‘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!’ said 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.
‘Ancient history, I imagine. Can’t a girl have a souvenir six months ago without its having something to do with this crime? We must have a sense of proportion.’
‘Six months ago,’ murmured Poirot, a sudden light in his eyes. ‘Dieu, que je suis bete!’
‘What’s he saying?’ inquired Japp of me.
‘Listen.’ Poirot rose and tapped Japp on the chest.
‘Why does Miss Adams’ maid not recognize that box? Why does Miss Driver not recognize it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because the box was new! It had only just been given to her. Paris, November – that is all very well – doubtless that is the date of which the box is to be a souvenir. But it was given to her now, not then. It has just been bought! Only just been bought! Investigate that, I implore you, my good Japp. It is a chance, decidedly a chance. It was bought not here, but abroad. Probably Paris. If it had been bought here, some jeweller would have come forward. It has been photographed and described in the papers. Yes, yes, Paris. Possibly some other foreign town, but I think Paris. Find out, I implore you. Make the inquiries. I want – I so badly want – to know who is this mysterious D.’
‘It will do no harm,’ said Japp good-naturedly. ‘Can’t say I’m very excited about it myself. But I’ll do what I can. The more we know the better.’
Nodding cheerfully to us he departed.
Chapter 23. The Letter
‘And now,’ said Poirot, ‘we will go out to lunch.’
He put his hand through my arm. He was smiling at me.
‘I have hope,’ he explained.
I was glad to see him restored to his old self, though I was none the less convinced myself of young Ronald’s guilt. I fancied that Poirot himself had perhaps come round to this view, convinced by Japp’s arguments. The search for the purchaser of the box was, perhaps, a last sally to save his face.
We went amicably to lunch together.
Somewhat to my amusement at a table the other side of the room, I saw Bryan Martin and Jenny Driver lunching together. Remembering what Japp had said, I suspected a possible romance.
They saw us and Jenny waved a hand.
When we were sipping coffee, Jenny left her escort and came over to our table. She looked as vivid and dynamic as ever.
‘May I sit and talk to you a minute, M. Poirot?’
‘Assuredly, Mademoiselle. I am charmed to see you. Will not M. Martin join us also?’
‘I told him not to. You see, I wanted to talk to you about Carlotta.’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle?’
‘You wanted to get a line on to some man friend of hers. Isn’t that so?’
‘Yes, yes.’
‘Well, I’ve been thinking and thinking. Sometimes you can’t get at things straight away. To get them clear you’ve got to think back – remember a lot of little words and phrases that perhaps you didn’t pay attention to at the time. Well, that’s what I’ve been doing. Thinking and thinking – and remembering just what she said. And I’ve come to a certain conclusion.’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle?’
‘I think the man that she cared about – or was beginning to care about – was Ronald Marsh – you know, the one who has just succeeded to the title.’
‘What makes you think it was he, Mademoiselle?’