think that it is time we dined. Une petite omelette, n’est ce pas? And after that, about nine o’clock, I have one more visit I wish to make.’
‘Where is that?’
‘We will dine first, Hastings. And until we drink our coffee, we will not discuss the case further. When engaged in eating, the brain should be the servant of the stomach.’
Poirot was as good as his word. We went to a little restaurant in Soho where he was well known, and there we had a delicious omelette, a sole, a chicken and a Baba au Rhum of which Poirot was inordinately fond.
Then, as we sipped our coffee, Poirot smiled affectionately across the table at me.
‘My good friend,’ he said. ‘I depend upon you more than you know.’
I was confused and delighted by these unexpected words. He had never said anything of the kind to me before. Sometimes, secretly, I had felt slightly hurt. He seemed almost to go out of his way to disparage my mental powers.
Although I did not think his own powers were flagging, I did realize suddenly that perhaps he had come to depend on my aid more than he knew.
‘Yes,’ he said dreamily. ‘You may not always comprehend just how it is so-but you do often, and often point the way.’
I could hardly believe my ears.
‘Really, Poirot,’ I stammered. ‘I’m awfully glad, I suppose I’ve learnt a good deal from you one way or another-’
He shook his head.
‘Mais non, ce n’est pas ca. You have learnt nothing.’
‘Oh!’ I said, rather taken aback.
‘That is as it should be. No human being should learn from another. Each individual should develop his own powers to the uttermost, not try to imitate those of someone else. I do not wish you to be a second and inferior Poirot. I wish you to be the supreme Hastings. And you are the supreme Hastings. In you, Hastings, I find the normal mind almost perfectly illustrated.’
‘I’m not abnormal, I hope,’ I said.
‘No, no. You are beautifully and perfectly balanced. In you sanity is personified. Do you realize what that means to me? When the criminal sets out to do a crime his first effort is to deceive. Who does he seek to deceive? The image in his mind is that of the normal man. There is probably no such thing actually-it is a mathematical abstraction. But you come as near to realizing it as is possible. There are moments when you have flashes of brilliance when you rise above the average, moments (I hope you will pardon me) when you descend to curious depths of obtuseness, but take it all for all, you are amazingly normal. Eh bien, how does this profit me? Simply in this way. As in a mirror I see reflected in your mind exactly what the criminal wishes me to believe. That is terrifically helpful and suggestive.’
I did not quite understand. It seemed to me that what Poirot was saying was hardly complimentary. However, he quickly disabused me of that impression.
‘I have expressed myself badly,’ he said quickly. ‘You have an insight into the criminal mind, which I myself lack. You show me what the criminal wishes me to believe. It is a great gift.’
‘Insight,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘Yes, perhaps I have got insight.’
I looked across the table at him. He was smoking his tiny cigarettes and regarding me with great kindliness.
‘Ce cher Hastings,’ he murmured. ‘I have indeed much affection for you.’
I was pleased but embarrassed and hastened to change the subject.
‘Come,’ I said in a business-like manner. ‘Let us discuss the case.’
‘Eh bien.’ Poirot threw his head back, his eyes narrowed. He slowly puffed out smoke.
‘Je me pose des questions,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ I said eagerly.
‘You, too, doubtless?’
‘Certainly,’ I said. And also leaning back and narrowing my own eyes I threw out:
‘Who killed Lord Edgware?’
Poirot immediately sat up and shook his head vigorously.
‘No, no. Not at all. Is it a question, that? You are like someone who reads the detective story and who starts guessing each of the characters in turn without rhyme or reason. Once, I agree, I had to do that myself. It was a very exceptional case. I will tell you about it one of these days. It was a feather in my cap. But of what were we speaking?’
‘Of the questions you were “posing” to yourself,’ I replied dryly. It was on the tip of my tongue to suggest that my real use to Poirot was to provide him with a companion to whom he could boast, but I controlled myself. If he wished to instruct then let him.
‘Come on,’ I said. ‘Let’s hear them.’
That was all that the vanity of the man wanted. He leaned back again and resumed his former attitude.
‘The first question we have already discussed.Why did Lord Edgware change his mind on the subject of divorce? One or two ideas suggest themselves to me on that subject. One of them you know.
‘The second question I ask myself is What happened to that letter? To whose interest was it that Lord Edgware and his wife should continue to be tied together?
‘Three,What was the meaning of the expression on his face that you saw when you looked back yesterday morning on leaving the library? Have you any answer to that, Hastings?’
I shook my head.
‘I can’t understand it.’
‘You are sure that you didn’t imagine it? Sometimes, Hastings, you have the imagination un peu vif.’
‘No, no.’ I shook my head vigorously. ‘I’m quite sure I wasn’t mistaken.’
‘Bien. Then it is a fact to be explained. My fourth question concerns those pince-nez. Neither Jane Wilkinson nor Carlotta Adams wore glasses. What, then, are the glasses doing in Carlotta Adams’ bag?
‘And for my fifth question.Why did someone telephone to find out if Jane Wilkinson were at Chiswick and who was it?
‘Those, my friend, are the questions with which I am tormenting myself. If I could answer those, I should feel happier in my mind. If I could even evolve a theory that explained them satisfactorily, my amour propre would not suffer so much.’
‘There are several other questions,’ I said.
‘Such as?’
‘Who incited Carlotta Adams to this hoax? Where was she that evening before and after ten o’clock? Who is D who gave her the golden box?’
‘Those questions are self-evident,’ said Poirot. ‘There is no subtlety about them. They are simply things we do not know. They are questions of fact. We may get to know them any minute. My questions, mon ami, are psychological. The little grey cells of the brain-’
‘Poirot,’ I said desperately. I felt that I must stop him at all costs. I could not bear to hear it all over again. ‘You spoke of making a visit tonight?’
Poirot looked at his watch.
‘True,’ he said. ‘I will telephone and find out if it is convenient.’
He went away and returned a few minutes later.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘All is well.’
‘Where are we going?’ I asked.
‘To the house of Sir Montagu Corner at Chiswick. I would like to know a little more about that telephone call.’
