Supposing, after all, that James Bentley was guilty…
He did not give in to that doubt, but it worried him.
Again and again he had gone over in his mind the interview he had had with James Bentley. He thought of it now whilst he waited on the platform of Kilchester for his train to come in. It had been market day and the platform was crowded. More crowds were coming in through the barriers.
Poirot leaned forward to look. Yes, the train was coming at last. Before he could right himself he felt a sudden hard purposeful shove in the small of his back. It was so violent and so unexpected that he was taken completely unawares. In another second he would have fallen on the line under the incoming train, but a man beside him on the platform caught hold of him in the nick of time, pulling him back.
'Why, whatever came over you?' he demanded. He was a big burly Army Sergeant. 'Taken queer? Man, you were nearly under the train.'
'I thank you. I thank you a thousand times.' Already the crowd was milling round them, boarding the train, others leaving it.
'All right now? I'll help you in.'
Shaken, Poirot subsided onto a seat.
Useless to say 'I was pushed' but he had been pushed. Up till that very evening he had gone about consciously on his guard, on the alert for danger. But after talking with Spence, after Spence's bantering enquiry as to whether any attempt on his life had been made, he had insensibly regarded the danger as over or unlikely to materialise.
But how wrong he had been! Amongst those he had interviewed in Broadhinny one interview had achieved a result. Somebody had been afraid. Somebody had sought to put an end to his dangerous resuscitation of a closed case.
From a call box in the station at Broadhinny, Poirot rang up Superintendent Spence.
'It is you, mon ami? Attend, I pray. I have news for you. Splendid news. Somebody has tried to kill me…'
He listened with satisfaction to the flow of remarks from the other end.
'No, I am not hurt. But it was a very near thing… Yes, under a train. No, I did not see who did it. But be assured, my friend, I shall find out. We know now – that we are on the right track.'
Chapter 12
I
The man who was testing the electric meter passed the time of day with Guy Carpenter's superior manservant who was watching him.
'Electricity's going to operate on a new basis,' he explained. 'Graded flat rate according to occupancy.'
The superior butler remarked sceptically:
'What you mean is it's going to cost more like everything else?'
'That depends. Fair shares for all, that's what I say. Did you go in to the meeting at Kilchester last night?'
'No.'
'Your boss, Mr Carpenter, spoke very well, they say. Think he'll get in?'
'It was a near shave last time, I believe.'
'Yes. A hundred and twenty-five majority, something like that. Do you drive him in to these meetings, or does he drive himself?'
'Usually drives himself. Likes driving. He's got a Rolls Bentley.'
'Does himself well. Mrs Carpenter drive, too?'
'Yes. Drives a lot too fast, in my opinion.'
'Women usually do. Was she at the meeting last night too? Or isn't she interested in politics?'
The superior butler grinned.
'Pretends she is, anyway. However, she didn't stick it out last night. Had a headache or something and left in the middle of the speeches.'
'Ah!' the electrician peered into the fuse boxes. 'Nearly done now,' he remarked. He put a few more desultory questions as he collected his tools and prepared to depart.
He walked briskly down the drive, but round the corner from the gateway, he stopped and made an entry in his pocket book.
'C. drove home alone last night. Reached home 10.30 (approx.). Could have been at Kilchester Central Station at time indicated. Mrs C. left meeting early. Got home only ten minute before C. Said to have come home by train.'
It was the second entry in the electrician's book. The first ran:
'Dr R. called out on case last night. Direction of Kilchester. Could have been at Kilchester Central Station at time indicated. Mrs R. alone all evening in house(?) After taking coffee in, Mrs Scott, housekeeper, did not see her again that night. Has small car of her own.'
II
At Laburnums, collaboration was in process
Robin Upward was saying earnestly:
'You do see, don't you, what a wonderful line that is? And if we really get a feeling of sex antagonism between the chap and the girl it'll pep the whole thing up enormously!'
Sadly, Mrs Oliver ran her hands through her windswept grey hair, causing it to look as though swept not by wind but by a tornado.
'You do see what I mean, don't you, Ariadne darling?'
'Oh, I see what you mean,' said Mrs Oliver gloomily.
'But the main thing is for you to feel really happy about it.'
Nobody but a really determined self-deceiver could have thought that Mrs Oliver looked happy.
Robin continued blithely:
'What I feel is, here's that wonderful young man, parachuted down -'
Mrs Oliver interrupted:
'He's sixty.'
'Oh no!'
'He is.'
'I don't see him like that. Thirty-five – not a day older.'
'But I've been writing books about him for thirty years, and he was at least thirty-five in the first one.'
'But, darling, if he's sixty, you can't have the tension between him and the girl – what's her name? Ingrid. I mean, it would make him just a nasty old man!'
'It certainly would.'
'So you see, he must be thirty-five,' said Robin triumphantly.
'Then he can't be Sven Hjerson. Just make him a Norwegian young man who's in the Resistance Movement.'
'But darling Ariadne, the whole point of the play is Sven Hjerson. You've got an enormous public who simply
