‘But I do not feel sad at all. Because I did not really know my grandfather, and though I liked to talk to him, I do not want to cry and be unhappy because he is dead. It is very silly to pretend.’
Stephen said: ‘You’re adorable!’
Pilar said coaxingly:
‘We could put some stockings and some gloves in the gramophone, and then it would not make much noise, and no one would hear.’
‘Come along then, temptress.’
She laughed happily and ran out of the room, going along towards the ballroom at the far end of the house.
Then, as she reached the side passage which led to the garden door, she stopped dead. Stephen caught up with her and stopped also.
Hercule Poirot had unhooked a portrait from the wall and was studying it by the light from the terrace. He looked up and saw them.
‘Aha!’ he said. ‘You arrive at an opportune moment.’
Pilar said: ‘What are you doing?’
She came and stood beside him.
Poirot said gravely:
‘I am studying something very important, the face of Simeon Lee when he was a young man.’
‘Oh, is that my grandfather?’
‘Yes, mademoiselle.’
She stared at the painted face. She said slowly:
‘How different – how very different… He was so old, so shrivelled up. Here he is like Harry, like Harry might have been ten years ago.’
Hercule Poirot nodded.
‘Yes, mademoiselle. Harry Lee is very much the son of his father. Now here–’ He led her a little way along the gallery. ‘Here is madame, your grandmother – a long gentle face, very blonde hair, mild blue eyes.’
Pilar said:
‘Like David.’
Stephen said:
‘Just a look of Alfred too.’
Poirot said:
‘The heredity, it is very interesting. Mr Lee and his wife were diametrically opposite types. On the whole, the children of the marriage took after the mother. See here, mademoiselle.’
He pointed to a picture of a girl of nineteen or so, with hair like spun gold and wide, laughing blue eyes. The colouring was that of Simeon Lee’s wife, but there was a spirit, a vivacity that those mild blue eyes and placid features had never known.
‘Oh!’ said Pilar.
The colour came up in her face.
Her hand went to her neck. She drew out a locket on a long gold chain. She pressed the catch and it flew open. The same laughing face looked up at Poirot.
‘My mother,’ said Pilar.
Poirot nodded. On the opposite side of the locket was the portrait of a man. He was young and handsome, with black hair and dark blue eyes.
Poirot said: ‘Your father?’
Pilar said:
‘Yes, my father. He is very beautiful, is he not?’
‘Yes, indeed. Few Spaniards have blue eyes, have they, senorita?’
‘Sometimes, in the North. Besides, my father’s mother was Irish.’
Poirot said thoughtfully:
‘So you have Spanish blood, and Irish and English, and a touch of gipsy too. Do you know what I think, mademoiselle? With that inheritance, you should make a bad enemy.’
Stephen said, laughing:
‘Remember what you said in the train, Pilar? That your way of dealing with your enemies would be to cut their throats. Oh!’
He stopped – suddenly realizing the import of his words.
Hercule Poirot was quick to lead the conversation away. He said:
‘Ah, yes, there was something, senorita, I had to ask you. Your passport. It is needed by my friend the superintendent. There are, you know, police regulations – very stupid, very tiresome, but necessary – for a foreigner in this country. And of course, by law, you are a foreigner.’
Pilar’s eyebrows rose.
‘My passport? Yes, I will get it. It is in my room.’
Poirot said apologetically as he walked by her side:
‘I am most sorry to trouble you. I am indeed.’
They had reached the end of the long gallery. Here was a flight of stairs. Pilar ran up and Poirot followed. Stephen came too. Pilar’s bedroom was just at the head of the stairs.
She said as she reached the door: ‘I will get it for you.’
She went in. Poirot and Stephen Farr remained waiting outside.
Stephen said remorsefully:
‘Damn’ silly of me to say a thing like that. I don’t think she noticed, though, do you?’
Poirot did not answer. He held his head a little on one side as though listening.
He said:
‘The English are extraordinarily fond of fresh air. Miss Estravados must have inherited that characteristic.’
Stephen said staring:
‘Why?’
Poirot said softly:
‘Because though it is today extremely cold – the black frost you call it (not like yesterday so mild and sunny) Miss Estravados has just flung up her lower window-sash. Amazing to love so much the fresh air.’
Suddenly there was an exclamation in Spanish from inside the room and Pilar reappeared laughingly dismayed.
‘Ah!’ she cried. ‘But I am stupid – and clumsy. My little case it was on the window-sill, and I was sorting through it so quickly and very stupidly I knock my passport out of the window. It is down on the flower-bed below. I will get it.’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Stephen, but Pilar had flown past him and cried back over her shoulder:
‘No, it was my stupidity. You go to the drawing-room with M. Poirot and I will bring it to you there.’
Stephen Farr seemed inclined to go after her, but Poirot’s hand fell gently on his arm and Poirot’s voice said:
‘Let us go this way.’
They went along the first-floor corridor towards the other end of the house until they got to the head of the main staircase. Here Poirot said:
‘Let us not go down for a minute. If you will come with me to the room of the crime there is something I want to ask you.’
They went along the corridor which led to Simeon Lee’s room. On their left they passed an alcove which contained two marble statues, stalwart nymphs clasping their draperies in an agony of Victorian propriety.
Stephen Farr glanced at them and murmured:
‘Pretty frightful by daylight. I thought there were three of them when I came along the other night, but thank goodness there are only two!’
‘They are not what is admired nowadays,’ admitted Poirot. ‘But no doubt they cost much money in their time. They look better by night, I think.’
