“M. le Comte, I regret to say, is not at home.” The little man with the large moustaches beamed placidly.
“I know that,” he replied. “You are Hippolyte Flavelle, are you not?”
“Yes, Monsieur, that is my name.”
“And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?”
“Yes, Monsieur, but-”
“I desire to see you both,” said the stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippolyte into the hall.
“Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen,” he said. “I will go there.”
Before Hippolyte could recover his breath, the other had selected the right door at the back of the hall and passed along the passage and into the kitchen, where Marie paused open-mouthed to stare at him.
“
“Yes, Monsieur?”
“You do not know the name?”
“I have never heard it,” said Hippolyte.
“Permit me to say that you have been badly educated. It is the name of one of the great ones of this world.”
He sighed and folded his hands across his chest.
Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him uneasily. They were at a loss what to make of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor. “Monsieur desires – ?” murmured Hippolyte mechanically.
“I desire to know why you have lied to ie police.”
“Monsieur!” cried Hippolyte; “I – lied to the police? Never have I done such a thing.”
M. Poirot shook his head.
“You are wrong,” he said; “you have done on several occasions. Let me see.” He took small notebook from his pocket and consulted it. “Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you.”
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
“But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak,” continued Poirot, “only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am concerned – your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th January.”
“But that was no lie. Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is it not?”
Marie assented eagerly.
“Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly.”
“Ah,” said Poirot, “and what did you give your good master for
“I-” Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
“Odd,” said Poirot, “how one remembers some things – and forgets others.”
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.
“Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody knows. But there are two people who know. Yes – two people. One is
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
“And the other is Hercule Poirot.”
“I assure you. Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte left Paris on Monday night-”
“True,” said Poirot – “by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning.”
“Monsieur is mistaken,” said Marie stolidly.
Poirot rose to his feet.
“Then the law must take its course,” he murmured. “A pity.”
“What do you mean. Monsieur?” asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
“You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed.”
“Murder!”
The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep.
“But it is impossible – impossible. I thought-”
“Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish.”
He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him.
“Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. I – I had no idea that it was anything of this kind. I – I thought it was just a matter concerning a lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies before. But murder – that is very different.”
“I have no patience with you,” cried Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. “Am I to stop here all day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you will not give it to me, that is your look out.
“Wednesday,” gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.
“You are wise, my children,” he said quietly.
“Very nearly you were in serious trouble.”
He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.
“One guess confirmed,” he murmured to himself. “Shall I take a chance on the other?”
It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle.
She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room feverishly. She turned on him furiously.
“Well?” she cried. “Well? What is it now? Have you not tortured me enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What more do you want?”
“Just one little question. Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons, when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment-”
“What is that?”
Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again.
“I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment-” “I never did.”
“And found her-”
“I never did.”
“Ah,
He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back before him.
“Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though I had been there. You went into her compartment and you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful. Mademoiselle Mirelle.”
Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell.
“I – I didn't-” she began uncertainly and stopped.
“There is only one thing about which I wonder,” said Poirot – “I wonder, Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking I for or whether-”
“Whether what?”
“Or whether some one else had been before you.”
“I will answer no more questions,” screamed the dancer. She tore herself away from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging herself down on the floor in a frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid came rushing in.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the room.
