iv
when poirot reached home, george said:
“chief inspector japp is here, sir.”
japp grinned in a rueful way as poirot came into the room.
“here i am, old boy. come round to say: ‘aren’t you a marvel? how do you do it? what makes
you think of these things?’”
“all this meaning—? but pardon, you will have some refreshment? a sirop? or perhaps the
whisky?”
“the whisky is good enough for me.”
a few minutes later he raised his glass, observing:
“here’s to hercule poirot who is always right!”
“no, no, mon ami.”
“here we had a lovely case of suicide. h.p. says it’s murder—wants it to be murder—and dash
it all, it is murder!”
“ah? so you agree at last?”
“well, nobody can say i’m pigheaded. i don’t fly in the face of evidence. the trouble was there
wasn’t any evidence before.”
“but there is now?”
“yes, and i’ve come round to make the amend honourable, as you call it, and present the titbit
to you on toast, as it were.”
“i am all agog, my good japp.”
“all right. here goes. the pistol that frank carter tried to shoot blunt with on saturday is a
twin pistol to the one that killed morley!”
poirot stared: “but this is extraordinary!”
“yes, it makes it look rather black for master frank.”
“it is not conclusive.”
“no, but it’s enough to make us reconsider the suicide verdict. they’re a foreign make of pistol
and rather an uncommon one at that!”
hercule poirot stared. his eyebrows looked like crescent moons. he said at last:
“frank carter? no—surely not!”
japp breathed a sigh of exasperation.
“what’s the matter with you, poirot? first you will have it that morley was murdered and that it
wasn’t suicide. then when i come and tell you we’re inclined to come round to your views you
hem and ha and don’t seem to like it.”
“you really believe that morley was murdered by frank carter?”
“it fits. carter had got a grudge against morley—that we knew all along. he came to queen
charlotte street that morning—and he pretended afterwards that he had come along to tell his
young woman he’d got a job—but we’ve now discovered that he hadn’t got the job then. he
didn’t get it till later in the day. he admits that now. so there’s lie no. 1. he can’t account for
where he was at twenty-five past twelve onwards. says he was walking in the marylebone road,
but the first thing he can prove is having a drink in a pub at five past one. and the barman says he
was in a regular state—his hand shaking and his face as white as a sheet!”
hercule poirot sighed and shook his head. he murmured:
“it does not accord with my ideas.”
“what are these ideas of yours?”
“it is very disturbing what you tell me. very disturbing indeed. because, you see, if you are
right …”
the door opened softly and george murmured deferentially:
“excuse me, sir, but …”
he got no further. miss gladys nevill thrust him aside and came agitatedly into the room. she
was crying.
“oh, m. poirot—”
“here, i’ll be off,” said japp hurriedly.
he left the room precipitately.
gladys nevill paid his back the tribute of a venomous look.
“that’s the man—that horrid inspector from scotland yard—it’s he who has trumped up a
whole case against poor frank.”
“now, now, you must not agitate yourself.”
“but he has. first they pretend that he tried to murder this mr. blunt and not content with that
they’ve accused him of murdering poor mr. morley.”
hercule poirot coughed. he said:
“i was down there, you know, at exsham, when the shot was fired at mr. blunt.”
gladys nevill said with a somewhat confusing use of pronouns:
“but even if frank did—did do a foolish thing like that—and he’s one of those imperial shirts,
you know—they march with banners and have a ridiculous salute, and of course i suppose mr.
blunt’s wife was a very notorious jewess, and they just work up these poor young men—quite
harmless ones like frank—until they think they are doing something wonderful and patriotic.”
“is that mr. carter’s defence?” asked hercule poirot.
“oh no. frank just swears he didn’t do anything and had never seen the pistol before. i haven’t
spoken to him, of course—they wouldn’t let me—but he’s got a solicitor acting for him and he
told me what frank had said. frank just says it’s all a frame-up.”
poirot murmured:
“and the solicitor is of opinion that his client had better think of a more plausible story?”
“lawyers are so difficult. they won’t say anything straight out. but it’s the murder charge i’m
worrying about. oh! m. poirot, i’m sure frank couldn’t have killed mr. morley. i mean really—
he hadn’t any reason to.”
“is it true,” said poirot, “that when he came round that morning he had not yet got a job of any
kind?”
“well, really, m. poirot, i don’t see what difference that makes. whether he got the job in the
morning or the afternoon can’t matter.”
poirot said:
“but his story was that he came to tell you about his good luck. now, it seems, he had as yet
had no luck. why, then, did he come?”
“well, m. poirot, the poor boy was dispirited and upset, and to tell the truth i believe he’d been
drinking a little. poor frank has rather a weak head—and the drink upset him and so he felt like—
like making a row, and he came round to queen charlotte street to have it out with mr. morley,
because, you see, frank is awfully sensitive and it had upset him a lot to feel that mr. morley
disapproved of him, and was what he called poisoning my mind.”
“so he conceived the idea of making a scene in business hours?”
“well—yes—i suppose that was his idea. of course it was very wrong of frank to think of such
a thing.”
poirot looked thoughtfully at the tearful blonde young woman in front of him. he said:
“did you know that frank carter had a pistol—or a pair of pistols?”
“oh no, m. poirot. i swear i didn’t. and i don’t believe it’s true, either.”
poirot shook his head slowly in a perplexed manner.
“oh! m. poirot, do help us. if i could only feel that you were on our side—”
poirot said:
“i do not take sides. i am on the side only of the truth.”
