The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.
“Yes—yes?”
“I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore.”
She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.
“But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?”
Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.
“There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your husband’s death, for instance—”
She broke in at once:
“My husband died of fever—on the Amazon.”
Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to and fro—a maddening, monotonous motion.
“Madame—madame—” he protested.
“But I know! I was there at the time.”
“Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so.”
She cried out:
“What information?”
Eyeing her closely Poirot said:
“Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana.”
She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.
“Shaitana?” she muttered.
“A man,” said Poirot, “possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable man. That man knew many secrets.”
“I suppose he did,” she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.
Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.
“He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever.”
She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.
He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.
She pulled herself together with an effort.
“I don’t—I don’t know what you mean.”
It was very unconvincingly said.
“Madame,” said Poirot, “I will come out into the open. I will,” he smiled, “place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of fever. He died of a bullet!”
“Oh!” she cried.