His face suddenly lit up with a most attractive smile.
'Sorry for my filthy temper,' he said, 'and thanks a lot.'
He clapped Poirot on the shoulder. With the force of the blow Poirot staggered and all but fell.
Mr Legge's friendship was certainly more painful than his animosity.
'And now,' said Poirot, leaving Mill Cottage on painful feet and looking up at the darkening sky, 'where do I go?'
Chapter 19
The chief constable and Inspector Bland looked up with keen curiosity as Hercule Poirot was ushered in. The chief constable was not in the best of tempers. Only Bland's quiet persistence had caused him to cancel his dinner appointment for that evening.
'I know, Bland, I know,' he said fretfully. 'Maybe he was a little Belgian wizard in his day – but surely, man, his day's over. He's what age?'
Bland slid tactfully over the answer to this question which, in any case, he did not know. Poirot himself was always reticent on the subject of his age.
'The point is, sir, he was there – on the spot. And we're not getting anywhere any other way. Up against a blank wall, that's where we are.'
The chief constable blew his nose irritably.
'I know. I know. Makes me begin to believe in Mrs Masterton's homicidal pervert. I'd even use bloodhounds, if there were anywhere to use them.'
'Bloodhounds can't follow a scent over water.'
'Yes. I know what you've always thought, Bland. And I'm inclined to agree with you. But there's absolutely no motive, you know. Not an iota of motive.'
'The motive may be out in the islands.'
'Meaning that Hattie Stubbs knew something about De Sousa out there? I suppose that's reasonably possible, given her mentality. She was simple, everyone agrees on that. She might blurt out what she knew to anyone at any time. Is that the way you see it?'
'Something like that.'
'If so, he waited a long time before crossing the sea and doing something about it.'
'Well, sir, it's possible he didn't know what exactly had become of her. His own story was that he'd seen a piece in some society periodical about Nasse House, and its beautiful chatelaine. (Which I have always thought myself,' added Bland parenthetically, 'to be a silver thing with chains, and bits and pieces hung on it that people's grandmothers used to clip on their waistbands – and a good idea, too. Wouldn't be all these silly women for ever leaving their handbags around.) Seems, though, that in women's jargon chatelaine means mistress of a house. As I say, that's his story and maybe it's true enough, and he didn't know where she was or who she'd married until then.'
'But once he did know, he came across post-haste in a yacht in order to murder her? It's far-fetched, Bland, very far-fetched.'
'But it could be, sir.'
'And what on earth could the woman know?'
'Remember what she said to her husband. 'He kills people.''
'Murder remembered? From the time she was fifteen? And presumably only her word for it? Surely he'd be able to laugh that off?'
'We don't know the facts,' said Bland stubbornly. 'You know yourself, sir, how once one knows who did a thing, one can look for the evidence and find it.'
'H'm. We've made inquiries about De Sousa – discreetly – through the usual channels – and got nowhere.'
'That's just why, sir, this funny old Belgian boy might have stumbled on something. He was in the house – that's the important thing. Lady Stubbs talked to him. Some of the random things she said may have come together in his mind and made sense. However that may be, he's been down in Nassecombe most of today.'
'And he rang you up to ask what kind of a yacht Etienne De Sousa had?'
'When he rang up the first time, yes. The second time was to ask me to arrange this meeting.'
'Well,' the chief constable looked at his watch, 'if he doesn't come within five minutes…'
But it was at that very moment that Hercule Poirot was shown in.
His appearance was not as immaculate as usual. His moustache was limp, affected by the damp Devon air, his patent-leather shoes were heavily coated with mud, he limped, and his hair was ruffled.
'Well, so here you are, M. Poirot.' The chief constable shook hands. 'We're all keyed up, on our toes, waiting to hear what you have to tell us.'
The words were faintly ironic, but Hercule Poirot, however damp physically, was in no mood to be damped mentally.
'I cannot imagine,' he said, 'how it was I did not see the truth before.'
The chief constable received this rather coldly.
'Are we to understand that you do see the truth now?'
'Yes, there are details – but the outline is clear.'
'We want more than an outline,' said the chief constable dryly. 'We want evidence. Have you got evidence, M. Poirot?'
'I can tell you where to find the evidence.'
Inspector Bland spoke. 'Such as?'
Poirot turned to him and asked a question.
'Etienne De Sousa has, I suppose, left the country.'
'Two weeks ago.' Bland added bitterly, 'It won't be easy to get him back.'
'He might be persuaded.'
'Persuaded? There's not sufficient evidence to warrant an extradition order, then?'
'It is not a question of an extradition order. If the facts are put to him -'
'But what facts, M. Poirot?' The chief constable spoke with some irritation. 'What are these facts you talk about so glibly?'
'The fact that Etienne De Sousa came here in a lavishly appointed luxury yacht showing that his family is rich, the fact that old Merdell was Marlene Tucker's grandfather (which I did not know until today), the fact that Lady Stubbs was fond of wearing the coolie type of hat, the fact that Mrs Oliver, in spite of an unbridled and unreliable imagination, is, unrealised by herself, a very shrewd judge of character, the fact that Marlene Tucker had lipsticks and bottles of perfume hidden at the back of her bureau drawer, the fact that Miss Brewis maintains that it was Lady Stubbs who asked her to take a refreshment tray down to Marlene at the boathouse.'
'Facts?' The chief constable stared. 'You call those facts? But there's nothing new there.'
'You prefer evidence – definite evidence – such as – Lady Stubbs's body?'
Now it was Bland who stared.
'You have found Lady Stubbs's body?'
'Not actually found it – but I know where it is hidden. You shall go to the spot, and when you have found it, then – then you will have evidence – all the evidence you need. For only one person could have hidden it there.'
'And who's that?'
Hercule Poirot smiled – the contented smile of a cat who has lapped up a saucer of cream.
'The person it so often is,' he said softly; 'the husband. Sir George Stubbs killed his wife.'
'But that's impossible, M. Poirot. We know it's impossible.'
'Oh, no,' said Poirot, 'it is not impossible at all! Listen, and I will tell you.'
