"If you see ladies of middle age and respectable appearance peering through a hedge, you may deduce that there is an impropriety of some kind! And finally, if you smell a succulent smell and observe several people all walking along a corridor in the same direction, you may safely assume that a meal is about to be served!"
I considered these analogies for a minute or two, then I said, taking the first one:
"All the same, one war correspondent does not make a war!"
"Certainly not. And one swallow does not make a summer. But one murderer, Hastings, does make a murder."
That, of course, was undeniable. But it still occurred to me, as it did not seem to have occurred to Poirot, that even a murderer has his off times. X might be at Styles simply for a holiday with no lethal intent. Poirot was so worked up, however, that I dared not propound this suggestion. I merely said that the whole thing seemed to me hopeless. We must wait -
"And see," finished Poirot. "Like your Mr Asquith in the -last war. That, mon cher, is just what we must not do. I do not say, mark you, that we shall succeed, for as I have told you before, when a killer has determined to kill, it is not easy to circumvent him. But we can at least try. Figure to yourself, Hastings, that you have here the bridge problem in the paper. You can see all the cards. What you are asked to do is 'Forecast the result of the deal.'"
I shook my head.
"It's no good, Poirot. I haven't the least idea. If I knew who X was -"
Poirot howled at me again. He howled so loud that Curtiss came running in from the next room looking quite frightened. Poirot waved him away and when he had gone out again, my friend spoke in a more controlled manner.
"Come, Hastings, you are not so stupid as you like to pretend. You have studied those cases I gave you to read. You may not know who X is, but you know X's technique for committing a crime."
"Oh," I said. "I see."
"Of course you see. The trouble with you is that you are mentally lazy. You like to play games and guess. You do not like to work with your head. What is the essential element of X's technique? Is it not that the crime, when committed, is complete? That is to say, there is a motive for the crime, there is an opportunity, there is means and there is, last and most important, the guilty person all ready for the dock."
At once I grasped the essential point and realized what a fool I had been not to see it sooner.
"I see," I said. "I've got to look round for somebody who - who answers to those requirements - the potential victim."
Poirot leaned back with a sigh.
"Enfin! I am very tired. Send Curtiss to me. You understand your job now. You are active, you can get about, you can follow people about, talk to them, spy upon them unobserved -" (I nearly uttered an indignant protest, but quelled it. It was too old an argument.) "You can listen to conversations, you have knees that will still bend and permit you to kneel and look through keyholes -"
"I will not look through keyholes," I interrupted hotly.
Poirot closed his eyes.
"Very well, then. You will not look through keyholes. You will remain the English gentleman and someone will be killed. It does not matter, that. Honour comes first with an Englishman. Your honour is more important than somebody else's life. Bien! It is understood."
"No, but dash it all, Poirot -"
Poirot said coldly:
"Send Curtiss to me. Go away. You are obstinate and extremely stupid and I wish that there were someone else whom I could trust, but I suppose I shall have to put up with you and your absurd ideas of fair play. Since you cannot use your grey cells as you do not possess them, at any rate use your eyes, your ears and your nose if need be in so far as the dictates of honour allow."
II
It was on the following day that I ventured to broach an idea which had come into my mind more than once. I did so a little dubiously, for one never knows how Poirot may react!
I said:
"I've been thinking, Poirot. I know I'm not much of a fellow. You've said I'm stupid. Well, in a way it's true. And I'm only half the man I was. Since Cinders' death -"
I stopped. Poirot made a gruff noise indicative of sympathy.
I went on:
"But there is a man here who could help us - just the kind of man we need. Brains, imagination, resource - used to making decisions and a man of wide experience. I'm talking of Boyd Carrington. He's the man we want, Poirot. Take him into your confidence. Put the whole thing before him."
Poirot opened his eyes and said with immense decision:
"Certainly not."
"But why not? You can't deny that he's clever - a good deal cleverer than I am."
"That," said Poirot with biting sarcasm, "would be easy. But dismiss the idea from your mind, Hastings. We take no one into our confidence. That is understood - hein? You comprehend, I forbid you to speak of this matter."
"All right, if you say so, but really Boyd Carrington -"
"Ah ta ta! Boyd Carrington. Why are you so obsessed with Boyd Carrington? What is be, after all? A big man who is pompous and pleased with himself because people have called him 'Your Excellency.' A man with - yes, a certain amount of tact and charm of manner. But he is not so wonderful, your Boyd Carrington. He repeats himself, he tells the same story twice - and what is more, his memory is so bad that he tells back to you the story that you have told to him (A man of outstanding ability? Not at all. An old bore - a windbag - enfin - the stuffed shirt!"
"Oh," I said as enlightenment came to me.
It was quite true that Boyd Carrington's memory was not good. And he had actually been guilty of a gaffe which I now saw had annoyed Poirot a good deal. Poirot had told him a story of his police days in Belgium, and only a couple of days afterwards, when several of us were assembled in the garden, Boyd Carrington had in bland forgetfulness told the same story back again to Poirot, prefacing it with the remark: "I remember the Chef de la Sûrété in Paris telling me -"
I now perceived that this had rankled!
Tactfully, I said no more and withdrew.
III
I wandered downstairs and out into the garden. There was no one about and I scrolled through a grove of trees and up to a grassy knoll which was surmounted by a somewhat earwiggy summerhouse in an advanced stage of decrepitude. Here I sat down, lit my pipe, and settled down to think things out.
Who was there at Styles who had a fairly definite motive for murdering somebody else - or who might be made out to have one?
Putting aside the somewhat obvious case of Colonel Luttrell who, I was afraid, was hardly likely to take a hatchet to his wife in the middle of a rubber, justifiable though that course might be, I could not at first think of anyone.
The trouble was that I did not really know enough about these people. Norton, for instance, and Miss Cole? What were the usual motives for murder? Money? Boyd Carrington was, I fancied, the only rich man of the party. If be died, who would inherit that money? Anyone at present in the house? I hardly thought so, but it was a point that might bear inquiry. He might, for instance, have left his money to research, making Franklin a trustee. That, with the doctor's rather injudicious remarks on the subject of eliminating 80 per cent of the human race, might make out a fairly damning case against the red-haired doctor. Or possibly Norton or Miss Cole might be a distant relative and would inherit automatically. Far-fetched but possible. Would Colonel Luttrell, who was an old friend, benefit under Boyd Carrington's will? These possibilities seemed to exhaust the money angle. I turned to more romantic possibilities. The Franklins. Mrs Franklin was an invalid. Was it possible that she was being slowly poisoned - and would the responsibility for her death be laid at her husband's door? He was a doctor; he had opportunity and means, no doubt. What about motive? An unpleasant qualm shot across my mind as it occurred to me that Judith might be involved. I had good reason to know how businesslike their relations were - but would the general public believe that? Would a cynical police officer believe it? Judith was a very beautiful young woman. An attractive secretary or assistant had been the motive for many crimes. The possibility dismayed me.
I considered Allerton next. Could there be any reason for doing away with Allerton? If we had to have a murder, I would prefer to see Allerton the victim! One ought to be able to find motives easily for doing away with him. Miss Cole, though not young, was still a good-looking woman. She might, conceivably, be actuated by jealousy if she and Allerton had ever been on intimate terms, though I had no reason to believe that that was the case. Besides, if Allerton was X -
I shook my head impatiently. All this was getting me nowhere. A footstep on the gravel below attracted my attention. It was Franklin walking rapidly towards the house, his hands in his pockets, his head thrust forward. His whole attitude was one of dejection. Seeing him thus, off guard, I was struck by the fact that he looked a thoroughly unhappy man.
I was so busy staring at him that I did not hear a footfall nearer at hand and turned with a start when Miss Cole spoke to me.
"I didn't hear you coming," I explained apologetically as I sprang up.
She was examining the summerhouse.
"What a Victorian relic!"
"Isn't it? It's rather spidery, I'm afraid. Do sit down. I'll dust the seat for you."
For it occurred to me that here was a chance to get to know one of my fellow guests a little better. I studied Miss Cole covertly as I brushed away cobwebs.
She was a woman of between thirty and forty, slightly haggard, with a clear-cut profile and really very beautiful eyes. There was about her an air of reserve, more - of suspicion. It came to me suddenly that this was a woman who had suffered and who was, in consequence, deeply distrustful of life. I felt that I would like to know more about Elizabeth Cole.
"There," I said with a final flick of the handkerchief, "that's the best I can do."
"Thank you." She smiled and sat down. I sat down beside her. The seat creaked ominously, but no catastrophe occurred.
Miss Cole said:
"Do tell me, what were you thinking about when I came up to you? You seemed quite sunk in thought."
I said slowly:
"I was watching Dr Franklin."
"Yes?"
I saw no reason for not repeating what had been in my mind.
"It struck me that he looked a very unhappy man."
The woman beside me said quietly:
"But of course he is. You must have realized that."
I think I showed my surprise. I said, stammering slightly:
"No - no - I haven't. I've always thought of him as absolutely wrapped up in his work."
"So he is."
"Do you call that unhappiness? I should have said it was the happiest state imaginable."
"Oh yes, I'm not disputing it - but not if you're hampered from doing what you feel it's in you to do. If you can't, that is to say, produce your best."
I looked at her, feeling rather puzzled. She went on to explain.
"Last autumn, Dr Franklin was offered the chance of going out to Africa and continuing his research work there. He's tremendously keen, as you know, and has really done first-class work already in the realm of tropical medicine."
"And he didn't go?"
"No. His wife protested. She herself wasn't well enough to stand the climate and she kicked against the idea of being left behind, especially as it would have meant very economical living for her. The pay offered was not high."
"Oh," I said. I went on slowly: "I suppose he felt that in her state of health he couldn't leave her."
"Do you know much about her state of health, Captain Hastings?"
"Well, I - no - But she is an invalid, isn't she?"
"She certainly enjoys bad health," said Miss Cole drily. I looked at her doubtfully. It was easy to see that her sympathies were entirely with the husband.
"I suppose," I said slowly, "that women who are - delicate are apt to be selfish?"
"Yes, I think invalids - chronic invalids - usually are very selfish. One can't blame them perhaps. It's so easy."
"You don't think that there's really very much the matter with Mrs Franklin?"
"Oh, I shouldn't like to say that. It's just a suspicion. She always seems able to do anything she wants to do."
I reflected in silence for a minute or two. It struck me that Miss Cole seemed very well acquainted with the ramifications of the Franklin menage. I asked with some curiosity:
"You know Dr Franklin well, I suppose?"
She shook her head.
"Oh no. I had only met them once or twice before we met here."
"But he has talked to you about himself, I suppose?"
Again she shook her head.
"No, what I have just told you I learnt from your daughter Judith."
Judith, I reflected with a moment's bitterness, talked to everyone except me.
Miss Cole went on:
"Judith is terrifically loyal to her employer and very much up in arms on his behalf. Her condemnation of Mrs Franklin's selfishness is sweeping."
"You, too, think she is selfish?"
"Yes, but I can see her point of view. I - I - understand invalids. I can understand, too, Dr Franklin's giving way to her. Judith, of course, thinks he should park his wife anywhere and get on with the job. Your daughter's a very enthusiastic scientific worker."
"I know," I said rather disconsolately. "It worries me sometimes. It doesn't seem natural, if you know what I mean. I feel she ought to be - more human - more keen on having a good time. Amuse herself - fall in love with a nice boy or two. After all, youth is the time to have one's fling - not to sit poring over test tubes. It isn't natural. In our young days we were having fun - flirting - enjoying ourselves - you know."
There was a moment's silence. Then Miss Cole said in a queer cold voice:
"I don't know."
I was instantly horrified. Unconsciously I had spoken as though she and I were contemporaries - but I realized suddenly that she was well over ten years my junior and that I had been unwittingly extremely tactless.
