“That’s all right,” said Japp confidently.
“But it is not all right. It is deplorable. It grieves me to the heart.”
“You needn’t be grieved about that young man. He richly deserves all he gets.”
“It is not he I am grieving about—it is you.”
“Me? You needn’t worry about me.”
“But I do. See you, who was it set you on this course? It was Hercule Poirot. Mais oui, I set you on the trail. I direct your attention to Carlotta Adams, I mention to you the matter of the letter to America. Every step of the way it is I who point it!”
“I was bound to get there anyway,” said Japp coldly. “You got a bit ahead of me, that’s all.”
“Cela ce peut. But it does not console me. If harm—if loss of prestige comes to you through listening to my little ideas—I shall blame myself bitterly.”
Japp merely looked amused. I think he credited Poirot with motives that were none too pure. He fancied that Poirot grudged him the credit resulting from the successful elucidation of the affair.
“That’s all right,” he said. “I shan’t forget to let it be known that I owe something to you over this business.”
He winked at me.
“Oh! it is not that at all.” Poirot clicked his tongue with impatience. “I want no credit. And what is more, I tell you there will be no credit. It is a fiasco that you prepare for yourself, and I, Hercule Poirot, am the cause.”
Suddenly, at Poirot’s expression of extreme melancholy, Japp shouted with laughter. Poirot looked affronted.
“Sorry, M. Poirot.” He wiped his eyes. “But you did look for all the world like a dying duck in a thunderstorm. Now look here, let’s forget all this. I’m willing to shoulder the credit or the blame of this affair. It will make a big noise—you’re right there. Well, I’m going all out to get a conviction. It may be that a clever Counsel will get his lordship off—you never know with a jury. But even so, it won’t do me any harm. It will be known that we caught the right man even if we couldn’t get a conviction. And if, by any chance, the third housemaid has hysterics and owns up she did it—well, I’ll take my medicine and I won’t complain you led me up the garden. That’s fair enough.”
Poirot gazed at him mildly and sadly.
“You have the confidence—always the confidence! You never stop and say to yourself—can it be so? You never doubt—or wonder. You never think: This is too easy!”
“You bet your life I don’t. And that’s just where, if you’ll excuse me saying so, you go off the rails every time. Why shouldn’t a thing be easy? What’s the harm in a thing being easy?”
Poirot looked at him, sighed, half threw up his arms, then shook his head.
“C’est fini! I will say no more.”
“Splendid,” said Japp heartily. “Now let’s get down to brass tacks. You’d like to hear what I’ve been doing?”
“Assuredly.”
“Well, I saw the Honourable Geraldine, and her story tallied exactly with his lordship’s. They may both be in it together, but I think not. It’s my opinion he bluffed her—she’s three parts sweet on him anyway. Took on terribly when she found he was arrested.”
“Did she now? And the secretary—Miss Carroll?”
“Wasn’t too surprised, I fancy. However, that’s only my idea.”
“What about the pearls?” I asked. “Was that part of the story true?”
“Absolutely. He raised the money on them early the following morning. But I don’t think that touches the main argument. As I see it, the plan came into his head when he came across his cousin at the opera. It came to him in a flash. He was desperate—here was a way out. I fancy he’d been meditating something of the kind—that’s why he had the key with him. I don’t believe that story of suddenly coming across it. Well, as he talks to his cousin, he sees that by involving her he gains additional security for himself. He plays on her feelings, hints at the pearls, she plays up, and off they go. As soon as she’s in the house he follows her in and goes along to the library. Maybe his lordship has dozed off in his chair. Anyway, in two seconds he’s done the trick and he’s out again. I don’t fancy he meant the girl to catch him in the house. He counted on being found pacing up and down near the taxi. And I don’t think the taxi man was meant to see him go in. The impression was to be that he was walking up and down smoking whilst he waited for the girl. The taxi was facing the opposite direction, remember.
“Of course, the next morning, he has to pledge the pearls. He must still seem to be in need of the money. Then, when he hears of the crime, he frightens the girl into concealing their visit to the house. They will say that they spent that interval together at the Opera House.”
“Then why did they not do so?” asked Poirot sharply.
Japp shrugged his shoulders.
“Changed his mind. Or judged that she wouldn’t be able to go through with it. She’s a nervous type.”
“Yes,” said Poirot meditatively. “She is a nervous type.”
After a minute or two, he said:
“It does not strike you that it would have been easier and simpler for Captain Marsh to have left the opera during the interval by himself. To have gone in quietly with his key, killed his uncle, and returned to the opera—instead of having a taxi outside and a nervous girl coming down the stairs any minute who might lose her head and give him away.”
Japp grinned.
“That’s what you and I would have done. But then we’re a shade brighter than Captain Ronald Marsh.”
“I am not so sure. He strikes me as intelligent.”
“But not so intelligent as M. Hercule Poirot! Come now, I’m sure of that!” Japp laughed.
Poirot looked at him coldly.
“If he isn’t guilty why did he persuade the Adams girl to take on that stunt?” went on Japp. “There can be only one reason for that stunt—to protect the real criminal.”
“There I am of accord with you absolutely.”
“Well, I’m glad we agree about something.”
“It might be he who actually spoke to Miss Adams,” mused Poirot. “Whilst really—no, that is an imbecility.”
Then, looking suddenly at Japp, he rapped out a quick question.
“What is your theory as to her death?”
Japp cleared his throat.
“I’m inclined to believe—accident. A convenient accident, I admit. I can’t see that he could have had anything to do with it. His alibi is straight enough after the opera. He was at Sobranis with the Dortheimers till after one o’clock. Long before that she was in bed and asleep. No, I think that was an instance of the infernal luck criminals sometimes have. Otherwise, if that accident hadn’t happened, I think he had his plans for dealing with her. First, he’d put the fear of the Lord into her—tell her she’d be arrested for murder if she confessed the truth. And then he’d square her with a fresh lot of money.”
“Does it strike you—” Poirot stared straight in front of him. “Does it strike you that Miss Adams would let another woman be hanged when she herself held evidence that would acquit her?”
“Jane Wilkinson wouldn’t have been hanged. The Montagu Corner party evidence was too strong for that.”
“But the murderer did not know that. He would have had to count on Jane Wilkinson being hanged and Carlotta Adams keeping silence.”
“You love talking, don’t you, M. Poirot? And you’re positively convinced now that Ronald Marsh is a white-headed boy who can do no wrong. Do you believe that story of his about seeing a man sneak surreptitiously into the house?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Do you know who he says he thought it was?”
“I could guess, perhaps.”
“He says he thought it was the film star, Bryan Martin. What do you think of that? A man who’d never even met Lord Edgware.”
“Then it would certainly be curious if one saw such a man entering that house with a key.”
“Chah!” s
aid Japp. A rich noise expressive of contempt. “And now I suppose it will surprise you to hear that Mr. Bryan Martin wasn’t in London that night. He took a young lady to dine down at Molesey. They didn’t get back to London till midnight.”
“Ah!” said Poirot mildly. “No, I am not surprised. Was the young lady also a member of the profession?”
“No. Girl who keeps a hat shop. As a matter of fact, it was Miss Adams’ friend, Miss Driver. I think you’ll agree her testimony is past suspicion.”
“I am not disputing it, my friend.”
“In fact, you’re done down and you know it, old boy,” said Japp, laughing. “Cock and bull story trumped up on the moment, that’s what it was. Nobody entered No. 17…and nobody entered either of the houses either side—so what does that show? That his lordship’s a liar.”
Poirot shook his head sadly.
Japp rose to his feet—his spirits restored.
“Come, now, we’re right, you know.”
“Who was D. Paris, November?”
Japp shrugged his shoulders.