what they call a truth drug you’ve read about it perhaps in the paper and it makes people speak the truth whether they want to or not. Bert was going to see Mr. Fortescue in his office on Nov. 5th and taking a lawyer with him and I was to be sure to give him the drug at breakfast that morning and then it would work just right for when they came and he’d admit as all what Bert said was quite true. Well, madam, I put it in the marmalade but now he’s dead and I think as how it must have been too strong but it wasn’t Bert’s fault because Bert would never do a thing like that but I can’t tell the police because maybe they’d think Bert did it on purpose which I know he didn’t. Oh, madam, I don’t know what to do or what to say and the police are here in the house and it’s awful and they ask you questions and look at you so stern and I don’t know what to do and I haven’t heard from Bert. Oh, madam, I don’t like to ask it of you but if you could only come here and help me they’d listen to you and you were always so kind to me, and I didn’t mean anything wrong and Bert didn’t either. If you could only help us. Yours respectfully, Gladys Martin. P. S.—I’m enclosing a snap of Bert and me. One of the boys took it at the camp and give it me. Bert doesn’t know I’ve got it—he hates being snapped. But you can see, madam, what a nice boy he is. Miss Marple, her lips pursed together, stared down at the photograph. The pair pictured there were looking at each other. Miss Marple’s eyes went from Gladys’s pathetic adoring face, the mouth slightly open, to the other face—the dark handsome smiling face of Lance Fortescue. The last words of the pathetic letter echoed in her mind: You can see what a nice boy he is. The tear rose in Miss Marple’s eyes. Succeeding pity, there came anger—anger against a heartless killer. And then, displacing both these emotions, there came a surge of triumph—the triumph some specialist might feel who has successfully reconstructed an extinct animal from a fragment of jawbone and a couple of teeth.

She appeared to display no resentment, but to think, indeed, that her husband’s behaviour had been perfectly natural. "I suppose it was a great shock to you when he was arrested?" "Well, naturally. However could he do such a thing? I said to myself, but then, you can’t get away from things. He always had a very nasty temper when anything upset him." Calgary leaned forward. "Let’s put it like this. It really seemed to you not at all a surprising thing that your husband should have hit his mother on the head with a poker and stolen a large quantity of money from her?" "Well, Mr.—er—Calgary, if you’ll excuse me, that’s putting it in rather a nasty way. I don’t suppose he meant to hit her so hard. Don’t suppose he meant to do her in. She just refused to give him some money, he caught up the poker and he threatened her, and when she stuck it out he lost control of himself and gave her a swipe. I don’t suppose he meant to kill her. That was just his bad luck. You see, he needed the money very badly. He’d have gone to prison if he hadn’t got it." "So—you don’t blame him?" "Well, of course I blamed him … I don’t like all that nasty violent behaviour. And your own mother, too! No, I don’t think it was a nice thing to do at all. I began to think as Joe was right in telling me I oughtn’t to have had anything to do with Jackie. But, you know how it is. It’s ever so difficult for a girl to make up her mind. Joe, you see, was always the steady kind. I’ve known him a long time. Jackie was different. He’d got education and all that. He seemed very well off, too, always splashing his money about. And of course he had a way with him, as I’ve been telling you. He could get round anybody. He got round me all right. "You’ll regret it, my girl," that’s what Joe said. I thought that was just sour grapes and the green-eyed monster, if you understand what I mean. But Joe turned out to be quite right in the end." Calgary looked at her. He wondered if she still failed to understand the full implications of his story. "Right in exactly what way?" he asked. "Well, landing me up in the proper mess he did. I mean, we’ve always been respectable. Mother brought us up very careful. We’ve always had things nice and no talk. And there was the police arresting my husband! And all the neighbours knowing. In all the papers it was. News of the World and all the rest of them. And ever so many reporters coming round and asking questions. It put me in a very nasty position altogether." "But, my dear child," said Arthur Calgary, "you do realize now that he didn’t do it?" For a moment the fair, pretty face looked bewildered. "Of course! I was forgetting. But all the same—well, I mean, he did go there and kick up a fuss and threaten her and all that. If he hadn’t done that he wouldn’t have been arrested at all, would he?" "No," said Calgary, "no. That is quite true." Possibly, he thought, this pretty, silly child was more of a realist than he was. "Oo, it was awful," went on Maureen. "I didn’t know what to do. And then Mum said better go over right away and see his people. They’d have to do something for me, she said. After all, she said, you’ve got your rights and you’d best show them as you know how to look after them. So off I went. It was that foreign lady help what opened the door to me and at first I couldn’t make her understand. Seemed as if she couldn’t believe it. "It’s impossible," she kept saying. "It’s impossible," she kept saying. "It’s quite impossible that Jacko should be married to you." Hurt my feelings a bit that did. "Well, married we are," I said, "and not in a registry office neither. In a church." It was the way my Mum wanted! And she said, "It’s not true. I don’t believe it." And then Mr. Argyle came and he was ever so kind.

There. Now she could think! What to do? See the man, of course. Though where she could raise any money—perhaps a lucky flutter at that place in Carlos Street… But time enough to think of that later. See the man—find out what he knows. She went over to the writing-table, dashed off in her big, unformed handwriting: The Countess of Horbury presents her compliments to Mr John Robinson and will see him if he calls at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning… II "Will I do?" asked Norman. He flushed a little under Poirot’s startled gaze. "Name of a name," said Hercule Poirot. "What kind of a comedy is it that you are playing?" Norman Gale flushed even more deeply. He mumbled, "You said a slight disguise would be as well." Poirot sighed, then he took the young man by the arm and marched him to the looking-glass. "Regard yourself," he said. "That is all I ask of you—regard yourself! What do you think you are—a Santa Claus dressed up to amuse the children? I agree that your beard is not white: no, it is black—the colour for villains. But what a beard—a beard that screams to Heaven! A cheap beard, my friend, and most imperfectly and amateurishly attached! Then there are your eyebrows. But it is that you have the mania for false hair? The spirit gum one smells it several yards away; and if you think that anyone will fail to perceive that you have a piece of sticking plaster attached to a tooth, you are mistaken. My friend, it is not your métier—decidedly not—to play the part." "I acted in amateur theatricals a good deal at one time," said Norman Gale stiffly. "I can hardly believe it. At any rate, I presume they did not let you indulge in your own ideas of makeup. Even behind the footlights your appearance would be singularly unconvincing. In Grosvenor Square in broad daylight—" Poirot gave an eloquent shrug of the shoulders by way of finishing the sentence. "No, mon ami," he said. "You are a blackmailer, not a comedian. I want her ladyship to fear you—not to die of laughing when she sees you. I observe that I wound you by what I am saying. I regret, but it is a moment when only the truth will serve. Take this and this—" He pressed various jars upon him. "Go into the bathroom and let us have an end of what you call in this country the fooltommery." Crushed, Norman Gale obeyed. When he emerged a quarter of an hour later, his face a vivid shade of brick red, Poirot gave him a nod of approval. "Très bien. The farce is over. The serious business begins. I will permit you to have a small moustache. But I will, if you please, attach it to you myself. There—and now we will part the hair differently—so. That is quite enough. Now let me see if you at least know your lines." He listened with attention, then nodded. "That is good. En avant—and good luck to you." "I devoutly hope so. I shall probably find an enraged husband and a couple of policemen." Poirot reassured him. "Have no anxiety. All will march to a marvel." "So you say," muttered Norman rebelliously. With his spirits at zero, he departed on his distasteful mission. At Grosvenor Square he was shown into a small room on the first floor. There, after a minute or two, Lady Horbury came to him. Norman braced himself. He must not—positively must not—show that he was new to this business. "Mr Robinson?" said Cicely. "At your service," said Norman, and bowed. "Damn it all—just like a shop-walker," he thought disgustedly. "That’s fright." "I had your letter," said Cicely. Norman pulled himself together. "The old fool said I couldn’t act," he said to himself with a mental grin. Aloud he said rather insolently: "Quite so—well, what about it, Lady Horbury?" "I don’t know what you mean." "Come, come. Must we really go into details? Everyone knows how pleasant a—well, call it a weekend at the seaside—can be; but husbands seldom agree.

He said hopefully that that must have been a nasty pill for the dowager to swallow. I said I thought that she had been glad to go. I told him that Rupert St Loo was engaged to be married. "In fact," said Gabriel, "everything’s turned out very nicely for everybody." I managed not to reply. I saw the old grin curving his mouth upwards. "Come on, Norreys," he said. "Don’t sit there looking as though you’ve swallowed a poker. Ask about her. That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?" The trouble with Gabriel was that he always carried the war into the enemy’s camp. I acknowledged defeat. "How is Isabella?" I said. "She’s all right. I haven’t done the characteristic seducer’s act and abandoned her in a garret." It became still more difficult for me to refrain from hitting Gabriel. He had always had the power of being offensive. He was far more offensive now that he had begun to go downhill. "She’s here in Zagrade?" I asked. "Yes, you’d better come and call. Nice for her to see an old friend and hear the St Loo news." Would it be nice for her? I wondered. Was there some faint, some far-off echo of sadism in Gabriel’s voice? I said, my voice slightly embarrassed, "Are you – married?" His grin was positively fiendish. "No, Norreys, we’re not married. You can go back and tell that to the old bitch at St Loo." (Curious the way Lady St Loo still rankled.) "I’m not likely to mention the subject to her," I said coldly. "It’s like that, is it? Isabella’s disgraced the family." He tilted his chair backwards. "Lord, I’d like to have seen their faces that morning – the morning when they found we’d gone off together." "My God, you’re a swine, Gabriel," I said, my self-control slipping. He was not at all annoyed. "Depends how you look at it," he said. "Your outlook on life is so very narrow, Norreys." "At any rate I’ve got a few decent instincts," I said sharply. "You’re so English. I must introduce you to the wide cosmopolitan set in which Isabella and I move." "You don’t look frightfully well, if I may say so," I said. "That’s because I drink too much," said Gabriel promptly. "I’m a bit high now. But cheer up," he went on, "Isabella doesn’t drink. I can’t think why not – but she doesn’t. She’s still got that schoolgirl complexion. You’ll enjoy seeing her again." "I would like to see her," I said slowly, but I wasn’t sure as I said it, if it was true. Would I like to see her? Wouldn’t it, really, be sheer pain? Did she want to see me? Probably not. If I could know how she felt … "No illegitimate brats, you’ll be glad to hear," said Gabriel cheerfully. I looked at him. He said softly: "You do hate me, don’t you, Norreys?" "I think I’ve good reason to." "I don’t see it that way. You got a lot of entertainment out of me at St Loo. Oh yes, you did. Interest in my doings probably kept you from committing suicide. I should certainly have committed suicide in your place. It’s no good hating me just because you are crazy about Isabella. Oh yes, you are. You were then and you are now. That’s why you’re sitting here pretending to be amicable and really loathing my guts." "Isabella and I were friends," I said. "A thing I don’t suppose you’re capable of understanding." "I didn’t mean you made passes at her, old boy. I know that isn’t your line of country. Soul affinity, and spiritual uplift. Well, it will be nice for her to see an old friend." "I wonder," I said slowly. "Do you really think that she would like to see me?" His demeanour changed. He scowled furiously. "Why the devil not? Why shouldn’t she want to see you?" "I’m asking you," I said. He said, "I’d like her to see you." That grated on me. I said, "In this case, we’ll go by what she prefers." He suddenly beamed into a smile again.

She smiled at him – but not in the way that visitors smiled. It was a grave smile, friendly but reserved. "I’m sorry you feel sick," she said. "Would you like some orange juice?" Vernon considered the matter and said he thought he would. Dr Coles went out of the room and Nurse Frances brought him the orange juice in a most curious- looking cup with a long spout. And it appeared that Vernon was to drink from the spout. It made him laugh, but laughing hurt him, and so he stopped. Nurse Frances suggested he should go to sleep again, but he said he didn’t want to go to sleep. "Then I shouldn’t go to sleep," said Nurse Frances. "I wonder if you can count how many irises there are on that wall? You can start on the right side, and I’ll start on the left side. You can count, can’t you?" Vernon said proudly that he could count up to a hundred. "That is a lot," said Nurse Frances. "There aren’t nearly as many irises as a hundred. I guess there are seventy-nine. Now what do you guess?" Vernon guessed that there were fifty. There couldn’t, he felt sure, possibly be more than that. He began to count, but somehow, without knowing it, his eyelids closed and he slept … 2 Noise … Noise and pain … He woke with a start. He felt hot, very hot and there was a pain all down one side. And the noise was coming nearer. It was the noise that one always connected with Mummy … She came into the room like a whirlwind, a kind of cloak affair she wore swinging out behind her. She was like a bird – a great big bird, and like a bird, she swooped down upon him. "Vernon – my darling – Mummy’s own darling – What have they done to you? – How awful – how terrible – My child!" She was crying. Vernon began to cry too. He was suddenly frightened. Myra was moaning and weeping. "My little child. All I have in the world. God, don’t take him from me. Don’t take him from me! If he dies, I shall die too!" "Mrs Deyre –" "Vernon – Vernon – my baby –" "Mrs Deyre – please." There was crisp command in the voice rather than appeal. "Please don’t touch him. You will hurt him." "Hurt him? I? His mother?" "You don’t seem to realize, Mrs Deyre, that his leg is broken. I must ask you, please, to leave the room." "You’re hiding something from me – tell me – tell me – will the leg have to be amputated?" A wail came from Vernon. He had not the least idea what amputated meant – but it sounded painful – and more than painful, terrifying. His wail broke into a scream. "He’s dying," cried Myra. "He’s dying – and they won’t tell me. But he shall die in my arms." "Mrs Deyre –" Somehow Nurse Frances had got between his mother and the bed. She was holding his mother by the shoulder. Her voice had the tone that Nurse’s had had when speaking to Katie, the under-housemaid. "Mrs Deyre, listen to me. You must control yourself. You must!" Then she looked up. Vernon’s father was standing in the doorway. "Mr Deyre, please take your wife away. I cannot have my patient excited and upset." His father nodded – a quiet understanding nod. He just looked at Vernon once and said: "Bad luck, old chap. I broke an arm once." The world became suddenly less terrifying. Other people broke legs and arms. His father had hold of his mother’s shoulder, he was leading her towards the door, speaking to her in a low voice. She was protesting, arguing, her voice high and shrill with emotion. "How can you understand? You’ve never cared for the child like I have. It takes a mother – How can I leave my child to be looked after by a stranger? He needs his mother … You don’t understand – I love him. There’s nothing like a mother’s care – everyone says so." "Vernon darling –" she broke from her husband’s clasp, came back towards the bed. "You want me, don’t you? You want Mummy?"

She also entrusted him with a wire to be sent from Alep to Rodney. Journey delayed all well love Joan. Rodney would receive it before her original schedule had expired. So that was all arranged and she had nothing more to do or to think about. She could relax like a tired child. Five days" peace and quiet whilst the Taurus and Orient Express rushed westwards bringing her each day nearer to Rodney and forgiveness. They arrived at Alep early the following morning. Until then Joan had been the only passenger, since communications with Iraq were interrupted, but now the train was filled to overflowing. There had been delays, cancellations, confusions in the booking of sleepers. There was a lot of hoarse, excited talking, protests, arguments, disputes – all taking place in different languages. Joan was travelling first class and on the Taurus Express the first-class sleepers were the old double ones. The door slid back and a tall woman in black came in. Behind her the conductor was reaching down through the window where porters were handing him up cases. The compartment seemed full of cases – expensive cases stamped with coronets. The tall woman talked to the attendant in French. She directed him where to put things. At last he withdrew. The woman turned and smiled at Joan, an experienced cosmopolitan smile. "You are English," she said. She spoke with hardly a trace of accent. She had a long, pale, exquisitely mobile face and rather strange light grey eyes. She was, Joan thought, about forty-five. "I apologize for this early morning intrusion. It is an iniquitously uncivilized hour for a train to leave, and I disturb your repose. Also these carriages are very old-fashioned – on the new ones the compartments are single. But still –" she smiled – and it was a very sweet and almost child- like smile – "we shall not get too badly on each other’s nerves. It is but two days to Stamboul, and I am not too difficult to live with. And if I smoke too much you will tell me. But now I leave you to sleep, I go to the restaurant car that they put on at this moment," she swayed slightly as a bump indicated the truth of her words, "and wait there to have breakfast. Again I say how sorry I am you have been disturbed." "Oh, that’s quite all right," Joan said. "One expects these things when travelling." "I see you are sympathetic – good – we shall get on together famously." She went out and as she drew the door to behind her, Joan heard her being greeted by her friends on the platform with cries of "Sasha – Sasha" and a voluble burst of conversation in some language that Joan’s ear did not recognize. Joan herself was by now thoroughly awake. She felt rested after her night’s sleep. She always slept well in a train. She got up and proceeded to dress. The train drew out of Alep when she had nearly finished her toilet. When she was ready, she went out into the corridor, but first she took a quick look at the labels on her new companion’s suitcases. Princess Hohenbach Salm. In the restaurant car she found her new acquaintance eating breakfast and conversing with great animation to a small, stout Frenchman. The princess waved a greeting to her and indicated the seat at her side. "But you are energetic," she exclaimed. "If it was me, I should still lie and sleep. Now, Monsieur Baudier, go on with what you are telling me. It is most interesting." The princess talked in French to M. Baudier, in English to Joan, in fluent Turkish to the waiter, and occasionally across the aisle in equally fluent Italian to a rather melancholy looking officer. Presently the stout Frenchman finished his breakfast and withdrew, bowing politely. "What a good linguist you are," said Joan. The long, pale face smiled – a melancholy smile this time. "Yes – why not? I am Russian, you see. And I was married to a German, and I have lived much in Italy. I speak eight, nine languages – some well, some not so well. It is a pleasure, do you not think, to converse? All human beings are interesting, and one lives such a short time on this earth! One should exchange ideas – experiences. There is not enough love on the earth, that is what I say.

He grunted irritably to himself as he wrote and every now and then rubbed his nose violently until its hue almost rivalled that of his hair. Presently he looked up. "That you, Battle? What do you want me down here to unravel this tomfoolery for? A child in arms could do it. A baby of two could do it on his head. Call this thing a cipher? It leaps to the eye, man." "I’m glad of that, Professor," said Battle mildly. "But we’re not all so clever as you are, you know." "It doesn’t need cleverness," snapped the professor. "It’s routine work. Do you want the whole bundle done? It’s a long business, you know—requires diligent application and close attention and absolutely no intelligence. I’ve done the one dated "Chimneys" which you said was important. I might as well take the rest back to London and hand ’em over to one of my assistants. I really can’t afford the time myself. I’ve come away now from a real teaser, and I want to get back to it." His eyes glistened a little. "Very well, Professor," assented Battle. "I’m sorry we’re such small-fry. I’ll explain to Mr. Lomax. It’s just this one letter that all the hurry is about. Lord Caterham is expecting you to stay for lunch, I believe." "Never have lunch," said the professor. "Bad habit, lunch. A banana and a water biscuit is all any sane and healthy man should need in the middle of the day." He seized his overcoat, which lay across the back of a chair. Battle went round to the front of the house, and a few minutes later Anthony and Virginia heard the sound of a car driving away. Battle rejoined them, carrying in his hand the half sheet of paper which the Professor had given him. "He’s always like that," said Battle, referring to the departed professor. "In the very deuce of a hurry. Clever man, though. Well, here’s the kernel of Her Majesty’s letter. Care to have a look at it?" Virginia stretched out a hand, and Anthony read it over her shoulder. It had been, he remembered, a long epistle, breathing mingled passion and despair. The genius of Professor Wynwood had transformed it into an essentially businesslike communication. Operations carried out successfully, but S double-crossed us. Has removed stone from hiding place. Not in his room. I have searched. Found following memorandum which I think refers to it: RICHMOND SEVEN STRAIGHT EIGHT LEFT THREE RIGHT. "S?" said Anthony. "Stylptitch, of course. Cunning old dog. He changed the hiding place." "Richmond," said Virginia thoughtfully. "Is the diamond concealed somewhere at Richmond, I wonder?" "It’s a favourite spot for royalties," agreed Anthony. Battle shook his head. "I still think it’s a reference to something in this house." "I know," cried Virginia suddenly. Both men turned to look at her. "The Holbein portrait in the Council Chamber. They were tapping on the wall just below it. And it’s a portrait of the Earl of Richmond!" "You’ve got it," said Battle, and slapped his leg. He spoke with an animation quite unwonted. "That’s the starting point, the picture, and the crooks know no more than we do what the figures refer to. Those two men in armour stand directly underneath the picture, and their first idea was that the diamond was hidden in one of them. The measurements might have been inches. That failed, and their next idea was a secret passage or stairway, or a sliding panel. Do you know of any such thing, Mrs. Revel?" Virginia shook her head. "There’s a priest’s hole, and at least one secret passage, I know," she said. "I believe I’ve been shown them once, but I can’t remember much about them now. Here’s Bundle, she’ll know." Bundle was coming quickly along the terrace towards them. "I’m taking the Panhard up to town after lunch," she remarked. "Anyone want a lift? Wouldn’t you like to come, Mr. Cade? We’ll be back by dinnertime." "No, thanks," said Anthony. "I’m quite happy and busy down here." "The man fears me," said Bundle. "Either my driving or my fatal fascination! Which is it?" "The latter," said Anthony.

Would things turn out as I had calculated, or would they not? "The fact of the matter is," Sir Eustace was continuing, "I’ve a weakness for you. I really don’t want to proceed to extremes. Suppose you tell me the whole story, from the very beginning, and let’s see what we can make of it. But no romancing, mind—I want the truth." I was not going to make any mistake over that. I had a great deal of respect for Sir Eustace’s shrewdness. It was a moment for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. I told him the whole story, omitting nothing, up to the moment of my rescue by Harry. When I had finished, he nodded his head in approval. "Wise girl. You’ve made a clean breast of the thing. And let me tell you I should soon have caught you out if you hadn’t. A lot of people wouldn’t believe your story, anyway, expecially the beginning part, but I do. You’re the kind of girl who would start off like that—at a moment’s notice, on the slenderest of motives. You’ve had amazing luck, of course, but sooner or later the amateur runs up against the professional and then the result is a foregone conclusion. I am the professional. I started on this business when I was quite a youngster. All things considered, it seemed to me a good way of getting rich quickly. I always could think things out and devise ingenious schemes—and I never made the mistake of trying to carry out my schemes myself. Always employ the expert—that has been my motto. The one time I departed from it I came to grief—but I couldn’t trust anyone to do that job for me. Nadina knew too much. I’m an easygoing man, kindhearted and good-tempered so long as I’m not thwarted. Nadina both thwarted me and threatened me—just as I was at the apex of a successful career. Once she was dead and the diamonds were in my possession, I was safe. I’ve come to the conclusion now that I bungled the job. That idiot Pagett, with his wife and family! My fault—it tickled my sense of humour to employ the fellow, with his Cinquecento poisoner’s face and his mid-Victorian soul. A maxim for you, my dear Anne. Don’t let your sense of humour carry you away. For years I’ve had an instinct that it would be wise to get rid of Pagett, but the fellow was so hardworking and conscientious that I honestly couldn’t find an excuse for sacking him. So I let things drift. "But we’re wandering from the point. The question is what to do with you. Your narrative was admirably clear, but there is one thing that still escapes me. Where are the diamonds now?" "Harry Rayburn has them," I said, watching him. His face did not change, it retained its expression of sardonic good humour. "H’m. I want those diamonds." "I don’t see much chance of your getting them," I replied. "Don’t you? Now I do. I don’t want to be unpleasant, but I should like you to reflect that a dead girl or so found in this quarter of the city will occasion no surprise. There’s a man downstairs who does those sort of jobs very neatly. Now, you’re a sensible young woman. What I propose is this: you will sit down and write to Harry Rayburn, telling him to join you here and bring the diamonds with him—" "I won’t do anything of the kind." "Don’t interrupt your elders. I propose to make a bargain with you. The diamonds in exchange for your life. And don’t make any mistake about it, your life is absolutely in my power." "And Harry?" "I’m far too tenderhearted to part two young lovers. He shall go free too—on the understanding, of course, that neither of you interfere with me in the future." "And what guarantee have I that you will keep your side of the bargain?" "None whatever, my dear girl. You’ll have to trust me and hope for the best. Of course, if you’re in an heroic mood and prefer annihilation, that’s another matter." This was what I had been playing for. I was careful not to jump at the bait. Gradually I allowed myself to be bullied and cajoled into yielding.

To sustain the illusion that the abduction has taken place in France, Daniels is gagged and chloroformed in a convincing manner." "And the man who has enacted the part of the Prime Minister?" "Rids himself of his disguise. He and the bogus chauffeur may be arrested as suspicious characters, but no one will dream of suspecting their real part in the drama, and they will eventually be released for lack of evidence." "And the real Prime Minister?" "He and O’Murphy were driven straight to the house of "Mrs. Everard," at Hampstead, Daniels" so-called "aunt." In reality, she is Frau Bertha Ebenthal, and the police have been looking for her for some time. It is a valuable little present that I have made them—to say nothing of Daniels! Ah, it was a clever plan, but he did not reckon on the cleverness of Hercule Poirot!" I think my friend might well be excused his moment of vanity. "When did you first begin to suspect the truth of the matter?" "When I began to work the right way—from within! I could not make that shooting affair fit in—but when I saw that the net result of it was that the Prime Minister went to France with his face bound up I began to comprehend! And when I visited all the cottage hospitals between Windsor and London, and found that no one answering to my description had had his face bound up and dressed that morning, I was sure! After that, it was child’s play for a mind like mine!" The following morning, Poirot showed me a telegram he had just received. It had no place of origin, and was unsigned. It ran: "In time." Later in the day the evening papers published an account of the Allied Conference. They laid particular stress on the magnificent ovation accorded to Mr. David MacAdam, whose inspiring speech had produced a deep and lasting impression. Nine THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MR. DAVENHEIM Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea. We were sitting round the tea-table awaiting his arrival. Poirot had just finished carefully straightening the cups and saucers which our landlady was in the habit of throwing, rather than placing, on the table. He had also breathed heavily on the metal teapot, and polished it with a silk handkerchief. The kettle was on the boil, and a small enamel saucepan beside it contained some thick, sweet chocolate which was more to Poirot’s palate than what he described as "your English poison." A sharp "rat-tat" sounded below, and a few minutes afterwards Japp entered briskly. "Hope I’m not late," he said as he greeted us. "To tell the truth, I was yarning with Miller, the man who’s in charge of the Davenheim case." I pricked up my ears. For the last three days the papers had been full of the strange disappearance of Mr. Davenheim, senior partner of Davenheim and Salmon, the well-known bankers and financiers. On Saturday last he had walked out of his house, and had never been seen since. I looked forward to extracting some interesting details from Japp. "I should have thought," I remarked, "that it would be almost impossible for anyone to "disappear" nowadays." Poirot moved a plate of bread and butter the eighth of an inch, and said sharply: "Be exact, my friend. What do you mean by "disappear?" To which class of disappearance are you referring?" "Are disappearances classified and labelled, then?" I laughed. Japp smiled also. Poirot frowned at both of us. "But certainly they are! They fall into three categories: First, and most common, the voluntary disappearance. Second, the much abused "loss of memory" case—rare, but occasionally genuine. Third, murder, and a more or less successful disposal of the body. Do you refer to all three as impossible of execution?" "Very nearly so, I should think. You might lose your own memory, but someone would be sure to recognize you—especially in the case of a well-known man like Davenheim. Then "bodies" can’t be made to vanish into thin air. Sooner or later they turn up, concealed in lonely places, or in trunks. Murder will out.

So I unpicked it and I found a little piece of paper inside. I took it out and I sewed it up again properly with thread that matched. I was careful and I don’t really think that the Eccleses would know I’ve done it. I don’t think so, but I can’t be sure. And I took the coat down to them and made some excuse for the delay." "The piece of paper?" asked Miss Marple. Bunch opened her handbag. "I didn’t show it to Julian," she said, "because he would have said that I ought to have given it to the Eccleses. But I thought I’d rather bring it to you instead." "A cloakroom ticket," said Miss Marple, looking at it. "Paddington Station." "He had a return ticket to Paddington in his pocket," said Bunch. The eyes of the two women met. "This calls for action," said Miss Marple briskly. "But it would be advisable, I think, to be careful. Would you have noticed at all, Bunch dear, whether you were followed when you came to London today?" "Followed!" exclaimed Bunch. "You don’t think—" "Well, I think it’s possible," said Miss Marple. "When anything is possible, I think we ought to take precautions." She rose with a brisk movement. "You came up here ostensibly, my dear, to go to the sales. I think the right thing to do, therefore, would be for us to go to the sales. But before we set out, we might put one or two little arrangements in hand. I don’t suppose," Miss Marple added obscurely, "that I shall need the old speckled tweed with the beaver collar just at present." It was about an hour and a half later that the two ladies, rather the worse for wear and battered in appearance, and both clasping parcels of hardly-won household linen, sat down at a small and sequestered hostelry called the Apple Bough to restore their forces with steak and kidney pudding followed by apple tart and custard. "Really a prewar quality face towel," gasped Miss Marple, slightly out of breath. "With a J on it, too. So fortunate that Raymond’s wife’s name is Joan. I shall put them aside until I really need them and then they will do for her if I pass on sooner than I expect." "I really did need the glass cloths," said Bunch. "And they were very cheap, though not as cheap as the ones that woman with the ginger hair managed to snatch from me." A smart young woman with a lavish application of rouge and lipstick entered the Apple Bough at that moment. After looking around vaguely for a moment or two, she hurried to their table. She laid down an envelope by Miss Marple’s elbow. "There you are, miss," she said briskly. "Oh, thank you, Gladys," said Miss Marple. "Thank you very much. So kind of you." "Always pleased to oblige, I’m sure," said Gladys. "Ernie always says to me, "Everything what’s good you learned from that Miss Marple of yours that you were in service with," and I’m sure I’m always glad to oblige you, miss." "Such a dear girl," said Miss Marple as Gladys departed again. "Always so willing and so kind." She looked inside the envelope and then passed it on to Bunch. "Now be very careful, dear," she said. "By the way, is there still that nice young inspector at Melchester that I remember?" "I don’t know," said Bunch. "I expect so." "Well, if not," said Miss Marple thoughtfully. "I can always ring up the Chief Constable. I think he would remember me." "Of course he’d remember you," said Bunch. "Everybody would remember you. You’re quite unique." She rose. Arrived at Paddington, Bunch went to the luggage office and produced the cloakroom ticket. A moment or two later a rather shabby old suitcase was passed across to her, and carrying this she made her way to the platform. The journey home was uneventful. Bunch rose as the train approached Chipping Cleghorn and picked up the old suitcase. She had just left her carriage when a man, sprinting along the platform, suddenly seized the suitcase from her hand and rushed off with it. "Stop!" Bunch yelled. "Stop him, stop him. He’s taken my suitcase."

"Left here—and then right, and then left again until you see the river and go towards it, and then sharp right and straight on." Curiously enough, as she walked across the shabby yard the same feeling of unease and suspense came over her. "I mustn’t let my imagination go again." She looked back at the steps and the window of the studio. The figure of David still stood looking after her. "Three perfectly nice young people," said Mrs. Oliver to herself. "Perfectly nice and very kind. Left here, and then right. Just because they look rather peculiar, one goes and has silly ideas about their being dangerous. Was it right again? or left? Left, I think—Oh goodness, my feet. It’s going to rain, too." The walk seemed endless and the King’s Road incredibly far away. She could hardly hear the traffic now—And where on earth was the river? She began to suspect that she had followed the directions wrongly. "Oh! well," thought Mrs. Oliver, "I’m bound to get somewhere soon—the river, or Putney or Wandsworth or somewhere." She asked her way to the King’s Road from a passing man who said he was a foreigner and didn’t speak English. Mrs. Oliver turned another corner wearily and there ahead of her was the gleam of the water. She hurried towards it down a narrow passageway, heard a footstep behind her, half turned, when she was struck from behind and the world went up in sparks. Ten I A voice said: "Drink this." Norma was shivering. Her eyes had a dazed look. She shrank back a little in the chair. The command was repeated. "Drink this." This time she drank obediently, then choked a little. "It’s—it’s very strong," she gasped. "It’ll put you right. You’ll feel better in a minute. Just sit still and wait." The sickness and the giddiness which had been confusing her passed off. A little colour came into her cheeks, and the shivering diminished. For the first time she looked round her, noting her surroundings. She had been obsessed by a feeling of fear and horror but now things seemed to be returning to normal. It was a medium-sized room and it was furnished in a way that seemed faintly familiar. A desk, a couch, an armchair and an ordinary chair, a stethoscope on a side table and some machine that she thought had to do with eyes. Then her attention went from the general to the particular. The man who had told her to drink. She saw a man of perhaps thirty-odd with red hair and a rather attractive ugly face, the kind of face that is craggy but interesting. He nodded at her in a reassuring fashion. "Beginning to get your bearings?" "I—I think so. I—did you—what happened?" "Don’t you remember?" "The traffic. I—it came at me—it—" She looked at him. "I was run over." "Oh no, you weren’t run over." He shook his head. "I saw to that." "You?" "Well, there you were in the middle of the road, a car bearing down on you and I just managed to snatch you out of its way. What were you thinking of to go running into the traffic like that?" "I can’t remember. I—yes, I suppose I must have been thinking of something else." "A Jaguar was coming pretty fast, and there was a bus bearing down on the other side of the road. The car wasn’t trying to run you down or anything like that, was it?" "I—no, no, I’m sure it wasn’t. I mean I—" "Well, I wondered—It just might have been something else, mightn’t it?" "What do you mean?" "Well, it could have been deliberate, you know." "What do you mean by deliberate?" "Actually I just wondered whether you were trying to get yourself killed?" He added casually, "Were you?" "I—no—well—no, of course not." "Damn" silly way to do it, if so." His tone changed slightly. "Come now, you must remember something about it." She began shivering again. "I thought—I thought it would be all over. I thought—" "So you were trying to kill yourself, weren’t you? What’s the matter? You can tell me. Boyfriend? That can make one feel pretty bad.

"Three weeks to a month at least." There was a silence. Felise sat looking anxiously from one man to the other. "Is there nothing that we can do?" she asked timidly. "Yes, there is one thing," said Lavington, in a tone of suppressed excitement. "It is unusual, perhaps, but I believe that it will succeed. Hartington, you must get hold of that jar. Bring it down here, and, if Mademoiselle permits, we will spend a night at Heather Cottage, taking the blue jar with us." Jack felt his skin creep uncomfortably. "What do you think will happen?" he asked uneasily. "I have not the slightest idea – but I honestly believe that the mystery will be solved and the ghost laid. Quite possibly there may be a false bottom to the jar and something is concealed inside it. If no phenomenon occurs, we must use our own ingenuity." Felise clasped her hands. "It is a wonderful idea," she exclaimed. Her eyes were alight with enthusiasm. Jack did not feel nearly so enthusiastic – in fact, he was inwardly funking it badly, but nothing would have induced him to admit the fact before Felise. The doctor acted as though his suggestion were the most natural one in the world. "When can you get the jar?" asked Felise, turning to Jack. "Tomorrow," said the latter, unwillingly. He had to go through with it now, but the memory of the frenzied cry for help that had haunted him each morning was something to be ruthlessly thrust down and not thought about more than could be helped. He went to his uncle’s house the following evening, and took away the jar in question. He was more than ever convinced when he saw it again that it was the identical one pictured in the water colour sketch, but carefully as he looked it over he could see no sign that it contained a secret receptacle of any kind. It was eleven o’clock when he and Lavington arrived at Heather Cottage. Felise was on the look-out for them, and opened the door softly before they had time to knock. "Come in," she whispered. "My father is asleep upstairs, and we must not wake him. I have made coffee for you in here." She led the way into the small cosy sitting room. A spirit lamp stood in the grate, and bending over it, she brewed them both some fragrant coffee. Then Jack unfastened the Chinese jar from its many wrappings. Felise gasped as her eyes fell on it. "But yes, but yes," she cried eagerly. "That is it – I would know it anywhere." Meanwhile Lavington was making his own preparations. He removed all the ornaments from a small table and set it in the middle of the room. Round it he placed three chairs. Then, taking the blue jar from Jack, he placed it in the centre of the table. "Now," he said, "we are ready. Turn off the lights, and let us sit round the table in the darkness." The others obeyed him. Lavington’s voice spoke again out of the darkness. "Think of nothing – or of everything. Do not force the mind. It is possible that one of us has mediumistic powers. If so, that person will go into a trance. Remember, there is nothing to fear. Cast out fear from your hearts, and drift – drift –" His voice died away and there was silence. Minute by minute, the silence seemed to grow more pregnant with possibilities. It was all very well for Lavington to say "Cast out fear." It was not fear that Jack felt – it was panic. And he was almost certain that Felise felt the same way. Suddenly he heard her voice, low and terrified. "Something terrible is going to happen. I feel it." "Cast out fear," said Lavington. "Do not fight against the influence." The darkness seemed to get darker and the silence more acute. And nearer and nearer came that indefinable sense of menace. Jack felt himself choking – stifling – the evil thing was very near . . . And then the moment of conflict passed. He was drifting, drifting down stream – his lids closed – peace – darkness . . . Jack stirred slightly. His head was heavy – heavy as lead. Where was he? Sunshine . . . birds . . . He lay staring up at the sky. Then it all came back to him. The sitting. The little room. Felise and the doctor.

There remains Anna Scheele. She’s due in Baghdad in three days" time. In the meantime, she’s disappeared." "Disappeared? Where?" "In London. Vanished, apparently, off the face of the earth." "And does no one know where she is?" "Dakin may know." But Dakin didn’t know. Victoria knew that, though Edward didn’t—so where was Anna Scheele? She asked: "You really haven’t the least idea?" "We’ve an idea," said Edward slowly. "Well?" "It’s vital that Anna Scheele should be here in Baghdad for the Conference. That, as you know, is in five days" time." "As soon as that? I’d no idea." "We’ve got every entry into this country taped. She’s certainly not coming here under her own name. And she’s not coming in on a Government service plane. We’ve our means of checking that. So we’ve investigated all the private bookings. There’s a passage booked by BOAC in the name of Grete Harden. We’ve traced Grete Harden back and there’s no such person. It’s an assumed name. The address given is a phony one. It’s our idea that Grete Harden is Anna Scheele." He added: "Her plane will touch down at Damascus the day after tomorrow." "And then?" Edward’s eyes looked suddenly into hers. "That’s up to you, Victoria." "To me?" "You’ll take her place." Victoria said slowly: "Like Rupert Crofton Lee?" It was almost a whisper. In the course of that substitution Rupert Crofton Lee had died. And when Victoria took her place, presumably Anna Scheele, or Grete Harden, would die. And Edward was waiting—and if for one moment Edward doubted her loyalty, then she, Victoria, would die—and die without the possibility of warning anyone. No, she must agree and seize a chance to report to Mr. Dakin. She drew a deep breath and said: "I—I—oh, but Edward, I couldn’t do it. I’d be found out. I can’t do an American voice." "Anna Scheele has practically no accent. In any case you will be suffering from laryngitis. One of the best doctors in this part of the world will say so." "They’ve got people everywhere," thought Victoria. "What would I have to do?" she asked. "Fly from Damascus to Baghdad as Grete Harden. Take to your bed immediately. Be allowed up by our reputable doctor just in time to go to the Conference. There you will lay before them the documents which you have brought with you." Victoria asked: "The real documents?" "Of course not. We shall substitute our version." "What will the documents show?" Edward smiled. "Convincing details of the most stupendous Communist plot in America." Victoria thought: "How well they’ve got it planned." Aloud she said: "Do you really think I can get away with it, Edward?" Now that she was playing a part, it was quite easy for Victoria to ask it with every appearance of anxious sincerity. "I’m sure you can. I’ve noticed that your playing of a part affords you such enjoyment that it’s practically impossible to disbelieve you." Victoria said meditatively: "I still feel an awful fool when I think of the Hamilton Clipps." He laughed in a superior way. Victoria, her face still a mask of adoration, thought to herself viciously. "But you were an awful fool, too, to let slip that about the Bishop at Basrah. If you hadn’t I’d never have seen through you." She said suddenly: "What about Dr. Rathbone?" "What do you mean "What about him?’" "Is he just a figurehead?" Edward’s lips curved in cruel amusement. "Rathbone has got to toe the line. Do you know what he’s been doing all these years? Cleverly appropriating about three-quarters of the subscriptions which pour in from all over the world to his own use. It’s the cleverest swindle since the time of Horatio Bottomley. Oh yes, Rathbone’s completely in our hands—we can expose him at anytime and he knows it." Victoria felt a sudden gratitude to the old man with the noble domed head, and the mean acquisitive soul. He might be a swindler—but he had known pity—he had tried to get her to escape in time. "All things work towards our New Order," said Edward. She thought to herself, "Edward, who looks so sane, is really mad! You get mad, perhaps, if you try and act the part of God.

"The trouble is," said Aunt Ada, shifting her ground with dexterity, "that nobody tells me anything. If you’d kept me properly up to date—" Tommy did not argue the point. Tuppence had once laid upon him a serious injunction. "If anybody over the age of sixty-five finds fault with you," she said, "never argue. Never try to say you’re right. Apologize at once and say it was all your fault and you’re very sorry and you’ll never do it again." It occurred to Tommy at this moment with some force that that would certainly be the line to take with Aunt Ada, and indeed always had been. "I’m very sorry, Aunt Ada," he said. "I’m afraid, you know, one does tend to get forgetful as time goes on. It’s not everyone," he continued unblushingly, "who has your wonderful memory for the past." Aunt Ada smirked. There was no other word for it. "You have something there," she said. "I’m sorry if I received you rather roughly, but I don’t care for being imposed upon. You never know in this place. They let in anyone to see you. Anyone at all. If I accepted everyone for what they said they were, they might be intending to rob and murder me in my bed." "Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely," said Tommy. "You never know," said Aunt Ada. "The things you read in the paper. And the things people come and tell you. Not that I believe everything I’m told. But I keep a sharp lookout. Would you believe it, they brought a strange man in the other day—never seen him before. Called himself Dr. Williams. Said Dr. Murray was away on his holiday and this was his new partner. New partner! How was I to know he was his new partner? He just said he was, that’s all." "Was he his new partner?" "Well, as a matter of fact," said Aunt Ada, slightly annoyed at losing ground, "he actually was. But nobody could have known it for sure. There he was, drove up in a car, had that little kind of black box with him, which doctors carry to do blood pressure—and all that sort of thing. It’s like the magic box they all used to talk about so much. Who was it, Joanna Southcott’s?" "No," said Tommy. "I think that was rather different. A prophecy of some kind." "Oh, I see. Well, my point is anyone could come into a place like this and say he was a doctor, and immediately all the nurses would smirk and giggle and say yes, Doctor, of course, Doctor, and more or less stand to attention, silly girls! And if the patient swore she didn’t know the man, they’d only say she was forgetful and forgot people. I never forget a face," said Aunt Ada firmly. "I never have. How is your Aunt Caroline? I haven’t heard from her for some time. Have you seen anything of her?" Tommy said, rather apologetically, that his Aunt Caroline had been dead for fifteen years. Aunt Ada did not take this demise with any signs of sorrow. Aunt Caroline had after all not been her sister, but merely her first cousin. "Everyone seems to be dying," she said, with a certain relish. "No stamina. That’s what’s the matter with them. Weak heart, coronary thrombosis, high blood pressure, chronic bronchitis, rheumatoid arthritis—all the rest of it. Feeble folk, all of them. That’s how the doctors make their living. Giving them boxes and boxes and bottles and bottles of tablets. Yellow tablets, pink tablets, green tablets, even black tablets, I shouldn’t be surprised. Ugh! Brimstone and treacle they used to use in my grandmother’s day. I bet that was as good as anything. With the choice of getting well or having brimstone and treacle to drink, you chose getting well every time." She nodded her head in a satisfied manner. "Can’t really trust doctors, can you? Not when it’s a professional matter—some new fad—I’m told there’s a lot of poisoning going on here. To get hearts for the surgeons, so I’m told. Don’t think it’s true, myself. Miss Packard’s not the sort of woman who would stand for that."

), and he will still have the diamond! At this point I put my fingers in the pie. The arrival of a diamond expert is announced. Lady Yardly, as I felt sure she would, immediately arranges a robbery—and does it very well too! But Hercule Poirot, he sees nothing but facts. What happens in actuality? The lady switches off the light, bangs the door, throws the necklace down the passage, and screams. She has already wrenched out the diamond with pliers upstairs—" "But we saw the necklace round her neck!" I objected. "I demand pardon, my friend. Her hand concealed the part of it where the gap would have shown. To place a piece of silk in the door beforehand is child’s play! Of course, as soon as Rolf read of the robbery, he arranged his own little comedy. And very well he played it!" "What did you say to him?" I asked with lively curiosity. "I said to him that Lady Yardly had told her husband all, that I was empowered to recover the jewel, and that if it were not immediately handed over proceedings would be taken. Also a few more little lies which occurred to me. He was as wax in my hands!" I pondered the matter. "It seems a little unfair on Mary Marvell. She has lost her diamond through no fault of her own." "Bah!" said Poirot brutally. "She has a magnificent advertisement. That is all she cares for, that one! Now the other, she is different. Bonne mère, très femme!" "Yes," I said doubtfully, hardly sharing Poirot’s views on femininity. "I suppose it was Rolf who sent her the duplicate letters." "Pas du tout," said Poirot briskly. "She came by the advice of Mary Cavendish to seek my aid in her dilemma. Then she heard that Mary Marvell, whom she knew to be her enemy, had been here, and she changed her mind jumping at a pretext that you, my friend, offered her. A very few questions sufficed to show me that you told her of the letters, not she you! She jumped at the chance your words offered." "I don’t believe it," I cried, stung. "Si, si, mon ami, it is a pity that you study not the psychology. She told you that the letters were destroyed? Oh, la la, never does a woman destroy a letter if she can avoid it! Not even if it would be more prudent to do so!" "It’s all very well," I said, my anger rising, "but you’ve made a perfect fool of me! From beginning to end! No, it’s all very well to try and explain it away afterwards. There really is a limit!" "But you were so enjoying yourself, my friend, I had not the heart to shatter your illusions." "It’s no good. You’ve gone a bit too far this time." "Mon Dieu! but how you enrage yourself for nothing, mon ami!" "I’m fed up!" I went out, banging the door. Poirot had made an absolute laughingstock of me. I decided that he needed a sharp lesson. I would let some time elapse before I forgave him. He had encouraged me to make a perfect fool of myself. Seven THE TRAGEDY AT MARSDON MANOR "The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor" was first published in The Sketch, April 18, 1923. I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise. "A la bonne heure, Hastings, I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me." "You are called away on a case, then?" "Yes, though I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr. Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds." "Yes?" I said, much interested. "There was, of course, the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his committing suicide within a year the premiums would be forfeited. Mr. Maltravers was duly examined by the Company’s own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life was passed as being in quite sound health. However, on Wednesday last—the day before yesterday—the body of Mr.

"I don’t know that I want to go to Rowland’s Castle," said Elizabeth doubtfully. "You hurt me. It’s a delightful spot." "Have you ever been there?" "Not exactly. But there are lots of other places you can go to, if you don’t fancy Rowland’s Castle. There’s Woking, and Weybridge, and Wimbledon. The train is sure to stop at one or other of them." "I see," said the girl. "Yes, I can get out there, and perhaps motor back to London. That would be the best plan, I think." Even as she spoke, the train began to slow up. Mr. Rowland gazed at her with appealing eyes. "If I can do anything—" "No, indeed. You’ve done a lot already." There was a pause, then the girl broke out suddenly: "I—I wish I could explain. I—" "For heaven’s sake don’t do that! It would spoil everything. But look here, isn’t there anything that I could do? Carry the secret papers to Vienna—or something of that kind? There always are secret papers. Do give me a chance." The train had stopped. Elizabeth jumped quickly out on to the platform. She turned and spoke to him through the window. "Are you in earnest? Would you really do something for us—for me?" "I’d do anything in the world for you, Elizabeth." "Even if I could give you no reasons?" "Rotten things, reasons!" "Even if it were—dangerous?" "The more danger, the better." She hesitated a minute then seemed to make up her mind. "Lean out of the window. Look down the platform as though you weren’t really looking." Mr. Rowland endeavoured to comply with this somewhat difficult recommendation. "Do you see that man getting in—with a small dark beard—light overcoat? Follow him, see what he does and where he goes." "Is that all?" asked Mr. Rowland. "What do I—?" She interrupted him. "Further instructions will be sent to you. Watch him—and guard this." She thrust a small sealed packet into his hand. "Guard it with your life. It’s the key to everything." The train went on. Mr. Rowland remained staring out of the window, watching Elizabeth’s tall, graceful figure threading its way down the platform. In his hand he clutched the small sealed packet. The rest of his journey was both monotonous and uneventful. The train was a slow one. It stopped everywhere. At every station, George’s head shot out of the window, in case his quarry should alight. Occasionally he strolled up and down the platform when the wait promised to be a long one, and reassured himself that the man was still there. The eventual destination of the train was Portsmouth, and it was there that the black-bearded traveller alighted. He made his way to a small second-class hotel where he booked a room. Mr. Rowland also booked a room. The rooms were in the same corridor, two doors from each other. The arrangement seemed satisfactory to George. He was a complete novice in the art of shadowing, but was anxious to acquit himself well, and justify Elizabeth’s trust in him. At dinner George was given a table not far from that of his quarry. The room was not full, and the majority of the diners George put down as commercial travellers, quiet respectable men who ate their food with appetite. Only one man attracted his special notice, a small man with ginger hair and moustache and a suggestion of horsiness in his apparel. He seemed to be interested in George also, and suggested a drink and a game of billiards when the meal had come to a close. But George had just espied the black-bearded man putting on his hat and overcoat, and declined politely. In another minute he was out in the street, gaining fresh insight into the difficult art of shadowing. The chase was a long and a weary one—and in the end it seemed to lead nowhere. After twisting and turning through the streets of Portsmouth for about four miles, the man returned to the hotel, George hard upon his heels. A faint doubt assailed the latter. Was it possible that the man was aware of his presence? As he debated this point, standing in the hall, the outer door was pushed open, and the little ginger man entered.

You may be prosecuted—go to prison." (He winced.) "I don’t want that to happen. I’ll fight like anything to stop it, but don’t credit me with moral indignation. We’re not a moral family, remember. Father, in spite of his attractiveness, was a bit of a crook. And there was Charles—my cousin. They hushed it up and he wasn’t prosecuted, and they hustled him off to the Colonies. And there was my cousin Gerald—he forged a cheque at Oxford. But he went to fight and got a posthumous V.C. for complete bravery and devotion to his men and superhuman endurance. What I’m trying to say is people are like that—not quite bad or quite good. I don’t suppose I’m particularly straight myself—I have been because there hasn’t been any temptation to be otherwise. But what I have got is plenty of courage and" (she smiled at him) "I’m loyal!" "My dear!" He got up and came over to her. He stopped and put his lips to her hair. "And now," said Lord Edward Trenton’s daughter, smiling up at him, "what are we going to do? Raise money somehow?" Jeremy’s face stiffened. "I don’t see how." "A mortgage on this house. Oh, I see," she was quick, "that’s been done. I’m stupid. Of course you’ve done all the obvious things. It’s a question then of a touch? Who can we touch? I suppose there’s only one possibility. Gordon’s widow—the dark Rosaleen!" Jeremy shook his head dubiously. "It would have to be a large sum…And it can’t come out of capital. The money’s only in trust for her for her life." "I hadn’t realized that. I thought she had it absolutely. What happens when she dies?" "It comes to Gordon’s next of kin. That is to say it is divided between myself, Lionel, Adela, and Maurice’s son, Rowley." "It comes to us…" said Frances slowly. Something seemed to pass through the room—a cold air—the shadow of a thought…. Frances said: "You didn’t tell me that…I thought she got it for keeps—that she could leave it to any one she liked?" "No. By the statute relating to intestacy of 1925…." It is doubtful whether Frances listened to his explanation. She said when his voice stopped: "It hardly matters to us personally. We’ll be dead and buried, long before she’s middle-aged. How old is she? Twenty-five—twenty-six? She’ll probably live to be seventy." Jeremy Cloade said doubtfully: "We might ask her for a loan—putting it on family grounds? She may be a generous-minded girl—really we know so little of her—" Frances said: "At any rate we have been reasonably nice to her—not catty like Adela. She might respond." Her husband said warningly: "There must be no hint of—er—real urgency." Frances said impatiently: "Of course not! The trouble is that it’s not the girl herself we shall have to deal with. She’s completely under the thumb of that brother of hers." "A very unattractive young man," said Jeremy Cloade. Frances" sudden smile flashed out. "Oh, no," she said. "He’s attractive. Most attractive. Rather unscrupulous, too, I should imagine. But then as far as that goes, I’m unscrupulous too!" Her smile hardened. She looked up at her husband. "We’re not going to be beaten, Jeremy," she said. "There’s bound to be some way…if I have to rob a bank!" Three "Money!" said Lynn. Rowley Cloade nodded. He was a big square young man with a brick-red skin, thoughtful blue eyes and very fair hair. He had a slowness that seemed more purposeful than ingrained. He used deliberation as others use quickness of repartee. "Yes," he said, "everything seems to boil down to money these days." "But I thought farmers had done so well during the war?" "Oh, yes—but that doesn’t do you any permanent good. In a year we’ll be back where we were—with wages up, workers unwilling, everybody dissatisfied and nobody knowing where they are. Unless, of course, you can farm in a really big way. Old Gordon knew. That was where he was preparing to come in." "And now—" Lynn asked.

He had glanced at his own watch then and had noted that it was just one minute after the time of their appointment. There was just the faint chance that someone might have been waiting for Gilda Glen in the room upstairs. But if so, he must still be hiding in the house. No one but James Reilly had left it. He ran upstairs and made a quick but efficient search of the premises. But there was no one concealed anywhere. Then he spoke to Ellen. After breaking the news to her, and waiting for her first lamentations and invocations to the saints to have exhausted themselves, he asked a few questions. Had any one else come to the house that afternoon asking for Miss Glen? No one whatsoever. Had she herself been upstairs at all that evening? Yes she’d gone up at six o’clock as usual to draw the curtains—or it might have been a few minutes after six. Anyway it was just before that wild fellow came breaking the knocker down. She’d run downstairs to answer the door. And him a black- hearted murderer all the time. Tommy let it go at that. But he still felt a curious pity for Reilly, and unwillingness to believe the worst of him. And yet there was no one else who could have murdered Gilda Glen. Mrs. Honeycott and Ellen had been the only two people in the house. He heard voices in the hall, and went out to find Tuppence and the policeman from the beat outside. The latter had produced a notebook, and a rather blunt pencil, which he licked surreptitiously. He went upstairs and surveyed the victim stolidly, merely remarking that if he was to touch anything the Inspector would give him beans. He listened to all Mrs. Honeycott’s hysterical outbursts and confused explanations, and occasionally he wrote something down. His presence was calming and soothing. Tommy finally got him alone for a minute or two on the steps outside ere he departed to telephone headquarters. "Look here," said Tommy, "you saw the deceased turning in at the gate, you say. Are you sure she was alone?" "Oh! she was alone all right. Nobody with her." "And between that time and when you met us, nobody came out of the gate?" "Not a soul." "You’d have seen them if they had?" "Of course I should. Nobody come out till that wild chap did." The majesty of the law moved portentously down the steps and paused by the white gatepost, which bore the imprint of a hand in red. "Kind of amateur he must have been," he said pityingly. "To leave a thing like that." Then he swung out into the road. III It was the day after the crime. Tommy and Tuppence were still at the Grand Hotel, but Tommy had thought it prudent to discard his clerical disguise. James Reilly had been apprehended, and was in custody. His solicitor, Mr. Marvell, had just finished a lengthy conversation with Tommy on the subject of the crime. "I never would have believed it of James Reilly," he said simply. "He’s always been a man of violent speech, but that’s all." Tommy nodded. "If you disperse energy in speech, it doesn’t leave you too much over for action. What I realise is that I shall be one of the principal witnesses against him. That conversation he had with me just before the crime was particularly damning. And, in spite of everything, I like the man, and if there was anyone else to suspect, I should believe him to be innocent. What’s his own story?" The solicitor pursed up his lips. "He declares that he found her lying there dead. But that’s impossible, of course. He’s using the first lie that comes into his head." "Because, if he happened to be speaking the truth, it would mean that the garrulous Mrs. Honeycott committed the crime—and that is fantastic. Yes, he must have done it." "The maid heard her cry out, remember." "The maid—yes—" Tommy was silent a moment. Then he said thoughtfully. "What credulous creatures we are, really. We believe evidence as though it were gospel truth. And what is it really? Only the impression conveyed to the mind by the senses—and suppose they’re the wrong impressions?" The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "Oh! we all know that there are unreliable witnesses, witnesses who remember more and more as time goes on, with no real intention to deceive." "I don’t mean only that.

"Strictly speaking I should say no," said Miss Marple. "Nothing professional, that is to say. I have never been a probation officer or indeed sat as a magistrate on a Bench or been connected in any way with a detective agency. To explain to you, Mr. Broadribb, which I think it is only fair for me to do and which I think Mr. Rafiel ought to have done, to explain it in any way all I can say is that during our stay in the West Indies, we both, Mr. Rafiel and myself, had a certain connection with a crime that took place there. A rather unlikely and perplexing murder." "And you and Mr. Rafiel solved it?" "I should not put it quite like that," said Miss Marple. "Mr. Rafiel, by the force of his personality, and I, by putting together one or two obvious indications that came to my notice, were successful in preventing a second murder just as it was about to take place. I could not have done it alone, I was physically far too feeble. Mr. Rafiel could not have done it alone, he was a cripple. We acted as allies, however." "Just one other question I should like to ask you, Miss Marple. Does the word "Nemesis" mean anything to you?" "Nemesis," said Miss Marple. It was not a question. A very slow and unexpected smile dawned on her face. "Yes," she said, "it does mean something to me. It meant something to me and it meant something to Mr. Rafiel. I said it to him, and he was much amused by my describing myself by that name." Whatever Mr. Broadribb had expected it was not that. He looked at Miss Marple with something of the same astonished surprise that Mr. Rafiel had once felt in a bedroom by the Caribbean sea. A nice and quite intelligent old lady. But really—Nemesis! "You feel the same, I am sure," said Miss Marple. She rose to her feet. "If you should find or receive any further instructions in this matter, you will perhaps let me know, Mr. Broadribb. It seems to me extraordinary that there should not be something of that kind. This leaves me entirely in the dark really as to what Mr. Rafiel is asking me to do or try to do." "You are not acquainted with his family, his friends, his—" "No. I told you. He was a fellow traveller in a foreign part of the world. We had a certain association as allies in a very mystifying matter. That is all." As she was about to go to the door she turned suddenly and asked: "He had a secretary, Mrs. Esther Walters. Would it be infringing etiquette if I asked if Mr. Rafiel left her fifty thousand pounds?" "His bequest will appear in the press," said Mr. Broadribb. "I can answer your question in the affirmative. Mrs. Walters" name is now Mrs. Anderson, by the way. She has remarried." "I am glad to hear that. She was a widow with one daughter, and she was a very adequate secretary, it appears. She understood Mr. Rafiel very well. A nice woman. I am glad she has benefited." That evening, Miss Marple, sitting in her straightbacked chair, her feet stretched out to the fireplace where a small wood fire was burning owing to the sudden cold spell which, as is its habit, can always descend on England at any moment selected by itself, took once more from the long envelope the document delivered to her that morning. Still in a state of partial unbelief she read, murmuring the words here and there below her breath as though to impress them on her mind, "To Miss Jane Marple, resident in the village of St. Mary Mead. This will be delivered to you after my death by the good offices of my solicitor, James Broadribb. He is the man I employ for dealing with such legal matters as fall in the field of my private affairs, not my business activities. He is a sound and trustworthy lawyer. Like the majority of the human race he is susceptible to the sin of curiosity. I have not satisfied his curiosity. In some respects this matter will remain between you and myself. Our code word, my dear lady, is Nemesis.

Nowadays, of course, there isn’t the range of lipsticks there used to be—just a few standard makes." "And you have no doubt made your inquiries?" Spence smiled. "Yes," he said; "as you put it, we have made our inquiries. Rosaleen Cloade uses this type of lipstick. So does Lynn Marchmont. Frances Cloade uses a more subdued colour. Mrs. Lionel Cloade doesn’t use lipstick at all. Mrs. Marchmont uses a pale mauve shade. Beatrice Lippincott doesn’t appear to use anything as expensive as this—nor does the chambermaid, Gladys." He paused. "You have been thorough," said Poirot. "Not thorough enough. It looks now as though an outsider is mixed up in it—some woman, perhaps, that Underhay knew in Warmsley Vale." "And who was with him at a quarter past ten on Tuesday evening?" "Yes," said Spence. He added with a sigh, "This lets David Hunter out." "It does?" "Yes. His lordship has consented to make a statement at last. After his solicitor had been along to make him see reason. Here’s his account of his own movements." Poirot read a neat typed memorandum. Left London 4:16 train for Warmsley Heath. Arrived there 5:30. Walked to Furrowbank by footpath. "His reason for coming down," the Superintendent broke in, "was, according to him, to get certain things he’d left behind, letters and papers, a chequebook, and to see if some shirts had come back from the laundry—which, of course, they hadn’t! My word, laundry’s a problem nowadays. Four ruddy weeks since they’ve been to our place—not a clean towel left in our house, and the wife washes all my things herself now." After this very human interpolation the Superintendent returned to the itinerary of David’s movements. "Left Furrowbank at 7:25 and states he went for a walk as he had missed the 7:20 train and there would be no train until the 9:20." "In what direction did he go for a walk?" asked Poirot. The Superintendent consulted his notes. "Says by Downe Copse, Bats Hill and Long Ridge." "In fact, a complete circular tour round the White House!" "My word, you pick up local geography quickly, M. Poirot!" Poirot smiled and shook his head. "No, I did not know the places you named. I was making a guess." "Oh, you were, were you?" The Superintendent cocked his head on one side. "Then, according to him, when he was up on Long Ridge, he realized he was cutting it rather fine and fairly hared it for Warmsley Heath station, going across country. He caught the train by the skin of his teeth, arrived at Victoria 10:45, walked to Shepherd’s Court, arriving there at eleven o’clock, which latter statement is confirmed by Mrs. Gordon Cloade." "And what confirmation have you of the rest of it?" "Remarkably little—but there is some. Rowley Cloade and others saw him arrive at Warmsley Heath. The maids at Furrowbank were out (he had his own key of course) so they didn’t see him, but they found a cigarette stump in the library which I gather intrigued them and also found a good deal of confusion in the linen cupboard. Then one of the gardeners was there working late—shutting up greenhouses or something and he caught sight of him. Miss Marchmont met him up by Mardon Wood—when he was running for the train." "Did any one see him catch the train?" "No—but he telephoned from London to Miss Marchmont as soon as he got back—at 11:05." "That is checked?" "Yes, we’d already put through an inquiry about calls from that number. There was a Toll call out at 11:04 to Warmsley Vale 34. That’s the Marchmonts" number." "Very, very interesting," murmured Poirot. But Spence was going on painstakingly and methodically. "Rowley Cloade left Arden at five minutes to nine. He’s quite definite it wasn’t earlier. About 9:10 Lynn Marchmont sees Hunter up at Mardon Wood. Granted he’s run all the way from the Stag, would he have had time to meet Arden, quarrel with him, kill him and get to Mardon Wood?

"That’s my guess, Mr. Burton. I may be wrong, of course." "I don’t think you are… It’s simple—and convincing—and it means that Agnes knew who the anonymous letter writer was." "Yes." "But then why didn’t she—?" I paused, frowning. Nash said quickly: "As I see it, the girl didn’t realize what she had seen. Not at first. Somebody had left a letter at the house, yes—but that somebody was nobody she would dream of connecting with the anonymous letters. It was somebody, from that point of view, quite above suspicion. "But the more she thought about it, the more uneasy she grew. Ought she, perhaps, to tell someone about it? In her perplexity she thinks of Miss Barton’s Partridge who, I gather, is a somewhat dominant personality and whose judgment Agnes would accept unhesitatingly. She decides to ask Partridge what she ought to do." "Yes," I said thoughtfully. "It fits well enough. And somehow or other, Poison Pen found out. How did she find out, superintendent?" "You’re not used to living in the country, Mr. Burton. It’s a kind of miracle how things get round. First of all there’s the telephone call. Who overheard it your end?" I reflected. "I answered the telephone originally. Then I called up the stairs to Partridge." "Mentioning the girl’s name?" "Yes—yes, I did." "Anyone overhear you?" "My sister or Miss Griffith might have done so." "Ah, Miss Griffith. What was she doing up there?" I explained. "Was she going back to the village?" "She was going to Mr. Pye first." Superintendent Nash sighed. "That’s two ways it could have gone all over the place." I was incredulous. "Do you mean that either Miss Griffith or Mr. Pye would bother to repeat a meaningless little bit of information like that?" "Anything’s news in a place like this. You’d be surprised. If the dressmaker’s mother has got a bad corn everybody hears about it! And then there is this end. Miss Holland, Rose—they could have heard what Agnes said. And there’s Fred Rendell. It may have gone round through him that Agnes went back to the house that afternoon." I gave a slight shiver. I was looking out of the window. In front of me was a neat square of grass and a path and the low prim gate. Someone had opened the gate, had walked very correctly and quietly up to the house, and had pushed a letter through the letter box. I saw, hazily, in my mind’s eye, that vague woman’s shape. The face was blank—but it must be a face that I knew…. Superintendent Nash was saying: "All the same, this narrows things down. That’s always the way we get ’em in the end. Steady, patient elimination. There aren’t so very many people it could be now." "You mean—?" "It knocks out any women clerks who were at their work all yesterday afternoon. It knocks out the schoolmistress. She was teaching. And the district nurse. I know where she was yesterday. Not that I ever thought it was any of them, but now we’re sure. You see, Mr. Burton, we’ve got two definite times now on which to concentrate—yesterday afternoon, and the week before. On the day of Mrs. Symmington’s death from, say, a quarter past three (the earliest possible time at which Agnes could have been back in the house after her quarrel) and four o’clock when the post must have come (but I can get that fixed more accurately with the postman). And yesterday from ten minutes to three (when Miss Megan Hunter left the house) until half past three or more probably a quarter past three as Agnes hadn’t begun to change." "What do you think happened yesterday?" Nash made a grimace. "What do I think? I think a certain lady walked up to the front door and rang the bell, quite calm and smiling, the afternoon caller… Maybe she asked for Miss Holland, or for Miss Megan, or perhaps she had brought a parcel. Anyway Agnes turns round to get a salver for cards, or to take the parcel in, and our ladylike caller bats her on the back of her unsuspecting head." "What with?" Nash said: "The ladies round here usually carry large sizes in handbags.

Stories, scandalous stories, of where Mrs. Ferrier really was. . . . And again, people talking. "I tell you Andy saw her. At that frightful place! She was drunk or doped and with an awful Argentine gigolo—Ramon. You know!" More talking. Mrs. Ferrier had gone off with an Argentine dancer. She had been seen in Paris, doped. She had been taking drugs for years. She drank like a fish. Slowly the righteous mind of England, at first unbelieving, had hardened against Mrs. Ferrier. Seemed as though there must be something in it! That wasn’t the sort of woman to be the Prime Minister’s wife. "A Jezebel, that’s what she is, nothing better than a Jezebel!" And then came the camera records. Mrs. Ferrier, photographed in Paris—lying back in a night club, her arm twined familiarly over the shoulder of a dark, olive-skinned vicious-looking young man. Other snapshots—half-naked on a beach—her head on the lounge lizard’s shoulder. And underneath: "Mrs. Ferrier has a good time . . ." Two days later an action for libel was brought against the X-ray News. X The case for the prosecution was opened by Sir Mortimer Inglewood, K.C. He was dignified and full of righteous indignation. Mrs. Ferrier was the victim of an infamous plot—a plot only to be equalled by the famous case of the Queen’s Necklace familiar to readers of Alexandre Dumas. That plot had been engineered to lower Queen Marie Antoinette in the eyes of the populace. This plot, also, had been engineered to discredit a noble and virtuous lady who was in this country in the position of Cæsar’s wife. Sir Mortimer spoke with bitter disparagement of Fascists and Communists both of whom sought to undermine Democracy by every unfair machination known. He then proceeded to call witnesses. The first was the Bishop of Northumbria. Dr. Henderson, the Bishop of Northumbria was one of the best-known figures in the English church, a man of great saintliness and integrity of character. He was broadminded, tolerant, and a fine preacher. He was loved and revered by all who knew him. He went into the box and swore that between the dates mentioned Mrs. Edward Ferrier had been staying in the Palace with himself and his wife. Worn out by her activities in good works, she had been recommended a thorough rest. Her visit had been kept a secret so as to obviate any worry from the Press. An eminent doctor followed the Bishop and deposed to having ordered Mrs. Ferrier rest and complete absence from worry. A local general practitioner gave evidence to the effect that he had attended Mrs. Ferrier at the Palace. The next witness called was Thelma Andersen. A thrill went round the Court when she entered the witness-box. Everyone realized at once what a strong resemblance the woman bore to Mrs. Edward Ferrier. "Your name is Thelma Andersen?" "Yes." "You are a Danish subject?" "Yes. Copenhagen is my home." "And you formerly worked at a café there?" "Yes, sir." "Please tell us in your own words what happened on the 18th March last." "There is a gentleman who comes to my table there—an English gentleman. He tells me he works for an English paper—the X-ray News." "You are sure he mentioned that name—X-ray News?" "Yes, I am sure—because, you see, I think at first it must be a medical paper. But no, it seems not so. Then he tells me there is an English film actress who wants to find a "stand-in," and that I am just the type. I do not go to the pictures much, and I do not recognize the name he says, but he tells me, yes, she is very famous, and that she has not been well and so she wants someone to appear as her in public places, and for that she will pay very much money." "How much money did this gentleman offer you?" "Five hundred pounds in English money. I do not at first believe—I think it is some trick, but he pays me at once half the money. So then, I give in my notice where I work." The tale went on. She had been taken to Paris, supplied with smart clothes, and had been provided with an "escort."

The suitcase lay on the table. "Of course, I haven’t opened it," the old lady said. "I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing till somebody official arrived. Besides," she added, with a demurely mischievous Victorian smile, "it’s locked." "Like to make a guess at what’s inside, Miss Marple?" asked the inspector. "I should imagine, you know," said Miss Marple, "that it would be Zobeida’s theatrical costumes. Would you like a chisel, Inspector?" The chisel soon did its work. Both women gave a slight gasp as the lid flew up. The sunlight coming through the window lit up what seemed like an inexhaustible treasure of sparkling jewels, red, blue, green, orange. "Aladdin’s Cave," said Miss Marple. "The flashing jewels the girl wore to dance." "Ah," said Inspector Craddock. "Now, what’s so precious about it, do you think, that a man was murdered to get hold of it?" "She was a shrewd girl, I expect," said Miss Marple thoughtfully. "She’s dead, isn’t she, Inspector?" "Yes, died three years ago." "She had this valuable emerald necklace," said Miss Marple, musingly. "Had the stones taken out of their setting and fastened here and there on her theatrical costume, where everyone would take them for merely coloured rhinestones. Then she had a replica made of the real necklace, and that, of course, was what was stolen. No wonder it never came on the market. The thief soon discovered the stones were false." "Here is an envelope," said Bunch, pulling aside some of the glittering stones. Inspector Craddock took it from her and extracted two official-looking papers from it. He read aloud, " "Marriage Certificate between Walter Edmund St. John and Mary Moss." That was Zobeida’s real name." "So they were married," said Miss Marple. "I see." "What’s the other?" asked Bunch. "A birth certificate of a daughter, Jewel." "Jewel?" cried Bunch. "Why, of course. Jewel! Jill! That’s it. I see now why he came to Chipping Cleghorn. That’s what he was trying to say to me. Jewel. The Mundys, you know. Laburnum Cottage. They look after a little girl for someone. They’re devoted to her. She’s been like their own granddaughter. Yes, I remember now, her name was Jewel, only, of course, they call her Jill. "Mrs. Mundy had a stroke about a week ago, and the old man’s been very ill with pneumonia. They were both going to go to the infirmary. I’ve been trying hard to find a good home for Jill somewhere. I didn’t want her taken away to an institution. "I suppose her father heard about it in prison and he managed to break away and get hold of this suitcase from the old dresser he or his wife left it with. I suppose if the jewels really belonged to her mother, they can be used for the child now." "I should imagine so, Mrs. Harmon. If they’re here." "Oh, they’ll be here all right," said Miss Marple cheerfully. . . . "Thank goodness you’re back, dear," said the Reverend Julian Harmon, greeting his wife with affection and a sigh of content. "Mrs. Burt always tries to do her best when you’re away, but she really gave me some very peculiar fish- cakes for lunch. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings so I gave them to Tiglath Pileser, but even he wouldn’t eat them so I had to throw them out of the window." "Tiglath Pileser," said Bunch, stroking the vicarage cat, who was purring against her knee, "is very particular about what fish he eats. I often tell him he’s got a proud stomach!" "And your tooth, dear? Did you have it seen to?" "Yes," said Bunch. "It didn’t hurt much, and I went to see Aunt Jane again, too. . . ." "Dear old thing," said Julian. "I hope she’s not failing at all." "Not in the least," said Bunch, with a grin. The following morning Bunch took a fresh supply of chrysanthemums to the church.

The telephone rang. Poirot got up and answered it. He spoke a few words, waited, spoke again. Then he hung up the receiver and returned to Battle. His face was very grave. "That was Mrs. Lorrimer speaking," he said. "She wants me to come round and see her—now." He and Battle looked at each other. The latter shook his head slowly. "Am I wrong?" he said. "Or were you expecting something of the kind?" "I wondered," said Hercule Poirot. "That was all. I wondered." "You’d better get along," said Battle. "Perhaps you’ll manage to get at the truth at last." Twenty-five MRS. LORRIMER SPEAKS The day was not a bright one, and Mrs. Lorrimer’s room seemed rather dark and cheerless. She herself had a grey look, and seemed much older than she had done on the occasion of Poirot’s last visit. She greeted him with her usual smiling assurance. "It is very nice of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot. You are a busy man, I know." "At your service, madame," said Poirot with a little bow. Mrs. Lorrimer pressed the bell by the fireplace. "We will have tea brought in. I don’t know what you feel about it, but I always think it’s a mistake to rush straight into confidences without any decent paving of the way." "There are to be confidences, then, madame?" Mrs. Lorrimer did not answer, for at that moment her maid answered the bell. When she had received the order and gone again, Mrs. Lorrimer said dryly: "You said, if you remember, when you were last here, that you would come if I sent for you. You had an idea, I think, of the reason that should prompt me to send." There was no more just then. Tea was brought. Mrs. Lorrimer dispensed it, talking intelligently on various topics of the day. Taking advantage of a pause, Poirot remarked: "I hear you and little Mademoiselle Meredith had tea together the other day." "We did. Have you seen her lately?" "This very afternoon." "She is in London, then, or have you been down to Wallingford?" "No. She and her friend were so amiable as to pay me a visit." "Ah, the friend. I have not met her." Poirot said, smiling a little: "This murder—it has made for me a rapprochement. You and Mademoiselle Meredith have tea together. Major Despard, he, too, cultivates Miss Meredith’s acquaintance. The Dr. Roberts, he is perhaps the only one out of it." "I saw him out at bridge the other day," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "He seemed quite his usual cheerful self." "As fond of bridge as ever?" "Yes—still making the most outrageous bids—and very often getting away with it." She was silent for a moment or two, then said: "Have you seen Superintendent Battle lately?" "Also this afternoon. He was with me when you telephoned." Shading her face from the fire with one hand, Mrs. Lorrimer asked: "How is he getting on?" Poirot said gravely: "He is not very rapid, the good Battle. He gets there slowly, but he does get there in the end, madame." "I wonder." Her lips curved in a faintly ironical smile. She went on: "He has paid me quite a lot of attention. He has delved, I think, into my past history right back to my girlhood. He has interviewed my friends, and chatted to my servants—the ones I have now and the ones who have been with me in former years. What he hoped to find I do not know, but he certainly did not find it. He might as well have accepted what I told him. It was the truth. I knew Mr. Shaitana very slightly. I met him at Luxor, as I said, and our acquaintanceship was never more than an acquaintanceship. Superintendent Battle will not be able to get away from these facts." "Perhaps not," said Poirot. "And you, M. Poirot? Have not you made any inquiries?" "About you, madame?" "That is what I meant." Slowly the little man shook his head. "It would have been to no avail." "Just exactly what do you mean by that, M. Poirot?"

Joanna and Megan were out, so I did the honours. "Good morning," said Miss Griffith. "I hear you’ve got Megan Hunter here?" "We have." "Very good of you, I’m sure. It must be rather a nuisance to you. I came up to say she can come to us if you like. I dare say I can find ways of making her useful about the house." I looked at Aimée Griffith with a good deal of distaste. "How kind of you," I said. "But we like having her. She potters about quite happily." "I dare say. Much too fond of pottering, that child. Still, I suppose she can’t help it, being practically half-witted." "I think she’s rather an intelligent girl," I said. Aimée Griffith gave me a hard stare. "First time I’ve ever heard anyone say that of her," she remarked. "Why, when you talk to her, she looks through you as though she doesn’t understand what you are saying!" "She probably just isn’t interested," I said. "If so, she’s extremely rude," said Aimée Griffith. "That may be. But not half-witted." Miss Griffith declared sharply: "At best, it’s woolgathering. What Megan needs is good hard work—something to give her an interest in life. You’ve no idea what a difference that makes to a girl. I know a lot about girls. You’d be surprised at the difference even becoming a Guide makes to a girl. Megan’s much too old to spend her time lounging about and doing nothing." "It’s been rather difficult for her to do anything else so far," I said. "Mrs. Symmington always seemed under the impression that Megan was about twelve years old." Miss Griffith snorted. "I know. I had no patience with that attitude of hers. Of course she’s dead now, poor woman, so one doesn’t want to say much, but she was a perfect example of what I call the unintelligent domestic type. Bridge and gossip and her children—and even there that Holland girl did all the looking after them. I’m afraid I never thought very much of Mrs. Symmington, although of course I never suspected the truth." "The truth?" I said sharply. Miss Griffith flushed. "I was terribly sorry for Dick Symmington, its all having to come out as it did at the inquest," she said. "It was awful for him." "But surely you heard him say that there was not a word of truth in that letter—that he was quite sure of that?" "Of course he said so. Quite right. A man’s got to stick up for his wife. Dick would." She paused and then explained: "You see, I’ve known Dick Symmington a long time." I was a little surprised. "Really?" I said. "I understood from your brother that he only bought this practice a few years ago." "Oh yes, but Dick Symmington used to come and stay in our part of the world up north. I’ve known him for years." Women jump to conclusions that men do not. Nevertheless, the suddenly softened tone of Aimée Griffith’s voice put, as our old nurse would have expressed it, ideas into my head. I looked at Aimée curiously. She went on—still in that softened tone: "I know Dick very well… He’s a proud man, and very reserved. But he’s the sort of man who could be very jealous." "That would explain," I said deliberately, "why Mrs. Symmington was afraid to show him or tell him about the letter. She was afraid that, being a jealous man, he might not believe her denials." Miss Griffith looked at me angrily and scornfully. "Good Lord," she said, "do you think any woman would go and swallow a lot of cyanide of potassium for an accusation that wasn’t true?" "The coroner seemed to think it was possible. Your brother, too—" Aimée interrupted me. "Men are all alike. All for preserving the decencies. But you don’t catch me believing that stuff. If an innocent woman gets some foul anonymous letter, she laughs and chucks it away. That’s what I—" she paused suddenly, and then finished, "would do." But I had noticed the pause. I was almost sure that what she had been about to say was "That’s what I did." I decided to take the war into the enemy’s country. "I see," I said pleasantly, "so you’ve had one, too?"

It was a trap –" He strolled to the window. "A fine view you have from here," he said. "Right over London." "Inspector Marriot," cried Tommy sharply. In a flash the Inspector appeared from the communicating door in the opposite wall. A little smile of amusement came to Sir Arthur’s lips. "I thought as much," he said. "But you won’t get me this time, I’m afraid, Inspector. I prefer to take my own way out." And putting his hands on the sill, he vaulted clean through the window. Tuppence shrieked and clapped her hands to her ears to shut out the sound she had already imagined–the sickening thud far beneath. Inspector Marriot uttered an oath. "We should have thought of the window," he said. "Though, mind you, it would have been a difficult thing to prove. I’ll go down and–and–see to things." "Poor devil," said Tommy slowly. "If he was fond of his wife –" But the Inspector interrupted him with a snort. "Fond of her? That’s as may be. He was at his wits" end where to turn for money. Lady Merivale had a large fortune of her own, and it all went to him. If she’d bolted with young Hale, he’d never have seen a penny of it." "That was it, was it?" "Of course, from the very start, I sensed that Sir Arthur was a bad lot, and that Captain Hale was all right. We know pretty well what’s what at the Yard–but it’s awkward when you’re up against facts. I’ll be going down now–I should give your wife a glass of brandy if I were you, Mr Beresford–it’s been upsetting like for her." "Greengrocers," said Tuppence in a low voice as the door closed behind the imperturbable Inspector, "butchers, fishermen, detectives. I was right, wasn’t I? He knew." Tommy, who had been busy at the sideboard, approached her with a large glass. "Drink this." "What is it? Brandy?" "No, it’s a large cocktail–suitable for a triumphant McCarty. Yes, Marriot’s right all round–that was the way of it. A bold finesse for game and rubber." Tuppence nodded. "But he finessed the wrong way round." "And so," said Tommy, "exit the King." Chapter 7 The Case of the Missing Lady The buzzer on Mr Blunt’s desk–International Detective Agency, Manager, Theodore Blunt–uttered its warning call. Tommy and Tuppence both flew to their respective peepholes which commanded a view of the outer office. There it was Albert’s business to delay the prospective client with various artistic devices. "I will see, sir," he was saying. "But I’m afraid Mr Blunt is very busy just at present. He is engaged with Scotland Yard on the phone just now." "I’ll wait," said the visitor. "I haven’t got a card with me, but my name is Gabriel Stavansson." The client was a magnificent specimen of manhood, standing over six foot high. His face was bronzed and weather beaten, and the extraordinary blue of his eyes made an almost startling contrast to the brown skin. Tommy swiftly made up his mind. He put on his hat, picked up some gloves and opened the door. He paused on the threshold. "This gentleman is waiting to see you, Mr Blunt," said Albert. A quick frown passed over Tommy’s face. He took out his watch. "I am due at the Duke’s at a quarter to eleven," he said. Then he looked keenly at the visitor. "I can give you a few minutes if you will come this way." The latter followed him obediently into the inner office, where Tuppence was sitting demurely with pad and pencil. "My confidential secretary, Miss Robinson," said Tommy. "Now, sir, perhaps you will state your business? Beyond the fact that it is urgent, that you came here in a taxi, and that you have lately been in the Arctic–or possibly the Antarctic, I know nothing." The visitor stared at him in amazement. "But this is marvellous," he cried. "I thought detectives only did such things in books! Your office boy did not even give you my name!" Tommy sighed deprecatingly. "Tut, tut, all that was very easy," he said.

Easiest thing in the world. Only too pleased been of use," mumbled George. "Splendid," she reiterated emphatically. It is undoubtedly pleasant to have the loveliest girl you have ever seen gazing into your eyes and telling you how splendid you are. George enjoyed it as much as anyone would. Then there came a rather difficult silence. It seemed to dawn upon the girl that further explanation might be expected She flushed a little. "The awkward part of it is," she said nervously, "that I’m afraid I can’t explain." She looked at him with a piteous air of uncertainty. "You can’t explain?" "No." "How perfectly splendid!" said Mr. Rowland with enthusiasm. "I beg your pardon?" "I said, "How perfectly splendid." Just like one of those books that keep you up all night. The heroine always says "I can’t explain" in me first chapter. She explains in the last, of course, and there’s never any real reason why she shouldn’t have done so in the beginning - except that it would spoil the story, I can’t tell you how pleased I am to be mixed up in a real mystery - I didn’t know there were such things. I hope it’s got something to do with secret documents of immense importance, and the Balkan express. I dote upon the Balkan express." The girl stared at him with wide, suspicious eyes. "What makes you say the Balkan express?" she asked sharply. "I hope I haven’t been indiscreet," George hastened to put in. "Your uncle travelled by it, perhaps." "My uncle - " She paused, then began again, "My uncle - " "Quite so," said George sympathetically. "I’ve got an uncle myself. Nobody should be held responsible for their uncles. Nature’s little throwbacks - that’s how I look at it." The girl began to laugh suddenly. When she spoke, George was aware of the slight foreign inflection in her voice. At first he had taken her to be English. "What a refreshing and unusual person you are, Mr. - " "Rowland. George to my friends." "My name is Elizabeth - " She stopped abruptly. "I like the name of Elizabeth," said George, to cover her momentary confusion. "They don’t call you Bessie or anything horrible like that I hope?" She shook her head. "Well," said George, "now that we know each other, we’d better get down to business. If you’ll stand up, Elizabeth, I’ll brush down the back of your coat." She stood up obediently, and George was as good as his word. "Thank you, Mr. Rowland." "George. George to my friends, remember. And you can’t come into my nice empty carriage, roll under the seat, induce me to tell lies to your uncle, and then refuse to be friends, can you?" "Thank you, George." "That’s better." "Do I look quite all right now? asked Elizabeth, trying to see over left shoulder. "You look - oh! you look - you look all right," said George, curbing himself sternly. "It was all so sudden, you see," explained the girl. "It must have been." "He saw us in the taxi, and then at the station I just bolted in here knowing he was close behind me. Where is this train going to, by the way?" "Rowland’s Castle," said George firmly. The girl looked puzzled. "Rowland’s Castle?" "Not at once, of course. Only after a good deal of stopping and slow going. But I confidently expect to be there before midnight. The old South-Western was a very reliable line - slow but sure - and I’m sure the Southern Railway is keeping up the old traditions." "I don’t know that I want to go to Rowland’s Castle," said Elizabeth doubtfully. "You hurt me. It’s a delightful spot." "Have you ever been there?" "Not exactly. But there are lots of other places you can go to, if you don’t fancy Rowland’s Castle. There’s Woking, and Weybridge, and Wimbledon. The train is sure to stop at one or other of them." "I see," said the girl. "Yes, I can get out there, and perhaps motor back to London. That would be the best plan, I think." Even as she spoke, the train began to slow up. Mr. Rowland gazed at her with appealing eyes. "If I can do anything - " "No, indeed. You’ve done a lot already."

Then he began to type rapidly. . . . Nine PHILOMEL COTTAGE "Philomel Cottage" was first published in Grand Magazine, November 1924. Good-bye, darling." "Good-bye, sweetheart." Alix Martin stood leaning over the small rustic gate, watching the retreating figure of her husband as he walked down the road in the direction of the village. Presently he turned a bend and was lost to sight, but Alix still stayed in the same position, absentmindedly smoothing a lock of the rich brown hair which had blown across her face, her eyes far away and dreamy. Alix Martin was not beautiful, nor even, strictly speaking, pretty. But her face, the face of a woman no longer in her first youth, was irradiated and softened until her former colleagues of the old office days would hardly have recognized her. Miss Alex King had been a trim businesslike young woman, efficient, slightly brusque in manner, obviously capable and matter-of-fact. Alix had graduated in a hard school. For fifteen years, from the age of eighteen until she was thirty-three, she had kept herself (and for seven years of the time an invalid mother) by her work as a shorthand typist. It was the struggle for existence which had hardened the soft lines of her girlish face. True, there had been romance—of a kind—Dick Windyford, a fellow clerk. Very much of a woman at heart, Alix had always known without seeming to know that he cared. Outwardly they had been friends, nothing more. Out of his slender salary Dick had been hard put to it to provide for the schooling of a younger brother. For the moment he could not think of marriage. And then suddenly deliverance from daily toil had come to the girl in the most unexpected manner. A distant cousin had died, leaving her money to Alix—a few thousand pounds, enough to bring in a couple of hundred a year. To Alix it was freedom, life, independence. Now she and Dick need wait no longer. But Dick reacted unexpectedly. He had never directly spoken of his love to Alix; now he seemed less inclined to do so than ever. He avoided her, became morose and gloomy. Alix was quick to realize the truth. She had become a woman of means. Delicacy and pride stood in the way of Dick’s asking her to be his wife. She liked him none the worse for it, and was indeed deliberating as to whether she herself might not take the first step, when for the second time the unexpected descended upon her. She met Gerald Martin at a friend’s house. He fell violently in love with her and within a week they were engaged. Alix, who had always considered herself "not the falling-in-love kind," was swept clean off her feet. Unwittingly she had found the way to arouse her former lover. Dick Windyford had come to her stammering with rage and anger. "The man’s a perfect stranger to you! You know nothing about him!" "I know that I love him." "How can you know—in a week?" "It doesn’t take everyone eleven years to find out that they’re in love with a girl," cried Alix angrily. His face went white. "I’ve cared for you ever since I met you. I thought that you cared also." Alix was truthful. "I thought so too," she admitted. "But that was because I didn’t know what love was." Then Dick had burst out again. Prayers, entreaties, even threats—threats against the man who had supplanted him. It was amazing to Alix to see the volcano that existed beneath the reserved exterior of the man she had thought she knew so well. Her thoughts went back to that interview now, on this sunny morning, as she leant on the gate of the cottage. She had been married a month, and she was idyllically happy. Yet, in the momentary absence of the husband who was everything to her, a tinge of anxiety invaded her perfect happiness. And the cause of that anxiety was Dick Windyford. Three times since her marriage she had dreamed the same dream. The environment differed, but the main facts were always the same. She saw her husband lying dead and Dick Windyford standing over him, and she knew clearly and distinctly that his was the hand which had dealt the fatal blow.

There was some gay horn blowing, and the coach departed. "I wish, in a way, you know," said Professor Wanstead, "that you weren’t staying behind. I’d rather have seen you safely on your way in the coach." He looked at her sharply. "Why are you staying here? Nervous exhaustion or something else?" "Something else," said Miss Marple. "I’m not particularly exhausted, though it makes a perfectly natural excuse for somebody of my age." "I feel really I ought to stay here and keep an eye on you." "No," said Miss Marple, "there’s no need to do that. There are other things you ought to be doing." "What things?" He looked at her. "Have you got ideas or knowledge?" "I think I have knowledge, but I’ll have to verify it. There are certain things that I can’t do myself. I think you will help to do them because you’re in touch with what I refer to as the authorities." "Meaning Scotland Yard, Chief Constables and the Governors of Her Majesty’s Prisons?" "Yes. One or other or all of them. You might have the Home Secretary in your pocket, too." "You certainly do have ideas! Well, what do you want me to do?" "First of all I want to give you this address." She took out a notebook and tore out one page and handed it to him. "What’s this? Oh yes, well-known charity, isn’t it?" "One of the better ones, I believe. They do a lot of good. You send them clothes," said Miss Marple, "children’s clothes and women’s clothes. Coats. Pullovers, all those sort of things." "Well, do you want me to contribute to this?" "No, it’s an appeal for charity, it’s a bit of what belongs to what we’re doing. What you and I are doing." "In what way?" "I want you to make enquiries there about a parcel which was sent from here two days ago, posted from this post office." "Who posted it—did you?" "No," said Miss Marple. "No. But I assumed responsibility for it." "What does that mean?" "It means," said Miss Marple, smiling slightly, "that I went into the post office here and I explained rather scattily and—well, like the old pussy I am—that I had very foolishly asked someone to take a parcel for me and post it, and I had put the wrong address on it. I was very upset by this. The postmistress very kindly said she remembered the parcel, but the address on it was not the one I was mentioning. It was this one, the one I have just given to you. I explained that I had been very foolish and written the wrong address on it, confusing it with another one I sometimes send things to. She told me it was too late to do anything about it now because the parcel, naturally, had gone off. I said it was quite all right, that I would send a letter to the particular charity to which the parcel had been sent, and explain that it had been addressed to them by mistake. Would they very kindly forward it on to the charity that I had meant to receive it." "It seems rather a roundabout way." "Well," said Miss Marple, "one has to say something. I’m not going to do that at all. You are going to deal with the matter. We’ve got to know what’s inside that parcel! I have no doubt you can get means." "Will there be anything inside the parcel to say who actually sent it?" "I rather think not. It may have a slip of paper saying "from friends" or it may have a fictitious name and address—something like Mrs. Pippin, 14 Westbourne Grove—and if anyone made enquiries there, there’d be no person of such a name living there." "Oh. Any other alternatives?" "It might possibly, most unlikely but possible, have a slip saying "From Miss Anthea Bradbury-Scott’—" "Did she—?" "She took it to the post," said Miss Marple. "And you had asked her to take it there?" "Oh no," said Miss Marple. "I hadn’t asked anyone to post anything. The first I saw of the parcel was when Anthea passed the garden of the Golden Boar where you and I were sitting talking, carrying it." "But you went to the post office and represented that the parcel was yours." "Yes," said Miss Marple, "which was quite untrue. But post offices are careful.

"Very proper," said Mr. Gaitskill. I disagreed with him. But this was no time for argument. "By this will," said Mr. Gaitskill, "dated November the 29th of last year, Mr. Leonides, after a bequest to his wife of one hundred thousand pounds, leaves his entire estate, real and personal, to his granddaughter, Sophia Katherine Leonides absolutely." I gasped. Whatever I had expected, it was not this. "He left the whole caboodle to Sophia," I said. "What an extraordinary thing. Any reason?" "He set out his reasons very clearly in the covering letter," said my father. He picked up a sheet of paper from the desk in front of him. "You have no objection to Charles reading this, Mr. Gaitskill?" "I am in your hands," said Mr. Gaitskill coldly. "The letter does at least offer an explanation—and possibly (though I am doubtful as to this) an excuse for Mr. Leonides" extraordinary conduct." The Old Man handed me the letter. It was written in a small crabbed handwriting in very black ink. The handwriting showed character and individuality. It was not at all like the careful forming of the letters, more characteristic of a bygone period, when literacy was something painstakingly acquired and correspondingly valued. Dear Gaitskill [it ran], You will be astonished to get this, and probably offended. But I have my own reasons for behaving in what may seem to you an unnecessarily secretive manner. I have long been a believer in the individual. In a family (this I have observed in my boyhood and never forgotten) there is always one strong character and it usually falls to this one person to care for, and bear the burden of, the rest of the family. In my family I was that person. I came to London, established myself there, supported my mother and my aged grandparents in Smyrna, extricated one of my brothers from the grip of the law, secured the freedom of my sister from an unhappy marriage and so on. God has been pleased to grant me a long life, and I have been able to watch over and care for my own children and their children. Many have been taken from me by death; the rest, I am happy to say, are under my roof. When I die, the burden I have carried must descend on someone else. I have debated whether to divide my fortune as equally as possible amongst my dear ones—but to do so would not eventually result in a proper equality. Men are not born equal—to offset the natural inequality of Nature one must redress the balance. In other words, someone must be my successor, must take upon him or herself the burden of responsibility for the rest of the family. After close observation I do not consider either of my sons fit for this responsibility. My dearly loved son Roger has no business sense, and though of a lovable nature is too impulsive to have good judgement. My son Philip is too unsure of himself to do anything but retreat from life. Eustace, my grandson, is very young and I do not think he has the qualities of sense and judgement necessary. He is indolent and very easily influenced by the ideas of anyone whom he meets. Only my granddaughter Sophia seems to me to have the positive qualities required. She has brains, judgement, courage, a fair and unbiased mind and, I think, generosity of spirit. To her I commit the family welfare—and the welfare of my kind sister-in-law Edith de Haviland, for whose lifelong devotion to the family I am deeply grateful. This explains the enclosed document. What will be harder to explain—or rather to explain to you, my old friend—is the deception that I have employed. I thought it wise not to raise speculation about the disposal of my money, and I have no intention of letting my family know that Sophia is to be my heir. Since my two sons have already had considerable fortunes settled upon them, I do not feel that my testamentary dispositions will place them in a humiliating position. To stifle curiosity and surmise, I asked you to draw me up a will. This will I read aloud to my assembled family. I laid it on my desk, placed a sheet of blotting paper over it and asked for two servants to be summoned. When they came I slid the blotting paper up a little, exposing the bottom of a document, signed my name and caused them to sign theirs.

"The police had had little to work upon. A strand of fair hair caught in the dead man’s fingers and a few threads of flame-coloured wool caught on one of the buttons of his blue coat. Diligent inquiries at the railway station and elsewhere had elicited the following facts. "A young girl dressed in a flame-coloured coat and skirt had arrived by train that evening about seven o’clock and had asked the way to Captain Sessle’s house. The same girl had reappeared again at the station, two hours later. Her hat was awry and her hair tousled, and she seemed in a state of great agitation. She inquired about the trains back to town, and was continually looking over her shoulder as though afraid of something. "Our police force is in many ways very wonderful. With this slender evidence to go upon, they managed to track down the girl and identify her as one Doris Evans. She was charged with murder and cautioned that anything she might say would be used against her, but she nevertheless persisted in making a statement, and this statement she repeated again in detail, without any subsequent variation, at the subsequent proceedings. "Her story was this. She was a typist by profession, and had made friends one evening, in a cinema, with a well-dressed man, who declared he had taken a fancy to her. His name, he told her, was Anthony, and he suggested that she should come down to his bungalow at Sunningdale. She had no idea then, or at any other time, that he had a wife. It was arranged between them that she should come down on the following Wednesday—the day, you will remember, when the servants would be absent and his wife away from home. In the end he told her his full name was Anthony Sessle, and gave her the name of his house. "She duly arrived at the bungalow on the evening in question, and was greeted by Sessle, who had just come in from the links. Though he professed himself delighted to see her, the girl declared that from the first his manner was strange and different. A half-acknowledged fear sprang up in her, and she wished fervently that she had not come. "After a simple meal, which was all ready and prepared, Sessle suggested going out for a stroll. The girl consenting, he took her out of the house, down the road, and along the "slip" on to the golf course. And then suddenly, just as they were crossing the seventh tee, he seemed to go completely mad. Drawing a revolver from his pocket, he brandished it in the air, declaring that he had come to the end of his tether. " "Everything must go! I’m ruined—done for. And you shall go with me. I shall shoot you first—then myself. They will find our bodies here in the morning side by side—together in death." "And so on—a lot more. He had hold of Doris Evans by the arm, and she, realising she had to do with a madman, made frantic efforts to free herself, or failing that to get the revolver away from him. They struggled together, and in that struggle he must have torn out a piece of her hair and got the wool of her coat entangled on a button. "Finally, with a desperate effort, she freed herself, and ran for her life across the golf links, expecting every minute to be shot down with a revolver bullet. She fell twice, tripping over the heather, but eventually regained the road to the station and realised that she was not being pursued. "That is the story that Doris Evans tells—and from which she has never varied. She strenuously denies that she ever struck at him with a hatpin in self- defence—a natural enough thing to do under the circumstances, though—and one which may well be the truth. In support of her story, a revolver has been found in the furze bushes near where the body was lying. It had not been fired. "Doris Evans has been sent for trial, but the mystery still remains a mystery. If her story is to be believed, who was it who stabbed Captain Sessle? The other woman, the tall woman in brown, whose appearance so upset him? So far no one has explained her connection with the case. She appears out of space suddenly on the footpath across the links, she disappears along the slip, and no one ever hears of her again. Who was she? A local resident? A visitor from London?

I was to travel by the same train as he did to Parrus and see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train and, in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel sore about it. It doesn’t look any too good for me." "Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?" "Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his—well, that was blown upon straight away. The only place I could get was berth No. 16, and I had a bit of a job getting that. I guess the conductor likes to keep that compartment up his sleeve. But that’s neither here nor there. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that No. 16 was a pretty good strategic position. There was only the dining car in front of the Stamboul sleeping car, the door on to the platform at the front end was barred at night. The only way a thug could come was through the rear end door to the platform or along the train from the rear—in either case he’d have to pass right by my compartment." "You had no idea, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant." "Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr. Ratchett described him to me." "What?" All three men leaned forward eagerly. Hardman went on: "A small man, dark, with a womanish kind of voice—that’s what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn’t think it would be the first night out. More likely the second or third." "He knew something," said M. Bouc. "He certainly knew more than he told his secretary," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?" "No, he was kinder reticent about that part of it. Just said the fellow was out for his blood and meant to get it." "A small man—dark—with a womanish voice," said Poirot thoughtfully. Then, fixing a sharp glance on Hardman, he said: "You knew who he really was, of course?" "Which, mister?" "Ratchett. You recognized him?" "I don’t get you." "Ratchett was Cassetti, the Armstrong murderer." Mr. Hardman gave way to a prolonged whistle. "That certainly is some surprise!" he said. "Yes, sir! No, I didn’t recognize him. I was away out West when that case came on. I suppose I saw photos of him in the papers, but I wouldn’t recognize my own mother when a press photographer had done with her. Well, I don’t doubt that a few people had it in for Cassetti all right." "Do you know of anyone connected with the Armstrong case who answers to that description—small, dark, womanish voice?" Hardman reflected a minute or two. "It’s hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone to do with that case is dead." "There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember." "Sure. That’s a good point, that. She was a foreigner of some kind. Maybe she had some wop relations. But you’ve got to remember that there were other cases besides the Armstrong case. Cassetti had been running this kidnapping stunt some time. You can’t concentrate on that only." "Ah, but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected with the Armstrong case." Mr. Hardman cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not respond. The American shook his head. "I can’t call to mind anybody answering that description in the Armstrong case," he said slowly. "But of course I wasn’t in it and didn’t know much about it." "Well, continue your narrative, M. Hardman." "There’s very little to tell. I got my sleep in the daytime and stayed awake on the watch at night. Nothing suspicious happened the first night. Last night was the same, as far as I was concerned. I had my door a little ajar and watched. No stranger passed." "You are sure of that, M. Hardman?" "I’m plumb certain. Nobody got on that train from outside and nobody came along the train from the rear carriages. I’ll take my oath on that." "Could you see the conductor from your position?" "Sure. He sits on that little seat almost flush with my door."

"Yes—I suppose so. And yet—" Griselda furrowed her brows perplexedly. "It wasn’t like that, somehow. She didn’t seem so much bowled over as—well—terrified." "Terrified?" "Yes—not showing it, you know. At least not meaning to show it. But a queer, watchful look in her eyes. I wonder if she has a sort of idea who did kill him. She asked again and again if anyone were suspected." "Did she?" I said thoughtfully. "Yes. Of course Anne’s got marvellous self-control, but one could see that she was terribly upset. More so than I would have thought, for after all it wasn’t as though she were so devoted to him. I should have said she rather disliked him, if anything." "Death alters one’s feelings sometimes," I said. "Yes, I suppose so." Dennis came in and was full of excitement over a footprint he had found in one of the flower beds. He was sure that the police had overlooked it and that it would turn out to be the turning point of the mystery. I spent a troubled night. Dennis was up and about and out of the house long before breakfast to "study the latest developments," as he said. Nevertheless it was not he, but Mary, who brought us the morning’s sensational bit of news. We had just sat down to breakfast when she burst into the room, her cheeks red and her eyes shining, and addressed us with her customary lack of ceremony. "Would you believe it? The baker’s just told me. They’ve arrested young Mr. Redding." "Arrested Lawrence," cried Griselda incredulously. "Impossible. It must be some stupid mistake." "No mistake about it, mum," said Mary with a kind of gloating exultation. "Mr. Redding, he went there himself and gave himself up. Last night, last thing. Went right in, threw down the pistol on the table, and "I did it," he says. Just like that." She looked at us both, nodded her head vigorously, and withdrew satisfied with the effect she had produced. Griselda and I stared at each other. "Oh! It isn’t true," said Griselda. "It can’t be true." She noticed my silence, and said: "Len, you don’t think it’s true?" I found it hard to answer her. I sat silent, thoughts whirling through my head. "He must be mad," said Griselda. "Absolutely mad. Or do you think they were looking at the pistol together and it suddenly went off?" "That doesn’t sound at all a likely thing to happen." "But it must have been an accident of some kind. Because there’s not a shadow of a motive. What earthly reason could Lawrence have for killing Colonel Protheroe?" I could have answered that question very decidedly, but I wished to spare Anne Protheroe as far as possible. There might still be a chance of keeping her name out of it. "Remember they had had a quarrel," I said. "About Lettice and her bathing dress. Yes, but that’s absurd; and even if he and Lettice were engaged secretly—well, that’s not a reason for killing her father." "We don’t know what the true facts of the case may be, Griselda." "You do believe it, Len! Oh! How can you! I tell you, I’m sure Lawrence never touched a hair of his head." "Remember, I met him just outside the gate. He looked like a madman." "Yes, but—oh! It’s impossible." "There’s the clock, too," I said. "This explains the clock. Lawrence must have put it back to 6:20 with the idea of making an alibi for himself. Look how Inspector Slack fell into the trap." "You’re wrong, Len. Lawrence knew about that clock being fast. "Keeping the Vicar up to time!" he used to say. Lawrence would never have made the mistake of putting it back to 6:22. He’d have put the hands somewhere possible—like a quarter to seven." "He mayn’t have known what time Protheroe got here. Or he may have simply forgotten about the clock being fast." Griselda disagreed. "No, if you were committing a murder, you’d be awfully careful about things like that." "You don’t know, my dear," I said mildly. "You’ve never done one."

Poirot switched the other light off, then on, then off again. "C’est bien! I have finished here." "Dinner is at half past seven," murmured the secretary. "I thank you, M. Trefusis, for your many amiabilities." "Not at all." Poirot went thoughtfully along the corridor to the room appointed for him. The inscrutable George was there laying out his master’s things. "My good George," he said presently, "I shall, I hope, meet at dinner a certain gentleman who begins to intrigue me greatly. A man who has come home from the tropics, George. With a tropical temper—so it is said. A man whom Parsons tries to tell me about, and whom Lily Margrave does not mention. The late Sir Reuben had a temper of his own, George. Supposing such a man to come into contact with a man whose temper was worse than his own—how do you say it? The fur would jump about, eh?" " "Would fly" is the correct expression, sir, and it is not always the case, sir, not by a long way." "No?" "No, sir. There was my Aunt Jemima, sir, a most shrewish tongue she had, bullied a poor sister of hers who lived with her, something shocking she did. Nearly worried the life out of her. But if anyone came along who stood up to her, well, it was a very different thing. It was meekness she couldn’t bear." "Ha!" said Poirot, "it is suggestive—that." George coughed apologetically. "Is there anything I can do in any way," he inquired delicately, "to—er—assist you, sir?" "Certainly," said Poirot promptly. "You can find out for me what colour evening dress Miss Lily Margrave wore that night, and which housemaid attends her." George received these commands with his usual stolidity. "Very good, sir, I will have the information for you in the morning." Poirot rose from his seat and stood gazing into the fire. "You are very useful to me, George," he murmured. "Do you know, I shall not forget your Aunt Jemima?" Poirot did not, after all, see Victor Astwell that night. A telephone message came from him that he was detained in London. "He attends to the affairs of your late husband’s business, eh?" asked Poirot of Lady Astwell. "Victor is a partner," she explained. "He went out to Africa to look into some mining concessions for the firm. It was mining, wasn’t it, Lily?" "Yes, Lady Astwell." "Gold mines, I think, or was it copper or tin? You ought to know, Lily, you were always asking Reuben questions about it all. Oh, do be careful, dear, you will have that vase over!" "It is dreadfully hot in here with the fire," said the girl. "Shall I—shall I open the window a little?" "If you like, dear," said Lady Astwell placidly. Poirot watched while the girl went across to the window and opened it. She stood there a minute or two breathing in the cool night air. When she returned and sat down in her seat, Poirot said to her politely: "So Mademoiselle is interested in mines?" "Oh, not really," said the girl indifferently. "I listened to Sir Reuben, but I don’t know anything about the subject." "You pretended very well, then," said Lady Astwell. "Poor Reuben actually thought you had some ulterior motive in asking all those questions." The little detective’s eyes had not moved from the fire, into which he was steadily staring, but nevertheless, he did not miss the quick flush of vexation on Lily Margrave’s face. Tactfully he changed the conversation. When the hour for good nights came, Poirot said to his hostess: "May I have just two little words with you, Madame?" Lily Margrave vanished discreetly. Lady Astwell looked inquiringly at the detective. "You were the last person to see Sir Reuben alive that night?" She nodded. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she hastily held a black-edged handkerchief to them. "Ah, do not distress yourself, I beg of you do not distress yourself." "It’s all very well, M. Poirot, but I can’t help it." "I am a triple imbecile thus to vex you."

Here is a recent purchase that might interest you." He handed over a folded paper. "You think this ties up?" "I’m sure it does." "I thought the sale of islands was prohibited by that particular government?" "Money can usually find a way." "There is nothing else that you would care to dwell upon?" "It is possible that within twenty-four hours I shall have for you something that will more or less clinch matters." "And what is that?" "An eyewitness." "You mean—" "An eyewitness to a crime." The legal man looked at Poirot with mounting disbelief. "Where is this eyewitness now?" "On the way to London, I hope and trust." "You sound—disturbed." "That is true. I have done what I can to take care of things, but I will admit to you that I am frightened. Yes, I am frightened in spite of the protective measure I have taken. Because, you see, we are—how shall I describe it?—we are up against ruthlessness, quick reactions, greed pushed beyond an expectable human limit and perhaps—I am not sure but I think it possible—a touch, shall we say, of madness? Not there originally, but cultivated. A seed that took root and grows fast. And now perhaps has taken charge, inspiring an inhuman rather than a human attitude to life." "We’ll have to have a few extra opinions on this," said the legal man. "We can’t rush into things. Of course, a lot depends on the—er—forestry business. If that’s positive, we’d have to think again." Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. "I will take my leave. I have told you all that I know and all that I fear and envisage as possible. I shall remain in touch with you." He shook hands all round with foreign precision, and went out. "The man’s a bit of a mountebank," said the legal man. "You don’t think he’s a bit touched, do you? Touched in the head himself, I mean? Anyway, he’s a pretty good age. I don’t know that one can rely on the faculties of a man of that age." "I think you can rely upon him," said the Chief Constable. "At least, that is my impression. Spence, I’ve known you a good many years. You’re a friend of his. Do you think he’s become a little senile?" "No, I don’t," said Superintendent Spence. "What’s your opinion, Raglan?" "I’ve only met him recently, sir. At first I thought his—well, his way of talking, his ideas, might be fantastic. But on the whole I’m converted. I think he’s going to be proved right." Twenty-four I Mrs. Oliver had ensconced herself at a table in the window of The Black Boy. It was still fairly early, so the dining room was not very full. Presently, Judith Butler returned from powdering her nose and sat down opposite her and examined the menu. "What does Miranda like?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "We might as well order for her as well. I suppose she’ll be back in a minute." "She likes roast chicken." "Well, that’s easy then. What about you?" "I’ll have the same." "Three roast chickens," Mrs. Oliver ordered. She leaned back, studying her friend. "Why are you staring at me in that way?" "I was thinking," said Mrs. Oliver. "Thinking what?" "Thinking really how very little I knew about you." "Well, that’s the same with everybody, isn’t it?" "You mean, one never knows all about anyone." "I shouldn’t think so." "Perhaps you’re right," said Mrs. Oliver. Both women were silent for some time. "They’re rather slow serving things here." "It’s coming now, I think," said Mrs. Oliver. A waitress arrived with a tray full of dishes. "Miranda’s a long time. Does she know where the dining room is?" "Yes, of course she does. We looked in on the way." Judith got up impatiently. "I’ll have to go and fetch her." "I wonder if perhaps she gets car sick." "She used to when she was younger." She returned some four or five minutes later. "She’s not in the Ladies’," she said. "There’s a door outside it into the garden. Perhaps she went out that way to look at a bird or something. She’s like that." "No time to look at birds today," said Mrs. Oliver. "Go and call her or something.

This programme we duly carried out, except that we were somewhat late in starting, so that we stopped on the way and picnicked, going on to Las Nieves afterwards for a bathe before tea. "As we approached the beach, we were at once aware of a tremendous commotion. The whole population of the small village seemed to be gathered on the shore. As soon as they saw us they rushed towards the car and began explaining excitedly. Our Spanish not being very good, it took me a few minutes to understand, but at last I got it. "Two of the mad English ladies had gone in to bathe, and one had swum out too far and got into difficulties. The other had gone after her and had tried to bring her in, but her strength in turn had failed and she too would have drowned had not a man rowed out in a boat and brought in rescuer and rescued—the latter beyond help. "As soon as I got the hang of things I pushed the crowd aside and hurried down the beach. I did not at first recognize the two women. The plump figure in the black stockinet costume and the tight green rubber bathing cap awoke no chord of recognition as she looked up anxiously. She was kneeling beside the body of her friend, making somewhat amateurish attempts at artificial respiration. When I told her that I was a doctor she gave a sigh of relief, and I ordered her off at once to one of the cottages for a rub down and dry clothing. One of the ladies in my party went with her. I myself worked unavailingly on the body of the drowned woman in vain. Life was only too clearly extinct, and in the end I had reluctantly to give in. "I rejoined the others in the small fisherman’s cottage and there I had to break the sad news. The survivor was attired now in her own clothes, and I immediately recognized her as one of the two arrivals of the night before. She received the sad news fairly calmly, and it was evidently the horror of the whole thing that struck her more than any great personal feeling. " "Poor Amy," she said. "Poor, poor Amy. She had been looking forward to the bathing here so much. And she was a good swimmer too. I can’t understand it. What do you think it can have been, doctor?" " "Possibly cramp. Will you tell me exactly what happened?" " "We had both been swimming about for some time—twenty minutes, I should say. Then I thought I would go in, but Amy said she was going to swim out once more. She did so, and suddenly I heard her call and realized she was crying for help. I swam out as fast as I could. She was still afloat when I got to her, but she clutched at me wildly and we both went under. If it hadn’t been for that man coming out with his boat I should have been drowned too." " "That has happened fairly often," I said. "To save anyone from drowning is not an easy affair." " "It seems so awful," continued Miss Barton. "We only arrived yesterday, and were so delighting in the sunshine and our little holiday. And now this—this terrible tragedy occurs." "I asked her then for particulars about the dead woman, explaining that I would do everything I could for her, but that the Spanish authorities would require full information. This she gave me readily enough. "The dead woman, Miss Amy Durrant, was her companion and had come to her about five months previously. They had got on very well together, but Miss Durrant had spoken very little about her people. She had been left an orphan at an early age and had been brought up by an uncle and had earned her own living since she was twenty-one. "And so that was that," went on the doctor. He paused and said again, but this time with a certain finality in his voice, "And so that was that." "I don’t understand," said Jane Helier. "Is that all? I mean, it’s very tragic, I suppose, but it isn’t—well, it isn’t what I call creepy." "I think there’s more to follow," said Sir Henry. "Yes," said Dr Lloyd, "there’s more to follow. You see, right at the time there was one queer thing. Of course I asked questions of the fishermen, etc., as to what they’d seen. They were eye-witnesses. And one woman had rather a funny story.

The letters are sent indiscriminately and serve the purpose of working off some frustration in the writer’s mind. As I say, it’s definitely pathological. And the craze grows. In the end, of course, you track down the person in question—it’s often someone extremely unlikely, and that’s that. There was a bad outburst of the kind over the other side of the county last year—turned out to be the head of the millinery department in a big draper’s establishment. Quiet, refined woman—had been there for years. I remember something of the same kind in my last practice up north—but that turned out to be purely personal spite. Still, as I say, I’ve seen something of this kind of thing, and, quite frankly, it frightens me!" "Has it been going on long?" I asked. "I don’t think so. Hard to say, of course, because people who get these letters don’t go round advertising the fact. They put them in the fire." He paused. "I’ve had one myself. Symmington, the solicitor, he’s had one. And one or two of my poorer patients have told me about them." "All much the same sort of thing?" "Oh yes. A definite harping on the sex theme. That’s always a feature." He grinned. "Symmington was accused of illicit relations with his lady clerk—poor old Miss Ginch, who’s forty at least, with pince-nez and teeth like a rabbit. Symmington took it straight to the police. My letters accused me of violating professional decorum with my lady patients, stressing the details. They’re all quite childish and absurd, but horribly venomous." His face changed, grew grave. "But all the same, I’m afraid. These things can be dangerous, you know." "I suppose they can." "You see," he said, "crude, childish spite though it is, sooner or later one of these letters will hit the mark. And then, God knows what may happen! I’m afraid, too, of the effect upon the slow, suspicious uneducated mind. If they see a thing written, they believe it’s true. All sorts of complications may arise." "It was an illiterate sort of letter," I said thoughtfully, "written by somebody practically illiterate, I should say." "Was it?" said Owen, and went away. Thinking it over afterwards, I found that "Was it?" rather disturbing. Two I I am not going to pretend that the arrival of our anonymous letter did not leave a nasty taste in the mouth. It did. At the same time, it soon passed out of my mind. I did not, you see, at that point, take it seriously. I think I remember saying to myself that these things probably happen fairly often in out-of-the-way villages. Some hysterical woman with a taste for dramatizing herself was probably at the bottom of it. Anyway, if the letters were as childish and silly as the one we had got, they couldn’t do much harm. The next incident, if I may put it so, occurred about a week later, when Partridge, her lips set tightly together, informed me that Beatrice, the daily help, would not be coming today. "I gather, sir," said Partridge, "that the girl has been Upset." I was not very sure what Partridge was implying, but I diagnosed (wrongly) some stomachic trouble to which Partridge was too delicate to allude more directly. I said I was sorry and hoped she would soon be better. "The girl is perfectly well, sir," said Partridge. "She is Upset in her Feelings." "Oh," I said rather doubtfully. "Owing," went on Partridge, "to a letter she has received. Making, I understand, Insinuations." The grimness of Partridge’s eye, coupled with the obvious capital I of Insinuations, made me apprehensive that the insinuations were concerned with me. Since I would hardly have recognized Beatrice by sight if I had met her in the town so unaware of her had I been—I felt a not unnatural annoyance. An invalid hobbling about on two sticks is hardly cast for the role of deceiver of village girls. I said irritably: "What nonsense!" "My very words, sir, to the girl’s mother," said Partridge. ""Goings On in this house," I said to her, "there never have been and never will be while I am in charge.

said Julia, yawning. "What does it mean?" Miss Blacklock said slowly, "I suppose—it’s some silly sort of hoax." "But why?" Dora Bunner exclaimed. "What’s the point of it? It seems a very stupid sort of joke. And in very bad taste." Her flabby cheeks quivered indignantly, and her shortsighted eyes sparkled with indignation. Miss Blacklock smiled at her. "Don’t work yourself up over it, Bunny," she said. "It’s just somebody’s idea of humour, but I wish I knew whose." "It says today," pointed out Miss Bunner. "Today at 6:30 p.m. What do you think is going to happen?" "Death!" said Patrick in sepulchral tones. "Delicious death." "Be quiet, Patrick," said Miss Blacklock as Miss Bunner gave a little yelp. "I only meant the special cake that Mitzi makes," said Patrick apologetically. "You know we always call it delicious death." Miss Blacklock smiled a little absentmindedly. Miss Bunner persisted: "But Letty, what do you really think—?" Her friend cut across the words with reassuring cheerfulness. "I know one thing that will happen at 6:30," she said dryly. "We’ll have half the village up here, agog with curiosity. I’d better make sure we’ve got some sherry in the house." II "You are worried, aren’t you Lotty?" Miss Blacklock started. She had been sitting at her writing-table, absentmindedly drawing little fishes on the blotting paper. She looked up into the anxious face of her old friend. She was not quite sure what to say to Dora Bunner. Bunny, she knew, mustn’t be worried or upset. She was silent for a moment or two, thinking. She and Dora Bunner had been at school together. Dora then had been a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed rather stupid girl. Her being stupid hadn’t mattered, because her gaiety and high spirits and her prettiness had made her an agreeable companion. She ought, her friend thought, to have married some nice Army officer, or a country solicitor. She had so many good qualities—affection, devotion, loyalty. But life had been unkind to Dora Bunner. She had had to earn her living. She had been painstaking but never competent at anything she undertook. The two friends had lost sight of each other. But six months ago a letter had come to Miss Blacklock, a rambling, pathetic letter. Dora’s health had given way. She was living in one room, trying to subsist on her old age pension. She endeavoured to do needlework, but her fingers were stiff with rheumatism. She mentioned their schooldays—since then life had driven them apart—but could—possibly—her old friend help? Miss Blacklock had responded impulsively. Poor Dora, poor pretty silly fluffy Dora. She had swooped down upon Dora, had carried her off, had installed her at Little Paddocks with the comforting fiction that "the housework is getting too much for me. I need someone to help me run the house." It was not for long—the doctor had told her that—but sometimes she found poor old Dora a sad trial. She muddled everything, upset the temperamental foreign "help," miscounted the laundry, lost bills and letters—and sometimes reduced the competent Miss Blacklock to an agony of exasperation. Poor old muddle-headed Dora, so loyal, so anxious to help, so pleased and proud to think she was of assistance—and, alas, so completely unreliable. She said sharply: "Don’t, Dora. You know I asked you—" "Oh," Miss Bunner looked guilty. "I know. I forgot. But—but you are, aren’t you?" "Worried? No. At least," she added truthfully, "not exactly. You mean about that silly notice in the Gazette?" "Yes—even if it’s a joke, it seems to me it’s a—a spiteful sort of joke." "Spiteful?" "Yes. It seems to me there’s spite there somewhere. I mean—it’s not a nice kind of joke." Miss Blacklock looked at her friend. The mild eyes, the long obstinate mouth, the slightly upturned nose. Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddle-headed, so devoted and such a problem.

And then, we might have a look for the paper. Because, you know, it must be somewhere." "Father may have destroyed it himself." "He may, of course, but the other side evidently doesn’t think so, and that looks hopeful for us." "What do you think it can be? Hidden treasure?" "By jove, it might be!" exclaimed Major Wilbraham, all the boy in him rising joyfully to the suggestion. "But now, Miss Clegg, lunch!" They had a pleasant meal together. Wilbraham told Freda all about his life in East Africa. He described elephant hunts, and the girl was thrilled. When they had finished, he insisted on taking her home in a taxi. Her lodgings were near Notting Hill Gate. On arriving there, Freda had a brief conversation with her landlady. She returned to Wilbraham and took him up to the second floor, where she had a tiny bedroom and sitting-room. "It’s exactly as we thought," she said. "A man came on Saturday morning to see about laying a new electric cable; he told her there was a fault in the wiring in my room. He was there some time." "Show me this chest of your father’s," said Wilbraham. Freda showed him a brass-bound box. "You see," she said, raising the lid, "it’s empty." The soldier nodded thoughtfully. "And there are no papers anywhere else?" "I’m sure there aren’t. Mother kept everything in here." Wilbraham examined the inside of the chest. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation. "Here’s a slit in the lining." Carefully he inserted his hand, feeling about. A slight crackle rewarded him. "Something’s slipped down behind." In another minute he had drawn out his find. A piece of dirty paper folded several times. He smoothed it out on the table; Freda was looking over his shoulder. She uttered an exclamation of disappointment. "It’s just a lot of queer marks." "Why, the thing’s in Swahili. Swahili, of all things!" cried Major Wilbraham. "East African native dialect, you know." "How extraordinary!" said Freda. "Can you read it, then?" "Rather. But what an amazing thing." He took the paper to the window. "Is it anything?" asked Freda tremulously. Wilbraham read the thing through twice, and then came back to the girl. "Well," he said, with a chuckle, "here’s your hidden treasure, all right." "Hidden treasure? Not really? You mean Spanish gold–a sunken galleon–that sort of thing?" "Not quite so romantic as that, perhaps. But it comes to the same thing. This paper gives the hiding-place of a cache of ivory." "Ivory?" said the girl, astonished. "Yes. Elephants, you know. There’s a law about the number you’re allowed to shoot. Some hunter got away with breaking that law on a grand scale. They were on his trail and he cached the stuff. There’s a thundering lot of it–and this gives fairly clear directions how to find it. Look here, we’ll have to go after this, you and I." "You mean there’s really a lot of money in it?" "Quite a nice little fortune for you." "But how did that paper come to be among my father’s things?" Wilbraham shrugged. "Maybe the Johnny was dying or something. He may have written the thing down in Swahili for protection and given it to your father, who possibly had befriended him in some way. Your father, not being able to read it, attached no importance to it. That’s only a guess on my part, but I dare say it’s not far wrong." Freda gave a sigh. "How frightfully exciting!" "The thing is–what to do with the precious document," said Wilbraham. "I don’t like leaving it here. They might come and have another look. I suppose you wouldn’t entrust it to me?" "Of course I would. But–mightn’t it be dangerous for you?" she faltered. "I’m a tough nut," said Wilbraham grimly. "You needn’t worry about me." He folded up the paper and put it in his pocket-book. "May I come to see you tomorrow evening?" he asked. "I’ll have worked out a plan by then, and I’ll look up the places on my map.

Rogers said: "Thank you, sir." He went out of the room with his arm full of belongings and went down the stairs to the floor below. Armstrong moved over to the bed and, lifting the sheet, looked down on the peaceful face of the dead woman. There was no fear there now. Just emptiness. Armstrong said: "Wish I’d got my stuff here. I’d like to know what drug it was." Then he turned to the other two. "Let’s get finished. I feel it in my bones we’re not going to find anything." Blore was wrestling with the bolts of a low manhole. He said: "That chap moves damned quietly. A minute or two ago we saw him in the garden. None of us heard him come upstairs." Lombard said: "I suppose that’s why we assumed it must be a stranger moving about up here." Blore disappeared into a cavernous darkness. Lombard pulled a torch from his pocket and followed. Five minutes later three men stood on an upper landing and looked at each other. They were dirty and festooned with cobwebs and their faces were grim. There was no one on the island but their eight selves. Chapter 9 I Lombard said slowly: "So we’ve been wrong—wrong all along! Built up a nightmare of superstition and fantasy all because of the coincidence of two deaths!" Armstrong said gravely: "And yet, you know, the argument holds. Hang it all, I’m a doctor, I know something about suicides. Anthony Marston wasn’t a suicidal type." Lombard said doubtfully: "It couldn’t, I suppose, have been an accident?" Blore snorted, unconvinced. "Damned queer sort of accident," he grunted. There was a pause, then Blore said: "About the woman—" and stopped. "Mrs Rogers?" "Yes. It’s possible, isn’t it, that that might have been an accident?" Philip Lombard said: "An accident? In what way?" Blore looked slightly embarrassed. His red-brick face grew a little deeper in hue. He said, almost blurting out the words: "Look here, doctor, you did give her some dope, you know." Armstrong stared at him. "Dope? What do you mean?" "Last night. You said yourself you’d given her something to make her sleep." "Oh that, yes. A harmless sedative." "What was it exactly?" "I gave her a mild dose of trional. A perfectly harmless preparation." Blore grew redder still. He said: "Look here—not to mince matters—you didn’t give her an overdose, did you?" Dr Armstrong said angrily: "I don’t know what you mean." Blore said: "It’s possible, isn’t it, that you may have made a mistake? These things do happen once in a while." Armstrong said sharply: "I did nothing of the sort. The suggestion is ridiculous." He stopped and added in a cold biting tone: "Or do you suggest that I gave her an overdose on purpose?" Philip Lombard said quickly: "Look here, you two, got to keep our heads. Don’t let’s start slinging accusations about." Blore said sullenly: "I only suggested the doctor had made a mistake." Dr Armstrong smiled with an effort. He said, showing his teeth in a somewhat mirthless smile: "Doctors can’t afford to make mistakes of that kind, my friend." Blore said deliberately: "It wouldn’t be the first you’ve made—if that gramophone record is to be believed!" Armstrong went white. Philip Lombard said quickly and angrily to Blore: "What’s the sense of making yourself offensive? We’re all in the same boat. We’ve got to pull together. What about your own pretty little spot of perjury?" Blore took a step forward, his hands clenched. He said in a thick voice: "Perjury, be damned! That’s a foul lie! You may try and shut me up, Mr Lombard, but there’s things I want to know—and one of them is about you!" Lombard’s eyebrows rose. "About me?" "Yes. I want to know why you brought a revolver down here on a pleasant social visit?" Lombard said: "You do, do you?" "Yes, I do, Mr Lombard." Lombard said unexpectedly: "You know, Blore, you’re not nearly such a fool as you look." "That’s as may be. What about that revolver?" Lombard smiled. "I brought it because I expected to run into a spot of trouble."

the hot-water system was out of order . . . things were hardly in running order . . . Naturally, he would do everything he could . . . Not a full staff yet . . . He was quite confused by the unexpected number of visitors. It all came rolling out with professional urbanity and yet it seemed to Poirot that behind the urbane façade he caught a glimpse of some poignant anxiety. This man, for all his easy manner, was not at ease. He was worried about something. Lunch was served in a long room overlooking the valley far below. The solitary waiter, addressed as Gustave, was skilful and adroit. He darted here and there, advising on the menu, whipping out his wine list. The three horsy men sat at a table together. They laughed and talked in French, their voices rising. Good old Joseph!—What about the little Denise, mon vieux?—Do you remember that sacré pig of a horse that let us all down at Auteuil? It was all very hearty, very much in character—and incongruously out of place! The woman with the beautiful face sat alone at a table in the corner. She looked at no one. Afterwards, as Poirot was sitting in the lounge, the manager came to him and was confidential. Monsieur must not judge the hotel too harshly. It was out of the season. No one came here till the end of July. That lady, Monsieur had noticed her, perhaps? She came at this time every year. Her husband had been killed climbing three years ago. It was very sad. They had been very devoted. She came here always before the season commenced—so as to be quiet. It was a sacred pilgrimage. The elderly gentleman was a famous doctor, Dr. Karl Lutz, from Vienna. He had come here, so he said, for quiet and repose. "It is peaceful, yes," agreed Hercule Poirot. "And ces Messieurs there?" He indicated the three horsy men. "Do they also seek repose, do you think?" The manager shrugged his shoulders. Again there appeared in his eyes that worried look. He said vaguely: "Ah, the tourists, they wish always a new experience . . . The altitude—that alone is a new sensation." It was not, Poirot thought, a very pleasant sensation. He was conscious of his own rapidly beating heart. The lines of a nursery rhyme ran idiotically through his mind. "Up above the world so high, Like a tea tray in the sky." Schwartz came into the lounge. His eyes brightened when he saw Poirot. He came over to him at once. "I’ve been talking to that doctor. He speaks English after a fashion. He’s a Jew—been turned out of Austria by the Nazis. Say, I guess those people are just crazy! This Doctor Lutz was quite a big man, I gather—nerve specialist—psychoanalysis—that kind of stuff." His eyes went to where the tall woman was looking out of a window at remorseless mountains. He lowered his voice. "I got her name from the waiter. She’s a Madame Grandier. Her husband was killed climbing. That’s why she comes here. I sort of feel, don’t you, that we ought to do something about it—try to take her out of herself?" Hercule Poirot said: "If I were you I should not attempt it." But the friendliness of Mr. Schwartz was indefatigable. Poirot saw him make his overtures, saw the remorseless way in which they were rebuffed. The two stood together for a minute silhouetted against the light. The woman was taller than Schwartz. Her head was thrown back and her expression was cold and forbidding. He did not hear what she said, but Schwartz came back looking crestfallen. "Nothing doing," he said. He added wistfully: "Seems to me that as we’re all human beings together there’s no reason we shouldn’t be friendly to one another. Don’t you agree, Mr.—You know, I don’t know your name?" "My name," said Poirot, "is Poirier." He added: "I am a silk merchant from Lyons."

"Miss Pettigrew?" I exclaimed. "Yes. She has been seen coming out of Agrasato’s Native Curio shop." "God bless my soul!" I interrupted. "I was going into that place myself this afternoon. You might have caught me coming out!" There doesn’t seem to be any innocent thing that one can do in Jo’burg without being suspected for it. "Ah! but she has been seen there more than once—and in rather doubtful circumstances. I may as well tell you—in confidence, Sir Eustace—that the place is suspected of being a well-known rendezvous used by the secret organization behind this revolution. That is why I should be glad to hear all that you can tell me about this lady. Where and how did you come to engage her?" "She was lent to me," I replied coldly, "by your own Government." He collapsed utterly. Thirty (Anne’s Narrative Resumed) I As soon as I got to Kimberlely I wired to Suzanne. She joined me there with the utmost dispatch, heralding her arrival with telegrams sent off en route. I was awfully surprised to find that she really was fond of me—I thought I had been just a new sensation, but she positively fell on my neck and wept when we met. When we had recovered from our emotion a little, I sat down on the bed and told her the whole story from A to Z. "You always did suspect Colonel Race," she said thoughtfully, when I had finished. "I didn’t until the night you disappeared. I liked him so much all along and thought he would make such a nice husband for you. Oh, Anne, dear, don’t be cross, but how do you know that this young man of yours is telling the truth? You believe every word he says." "Of course I do," I cried indignantly. "But what is there in him that attracts you so? I don’t see that there’s anything in him at all except his rather reckless good looks and his modern Sheik-cum-Stone-Age lovemaking." I poured out the vials of my wrath upon Suzanne for some minutes. "Just because you’re comfortably married and getting fat, you’ve forgotten that there’s any such thing as romance," I ended. "Oh, I’m not getting fat, Anne. All the worry I’ve had about you lately must have worn me to a shred." "You look particularly well-nourished," I said coldly. "I should say you must have put on about half a stone." "And I don’t know that I’m so comfortably married either," continued Suzanne in a melancholy voice. "I’ve been having the most dreadful cables from Clarence ordering me to come home at once. At last I didn’t answer them, and now I haven’t heard for over a fortnight." I’m afraid I didn’t take Suzanne’s matrimonial troubles very seriously. She will be able to get round Clarence all right when the time comes. I turned the conversation to the subject of the diamonds. Suzanne looked at me with a dropped jaw. "I must explain, Anne. You see, as soon as I began to suspect Colonel Race, I was terribly upset about the diamonds. I wanted to stay on at the Falls in case he might have kidnapped you somewhere close by, but didn’t know what to do about the diamonds. I was afraid to keep them in my possession—" Suzanne looked round her uneasily, as though she feared the walls might have ears, and then whispered vehemently in my ear. "A distinctly good idea," I approved. "At the time, that is. It’s a bit awkward now. What did Sir Eustace do with the cases?" "The big ones were sent down to Cape Town. I heard from Pagett before I left the Falls, and he enclosed the receipt for their storage. He’s leaving Cape Town today by the by, to join Sir Eustace in Johannesburg." "I see," I said thoughtfully. "And the small ones, where are they?" "I suppose Sir Eustace has got them with him." I turned the matter over in my mind. "Well," I said at last, "it’s awkward—but it’s safe enough. We’d better do nothing for the present." Suzanne looked at me with a little smile. "You don’t like doing nothing, do you, Anne?" "Not very much," I replied honestly. The one thing I could do was to get hold of a timetable and see what time Guy Pagett’s train would pass through Kimberley.

The object that he held in his hand, dangling from his fingers, with the moonlight striking a hundred fires from it, was a diamond necklace. Edward stared and stared. But there was no doubting possible. A diamond necklace worth probably thousands of pounds (for the stones were large ones) had been casually reposing in the side-pocket of the car. But who had put it there? It had certainly not been there when he started from town. Someone must have come along when he was walking about in the snow, and deliberately thrust it in. But why? Why choose his car? Had the owner of the necklace made a mistake? Or was it – could it possibly be a stolen necklace? And then, as all these thoughts went whirling through his brain, Edward suddenly stiffened and went cold all over. This was not his car. It was very like it, yes. It was the same brilliant shade of scarlet – red as the Marchesa Bianca’s lips – it had the same long and gleaming nose, but by a thousand small signs, Edward realized that it was not his car. Its shining newness was scarred here and there, it bore signs, faint but unmistakeable, of wear and tear. In that case . . . Edward, without more ado, made haste to turn the car. Turning was not his strong point. With the car in reverse, he invariably lost his head and twisted the wheel the wrong way. Also, he frequently became entangled between the accelerator and the foot brake with disastrous results. In the end, however, he succeeded, and straight away the car began purring up the hill again. Edward remembered that there had been another car standing some little distance away. He had not noticed it particularly at the time. He had returned from his walk by a different path from that by which he had gone down into the hollow. This second path had brought him out on the road immediately behind, as he had thought, his own car. It must really have been the other one. In about ten minutes he was once more at the spot where he had halted. But there was now no car at all by the roadside. Whoever had owned this car must now have gone off in Edward’s – he also, perhaps, misled by the resemblance. Edward took out the diamond necklace from his pocket and let it run through his fingers perplexedly. What to do next? Run on to the nearest police station? Explain the circumstances, hand over the necklace, and give the number of his own car. By the by, what was the number of his car? Edward thought and thought, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember. He felt a cold sinking sensation. He was going to look the most utter fool at the police station. There was an eight in it, that was all that he could remember. Of course, it didn’t really matter – at least . . . He looked uncomfortably at the diamonds. Supposing they should think – oh, but they wouldn’t – and yet again they might – that he had stolen the car and the diamonds? Because, after all, when one came to think of it, would anyone in their senses thrust a valuable diamond necklace carelessly into the open pocket of a car? Edward got out and went round to the back of the motor. Its number was XR10061. Beyond the fact that that was certainly not the number of his car, it conveyed nothing to him. Then he set to work systematically to search all the pockets. In the one where he had found the diamonds he made a discovery – a small scrap of paper with some words pencilled on it. By the light of the headlights, Edward read them easily enough. " Meet me, Greane, corner of Salter’s Lane, ten o’clock. " He remembered the name Greane. He had seen it on a sign-post earlier in the day. In a minute, his mind was made up. He would go to this village, Greane, find Salter’s Lane, meet the person who had written the note, and explain the circumstances. That would be much better than looking a fool in the local police station. He started off almost happily. After all, this was an adventure. This was the sort of thing that didn’t happen every day. The diamond necklace made it exciting and mysterious.

The man remembered the incident in question. "Middle-aged lady, rather stout—in a regular state she was—lost her Pekinese dog. I knew her well by sight—brings the dog along most afternoons. I saw her come in with it. She was in a rare taking when she lost it. Came running to me to know if I’d seen any one with a Pekinese dog! Well, I ask you! I can tell you, the Gardens is full of dogs—every kind—terriers, Pekes, German sausage- dogs—even them Borzois—all kinds we have. Not likely as I’d notice one Peke more than another." Hercule Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully. He went to 38 Bloomsbury Road Square. Nos. 38, 39 and 40 were incorporated together as the Balaclava Private Hotel. Poirot walked up the steps and pushed open the door. He was greeted inside by gloom and a smell of cooking cabbage with a reminiscence of breakfast kippers. On his left was a mahogany table with a sad-looking chrysanthemum plant on it. Above the table was a big baize-covered rack into which letters were stuck. Poirot stared at the board thoughtfully for some minutes. He pushed open a door on his right. It led into a kind of lounge with small tables and some so- called easy chairs covered with a depressing pattern of cretonne. Three old ladies and one fierce-looking old gentleman raised their heads and gazed at the intruder with deadly venom. Hercule Poirot blushed and withdrew. He walked farther along the passage and came to a staircase. On his right a passage branched at right angles to what was evidently the dining room. A little way along this passage was a door marked "Office." On this Poirot tapped. Receiving no response, he opened the door and looked in. There was a large desk in the room covered with papers but there was no one to be seen. He withdrew, closing the door again. He penetrated to the dining room. A sad-looking girl in a dirty apron was shuffling about with a basket of knives and forks with which she was laying the tables. Hercule Poirot said apologetically: "Excuse me, but could I see the Manageress?" The girl looked at him with lacklustre eyes. She said: "I don’t know, I’m sure." Hercule Poirot said: "There is no one in the office." "Well, I don’t know where she’d be, I’m sure." "Perhaps," Hercule Poirot said, patient and persistent, "you could find out?" The girl sighed. Dreary as her day’s round was, it had now been made additionally so by this new burden laid upon her. She said sadly: "Well, I’ll see what I can do." Poirot thanked her and removed himself once more to the hall, not daring to face the malevolent glare of the occupants of the lounge. He was staring up at the baize-covered letter rack when a rustle and a strong smell of Devonshire violets proclaimed the arrival of the Manageress. Mrs. Harte was full of graciousness. She exclaimed: "So sorry I was not in my office. You were requiring rooms?" Hercule Poirot murmured: "Not precisely. I was wondering if a friend of mine had been staying here lately. A Captain Curtis." "Curtis," exclaimed Mrs. Harte. "Captain Curtis? Now where have I heard that name?" Poirot did not help her. She shook her head vexedly. He said: "You have not, then, had a Captain Curtis staying here?" "Well, not lately, certainly. And yet, you know, the name is certainly familiar to me. Can you describe your friend at all?" "That," said Hercule Poirot, "would be difficult." He went on: "I suppose it sometimes happens that letters arrive for people when in actual fact no one of that name is staying here?" "That does happen, of course." "What do you do with such letters?" "Well, we keep them for a time. You see, it probably means that the person in question will arrive shortly. Of course, if letters or parcels are a long time here unclaimed, they are returned to the post office." Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He said: "I comprehend." He added: "It is like this, you see. I wrote a letter to my friend here." Mrs.

Sir Oswald and Lady Coote. Mr. Bateman. Countess Anna Radzky. Mrs. Macatta. Mr. James Thesiger—" He paused and then asked sharply: "Who is Mr. James Thesiger?" The American laughed. "I guess you needn’t worry any about him. The usual complete young ass." The Russian continued reading. "Herr Eberhard and Mr. Eversleigh. That completes the list." "Does it?" said Bundle silently. "What about that sweet girl, Lady Eileen Brent?" "Yes, there seems nothing to worry about there," said Mosgorovsky. He looked across the table. "I suppose there’s no doubt whatever about the value of Eberhard’s invention?" Three o’clock made a laconic British reply. "None whatever." "Commercially it should be worth millions," said the Russian. "And internationally—well, one knows only too well the greed of nations." Bundle had an idea that behind his mask he was smiling unpleasantly. "Yes," he went on. "A gold mine." "Well worth a few lives," said No 5, cynically, and laughed. "But you know what inventors are," said the American. "Sometimes these darned things won’t work." "A man like Sir Oswald Coote will have made no mistake," said Mosgorovsky. "Speaking as an aviator myself," said No 5, "the thing is perfectly feasible. It has been discussed for years—but it needed the genius of Eberhard to bring it to fruition." "Well," said Mosgorovsky, "I don’t think we need discuss matters any further. You have all seen the plans. I do not think our original scheme can be bettered. By the way, I hear something about a letter of Gerald Wade’s that has been found—a letter that mentions this organization. Who found it?" "Lord Caterham’s daughter—Lady Eileen Brent." "Bauer should have been on to that," said Mosgorovsky. "It was careless of him. Who was the letter written to?" "His sister, I believe," said No 3. "Unfortunate," said Mosgorovsky. "But it cannot be helped. The inquest on Ronald Devereux is tomorrow. I suppose that has been arranged for?" "Reports as to local lads having been practising with rifles have been spread everywhere," said the American. "That should be all right then. I think there is nothing further to be said. I think we must all congratulate our dear one o’clock and wish her luck in the part she has to play." "Hurrah!" cried No 5. "To Anna!" All hands flew out in the same gesture which Bundle had noticed before. "To Anna!" One o’clock acknowledged the salutation with a typically foreign gesture. Then she rose to her feet and the others followed suit. For the first time, Bundle caught a glimpse of No 3 as he came to put Anna’s cloak round her—a tall, heavily built man. Then the party filed out through the secret door. Mosgorovsky secured it after them. He waited a few moments and then Bundle heard him unbolt the other door and pass through after extinguishing the electric light. It was not until two hours later that a white and anxious Alfred came to release Bundle. She almost fell into his arms and he had to hold her up. "Nothing," said Bundle. "Just stiff, that’s all. Here, let me sit down." "Oh, Gord, my lady, it’s been awful." "Nonsense," said Bundle. "It all went off splendidly. Don’t get the wind up now it’s all over. It might have gone wrong, but thank goodness it didn’t." "Thank goodness, as you say, my lady. I’ve been in a twitter all the evening. They’re a funny crowd, you know." "A damned funny crowd," said Bundle, vigorously massaging her arms and legs. "As a matter of fact, they’re the sort of crowd I always imagined until tonight only existed in books. In this life, Alfred, one never stops learning." Fifteen THE INQUEST Bundle reached home about six a.m. She was up and dressed by half past nine, and rang up Jimmy Thesiger on the telephone. The promptitude of his reply somewhat surprised her, till he explained that he was going down to attend the inquest. "So am I," said Bundle. "And I’ve got a lot to tell you." "Well, suppose you let me drive you down and we can talk on the way. How about that?" "All right.