that morning – and he pretended afterwards that he had come along to tell his young woman he'd got a job – but we've now discovered that he hadn't got the job then. He didn't get it till later in the day. He admits that now. So there's lie Number 1. He can't account for where he was at twenty-five past twelve onwards. Says he was walking in the Marylebone Road, but the first thing he can prove is having a drink in a pub at five past one. And the barman says he was in a regular state – his hand shaking and his face as white as a sheet!'
Hercule Poirot sighed and shoo his head. He murmured:
'It does not accord with my ideas?'
'What are these ideas of yours?'
'It is very disturbing what you tell me. Very disturbing indeed. Because, you see, if you are right…'
The door opened softly and George murmured deferentially:
'Excuse me, sir, but…'
He got no further. Miss Gladys Nevill thrust him aside and came agitatedly into the room. She was crying.
'Oh, M. Poirot -'
'Here, I'll be off,' said Japp hurriedly.
He left the room precipitately.
Gladys Nevill paid his back the tribute of a venomous look.
'That's the man – that horrid Inspector from Scotland Yard – it's he who has trumped up a whole case against poor Frank.'
'Now, now, you must not agitate yourself.'
'But he has. First they pretend that he tried to murder this Mr. Blunt and not content with that they've accused him of murdering poor Mr. Morley.'
Poirot coughed. He said:
'He was there, you know, at Exsham, when there was the shot at Mr. Blunt.'
'But even if Frank did do a foolish thing like this… He is in that group that marches around, waving flags and march and salute, and of course I suppose Mr. Blunt's wife was a very prominent Jewess, and they just work up these poor young men – quite harmless ones like Frank – until they think they are doing something wonderful and patriotic.'
'Is that Mr. Carter's defense?' asked Hercule Poirot.
'Oh, no. Frank just swears he didn't do anything and had never seen the pistol before. I haven't spoken to him, of course – they wouldn't let me – but he's got a solicitor acting for him and he told me what Frank had said. Frank just says it's all a frame-up.'
Poirot murmured:
'And the solicitor is of the opinion that his client had better think of a more plausible story?'
'Lawyers are so difficult. They won't say anything straight out. But it's the murder charge I'm worrying about. Oh! M. Poirot, I'm sure Frank couldn't have killed Mr. Morley. I mean really – he hadn't any reason to.'
'Is it true,' said Poirot, 'that when he came round that morning he had not yet got a job of any kind?'
'Well, really, M. Poirot, I don't see what difference that makes. Whether he got the job in the morning or the afternoon can't matter.'
Poirot said:
'But his story was that he came to tell you about his good luck. Now, it seems, he had as yet had no luck. Why, then, did he come?'
'Well, M. Poirot, the poor boy was dispirited and upset, and to tell the truth I believe he'd been drinking a little. Poor Frank has rather a weak head – and the drink upset him and so he felt like – like making a row, and he came round to Queen Charlotte Street to have it out with Mr. Morley, because, you see, Frank is awfully sensitive and it had upset him a lot to feel that Mr. Morley disapproved of him, and was what he called poisoning my mind.'
'So he conceived the idea of making a scene in business hours?'
'Well – yes – I suppose, that was his idea. Of course it was very wrong of Frank to think of such a thing.'
Poirot looked thoughtfully at the tearful blond young woman in front of him. He said:
'Did you know that Frank Carter had a pistol – or a pair of pistols?'
'Oh, no, M. Poirot. I swear I didn't. And I don't believe it's true, either.'
Poirot shook his head slowly in a perplexed manner.
'Oh! M. Poirot, do help us. If I could only feel that you were on our side -'
Poirot said:
'I do not take sides. I am on the side only of the truth.'
V
As soon as the girl went out, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard. Inspector Japp had not yet returned but Detective Beddoes was very solicitous and informative.
The police hadn't yet found any evidence to show that Frank was in possession of the pistol before the attempted murder on Blunt. Poirot became thoughtful. It was a point in Carter's favor. But so far it was the only one.
He had also learned from Beddoes a few more details as to the statement Frank Carter had made about his employment as gardener at Exsham. He stuck to his story of a Secret Service job. He had been given money in advance and some testimonials as to his gardening abilities and been told to apply to Mr. MacAlister, the head gardener, for the post. His instructions were to listen to the other gardeners' conversations and sound them as to their 'red' tendencies, and to pretend to be a bit of a 'red' himself.
He had been interviewed and instructed in his task a woman who had told him that she was known as Q.H.56 and that he had been recommended to her as a strong anti-communist. She had interviewed him a dim light and he did not think he would know again. She was a red-haired lady with a lot of makeup on.
Poirot groaned. The Phillips Oppenheim touch seemed to be reappearing.
He was tempted to consult Mr. Barnes on the sub.
According to Mr. Barnes these things happened.
The last post brought him something which disturbed him more still.
A cheap envelope addressed in an unformed hand writing, postmarked Hertfordshire.
Poirot opened it and read:
Dear Sir,
Hoping as you will forgive me for troubling you, but I am very worried and do not know what to do. I do not want to be mixed up with the police in any way. I know that perhaps I ought to have told something I know before, but as they said the master had shot himself it was all right I thought. And I wouldn't have liked to get Miss Nevill's young man into trouble and never thought really for one moment as he had done it.
But now I see he has been took up for shooting at a gentleman in the country and so perhaps he isn't quite all there and I ought to say but I thought I would write to you, you being a friend of the mistress and asking me so particular the other day if there was anything and of course I wish now I had told you then. But I do hope it won't mean getting mixed up with the police because I shouldn't like that and my mother wouldn't like it either. She has always been most particular.
Yours respectfully,
Agnes Fletcher.
Poirot murmured:
'I always knew it was something to do with some man. I guessed the wrong man, that is all.'
