'It is a little delicate. It has come to my ears – in the course of my profession, you understand – that in spite of your denials, you did have dealings with this woman Giselle.'
'Who says so? It's a lie – a damned lie – I never saw the woman!'
'Dear me, that is very curious!'
'Curious! It's a damned libel.'
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
'Ah,' he said. 'I must look into the matter.'
'What do you mean? What are you getting at?'
Poirot shook his head.
'Do not enrage yourself. There must be a mistake.'
'I should think there was. Catch me getting myself mixed with these high-toned society money lenders. Society women with gambling debts – that's their sort.'
Poirot rose.
'I must apologize for having been misinformed.' He paused at the door. 'By the way, just as a matter of curiosity, what made you call Doctor Bryant, Doctor Hubbard just now?'
'Blessed if I know. Let me see. Oh, yes, I think it must have been the flute. The nursery rime, you know. Old Mother Hubbard's dog: 'But when she came back he was playing the flute.' Odd thing, how you mix up names.'
'Ah, yes, the flute. These things interest me, you understand, psychologically.'
Mr Ryder snorted at the word 'psychologically.' It savored to him of what he called that tom-fool business, psychoanalysis.
He looked at Poirot with suspicion.
Chapter 19
The Countess of Horbury sat in her bedroom at 115 Grosvenor Square in front of her toilet table. Gold brushes and boxes, jars of face cream, boxes of powder, dainty luxury all around her. But in the midst of the luxury. Cicely Horbury sat with dry lips and a face on which the rouge showed up in unbecoming patches on her cheeks.
She read the letter for the fourth time.
The Countess of Horbury,
Dear Madam: Re Madame Giselle, deceased.
I am the holder of certain documents formerly in the possession of the deceased lady. If you or Mr Raymond Barraclough are interested in the matter, I should be happy to call upon you with a view to discussing the affair.
Or perhaps you would prefer me to deal with your husband in the matter?
Yours truly,
John Robinson.
Stupid, to read the same thing over and over again. As though the words might alter their meaning.
She picked up the envelope – two envelopes – the first with Personal on it. The second with Private and Very Confidential.
Private and Very Confidential.
The beast – the beast.
And that lying old Frenchwoman who had sworn that 'All arrangements were made' to protect clients in case of her own sudden demise.
Damn her.
Life was hell – hell!
'Oh, God, my nerves,' thought Cicely. 'It isn't fair. It isn't fair.'
Her shaking hand went out to a gold-topped bottle.
'It will steady me. Pull me together.'
She snuffed the stuff up her nose.
There. Now she could think!
What to do?
See the man, of course. Though where she could raise any money – perhaps a lucky flutter at that place in Carios Street -
But time enough to think of that later. See the man; find out what he knows.
She went over to the writing table, dashed off in her big unformed handwriting:
The Countess of Horbury presents her compliments to Mr John Robinson and will see him if he calls at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.
'Will I do?' asked Norman.
He flushed a little under Poirot's startled gaze.
'Name of a name,' said Hercule Poirot, 'what kind of a comedy is it that you are playing?'
Norman Gale flushed even more deeply.
He mumbled, 'You said a slight disguise would be as well.'
Poirot sighed. Then he took the young man by the arm and marched him to the looking-glass.
'Regard yourself,' he said. 'That is all I ask of you – regard yourself! What do you think you are? A Santa Claus dressed up to amuse the children? I agree that your beard is not white – no, it is black; the color for villains. But what a beard – a beard that screams to heaven! A cheap beard, my friend, and most imperfectly and amateurishly attached! Then there are your eyebrows – but it is that you have the mania for false hair? The spirit gum, one smells it several yards away, and if you think that anyone will fail to perceive that you have a piece of sticking plaster attached to a tooth, you are mistaken. My friend, it is not your metier – decidedly not – to play the part.'
'I acted in amateur theatricals a good deal at one time,' said Norman Gale stiffly.
'I can hardly believe it. At any rate, I presume they did not let you indulge in your own ideas of make-up. Even behind the footlights your appearance would be singularly unconvincing. In Grosvenor Square in broad daylight -'
Poirot gave an eloquent shrug of the shoulders by way of finishing the sentence.
'No, mon ami,' he said. 'You are a blackmailer, not a comedian. I want her ladyship to fear you, not to die of laughing when she sees you. I observe that I wound you by what I am saying. I regret, but it is a moment when only the truth will serve. Take this, and this -' he pressed various jars upon him. 'Go into the bathroom and let us have an end of what you call in this country the fool-tommery.'
Crushed, Norman Gale obeyed. When he emerged a quarter of an hour later, his face a vivid shade of brick red, Poirot gave him a nod of approval.
'Tres bien. The farce is over. The serious business begins. I will permit you to have a small mustache. But I will, if you please, attach it to you myself… There… And now we will part the hair differently… So. That is quite enough. Now let me see if you at least know your lines.'
He listened with attention, then nodded.
'That is good. En avant and good luck to you.'
'I devoutly hope so. I shall probably find an enraged husband and a couple of policemen.'
Poirot reassured him:
'Have no anxiety. All will march to a marvel.'
'So you say,' muttered Norman rebelliously.
