Hercule Poirot tapped gently on the door of Captain Marshall’s room. Inside there was the sound of a typewriter.
A curt “Come in” came from the room and Poirot entered.
Captain Marshall’s back was turned to him. He was sitting typing at the table between the windows. He did not turn his head but his eyes met Poirot’s in the mirror that hung on the wall directly in front of him. He said irritably:
“Well, M. Poirot, what is it?”
Poirot said quickly:
“A thousand apologies for intruding. You are busy?”
Marshall said shortly: “I am rather.”
Poirot said:
“It is one little question that I would like to ask you.”
Marshall said:
“My God, I’m sick of answering questions. I’ve answered the police questions. I don’t feel called upon to answer yours.”
Poirot said:
“Mine is a very simple one. Only this. On the morning of your wife’s death, did you have a bath after you finished typing and before you went out to play tennis?”
“A bath? No, of course I didn’t! I’d had a bathe only an hour earlier!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Thank you. That is all.”
“But look here. Oh—” the other paused irresolutely.
Poirot withdrew, gently closing the door.
Kenneth Marshall said:
“The fellow’s crazy!”
VI
Just outside the bar Poirot encountered Mr. Gardener. He was carrying two cocktails and was clearly on his way to where Mrs. Gardener was ensconced with her jig-saw.
He smiled at Poirot in genial fashion.
“Care to join us, M. Poirot?”
Poirot shook his head. He said:
“What did you think of the inquest, Mr. Gardener?”
Mr. Gardener lowered his voice. He said:
“Seemed kind of indeterminate to me. Your police, I gather, have got something up their sleeves.”
“It is possible,” said Hercule Poirot.
Mr. Gardener lowered his voice still further.