'There is something up,' said Jane. 'He's in great distress of mind. He's talking to himself and he doesn't know it.'
As he waited to cross by some traffic lights, Norman and Jane drew abreast.
It was quite true: Mr Clancy was talking to himself. His face looked white and strained. Norman and Jane caught a few muttered words:
'Why doesn't she speak? Why? There must be a reason.'
The lights went green. As they reached the opposite pavement, Mr Clancy said:
'I see now. Of course. That's why she's got to be silenced!'
Jane pinched Norman ferociously.
Mr Clancy set off at a great pace now. The overcoat dragged hopelessly. With great strides the little author covered the ground, apparently oblivious of the two people on his track.
Finally, with disconcerting abruptness, he stopped at a house, opened the door with a key and went in.
Norman and Jane looked at each other.
'It's his own house,' said Norman. ' Forty-seven Cardington Square. That's the address he gave at the inquest.'
'Oh, well,' said Jane. 'Perhaps he'll come out again by and by. And anyway, we have heard something. Somebody – a woman – is going to be silenced. And some other woman won't speak. Oh, dear, it sounds dreadfully like a detective story.'
A voice came out of the darkness.
'Good evening,' it said.
The owner of the voice stepped forward. A pair of magnificent mustaches showed in the lamplight.
'Eh bien,' said Hercule Poirot. 'A fine evening for the chase, is it not?'
Chapter 15
Of the two startled young people, it was Norman Gale who recovered himself first.
'Of course,' he said. 'It's Monsieur – Monsieur Poirot. Are you still trying to clear your character, M. Poirot?'
'Ah, you remember our little conversation? And it is the poor Mr Clancy you suspect?'
'So do you,' said Jane acutely, 'or you wouldn't be here.'
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
'Have you ever thought about murder, mademoiselle? Thought about it, I mean, in the abstract – cold- bloodedly and dispassionately?'
'I don't think I've ever thought about it at all until just lately,' said Jane.
Hercule Poirot nodded.
'Yes, you think about it now because a murder has touched you personally. But me, I have dealt with crime for many years now. I have my own way of regarding things. What should you say the most important thing was to bear in mind when you are trying to solve a murder?'
'Finding the murderer,' said Jane.
Norman Gale said: 'Justice.'
Poirot shook his head.
'There are more important things than finding the murderer. And justice is a fine word, but it is sometimes difficult to say exactly what one means by it. In my opinion, the important thing is to clear the innocent.'
'Oh, naturally,' said Jane. 'That goes without saying. If anyone is falsely accused -'
'Not even that. There may be no accusation. But until one person is proved guilty beyond any possible doubt, everyone else who is associated with the crime is liable to suffer in varying degrees.'
Norman Gale said with emphasis:
'How true that is.'
Jane said:
'Don't we know it!'
Poirot looked from one to the other.
'I see. Already you have been finding that out for yourselves.'
He became suddenly brisk:
'Come now, I have affairs to see to. Since our aims are the same, we three, let us combine together? I am about to call upon our ingenious friend, Mr Clancy. I would suggest that mademoiselle accompanies me in the guise of my secretary. Here, mademoiselle, is a notebook and a pencil for the shorthand.'
'I can't write shorthand,' gasped Jane.
'But naturally not. But you have the quick wits, the intelligence. You can make plausible signs in pencil in the book, can you not? Good. As for Mr Gale, I suggest that he meets us in, say, an hour's time. Shall we say upstairs at Monseigneur's? Bon! We will compare notes then.'
And forthwith he advanced to the bell and pressed it.
Slightly dazed, Jane followed him, clutching the notebook.
Gale opened his mouth as though to protest, then seemed to think better of it.
'Right,' he said. 'In an hour. At Monseigneur's.'
The door was opened by a rather forbidding-looking elderly woman attired in severe black.
Poirot said. 'Mr Clancy?'
She drew back and Poirot and Jane entered.
'What name, sir?'
'Mr Hercule Poirot.'
The severe woman led them upstairs and into a room on the first floor.
'Mr Air Kule Prott,' she announced.
Poirot realized at once the force of Mr Clancy's announcement at Croydon to the effect that he was not a tidy man. The room, a long one with three windows along its length and shelves and bookcases on the other walls, was in a state of chaos. There were papers strewn about, cardboard files, bananas, bottles of beer, open books, sofa cushions, a trombone, miscellaneous china, etchings, and a bewildering assortment of fountain pens.
In the middle of this confusion, Mr Clancy was struggling with a camera and a roll of films.
'Dear me,' said Mr Clancy, looking up as the visitors were announced. He put the camera down and the roll of films promptly fell on the floor and unwound itself. He came forward with outstretched hand. 'Very glad to see you, I'm sure.'
'You remember me, I hope,' said Poirot. 'This is my secretary, Miss Grey.'
'How d'you do, Miss Grey.' He shook her by the hand and then turned back to Poirot. 'Yes, of course I remember you – at least – now, where was it exactly? Was it at the Skull and Crossbones Club?'
'We were fellow passengers on an aeroplane from Paris on a certain fatal occasion.'
'Why, of course,' said Mr Clancy. 'And Miss Grey too! Only I hadn't realized she was your secretary. In fact, I had some idea that she was in a beauty parlor – something of that kind.'
Jane looked anxiously at Poirot.
The latter was quite equal to the situation.
'Perfectly correct,' he said. 'As an efficient secretary, Miss Grey has at times to undertake certain work of a temporary nature; you understand?'
'Of course,' said Mr Clancy. 'I was forgetting. You're a detective – the real thing. Not Scotland Yard. Private investigation… Do sit down, Miss Grey… No, not there; I think there's orange juice on that chair… If I shift this file… Oh, dear, now everything's tumbled out. Never mind… You sit here, M. Poirot… That's right, isn't it? Poirot?… The back's not really broken. It only creaks a little as you lean against it. Well, perhaps it's best not to lean too hard… Yes, a private investigator like my Wilbraham Rice. The public have taken very strongly to Wilbraham Rice. He bites his nails and eats a lot of bananas. I don't know why I made him bite his nails, to start with; it's really rather disgusting, but there it is. He started by biting his nails and now he has to do it in every single book. So monotonous. The bananas aren't so bad; you get a bit of fun out of them – criminals slipping on the skin. I eat
