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wished to commit suicide by causing himself to be hanged, would `
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act so!" `
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"Still--I do not see--" I began. `
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"Neither do I see. I tell you, mon ami, it puzzles me. Me `
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--Hercule Poirot!" `
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"But if you believe him innocent, how do you explain his buying `
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the strychnine?" `
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"Very simply. He did _not_ buy it." `
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"But Mace recognized him!" `
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"I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black beard like Mr. `
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Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses like Mr. Inglethorp, and `
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dressed in Mr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could `
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not recognize a man whom he had probably only seen in the `
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distance, since, you remember, he himself had only been in the `
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village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorp dealt principally with `
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Coot's in Tadminster." `
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"Then you think----" `
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"Mon ami, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? `
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Leave the first one for the moment, what was the second?" `
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"The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears peculiar `
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clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses," I quoted. `
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"Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John `
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or Lawrence Cavendish. Would it be easy?" `
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"No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor----" `
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But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly. `
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"And why would it not be easy? I will tell you, my friend: `
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Because they are both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully `
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as one of these two in broad daylight, it would need an actor of `
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genius, and a certain initial facial resemblance. But in the `
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case of Alfred Inglethorp, all that is changed. His clothes, his `
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beard, the glasses which hide his eyes--those are the salient `
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points about his personal appearance. Now, what is the first `
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instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it `
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not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it on some one `
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else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. `
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Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. `
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It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to `
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make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof--such as the `
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actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar `
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appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this `
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young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How `
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should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and `
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his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?" `
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"It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, `
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if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six `
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o'clock on Monday evening?" `
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"Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were `
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arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come `
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to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There `
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is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he `
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did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and `
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has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the `
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murder." `
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"What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the `
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moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the `
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obvious deduction was the correct one. `
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"Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling. `
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"No, can you?" `
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"Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago--and it has turned out `
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to be correct." `
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"You never told me," I said reproachfully. `
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Poirot spread out his hands apologetically. `
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"Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique." He `
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turned to me earnestly. "Tell me--you see now that he must not `
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be arrested?" `
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"Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent `
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to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright `
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would do him no harm. `
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Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh. `
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"Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. `
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Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?" `
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"Oh, pretty much what I expected." `
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"Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?" `
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My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged: `
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"In what way?" `
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"Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?" `
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I was relieved. `
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"Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous `
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chap." `
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"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned `
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accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not `
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strike you as strange--hein?" `
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"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. `
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But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make." `
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"But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself `
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that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken `
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his degree." `
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"Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather `
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startled. "It _is_ odd." `
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Poirot nodded. `
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"From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the `
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household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of `
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strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the `
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family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural `
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causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood `
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it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature `
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unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence--no! And now, to-day, he `
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puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was `
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ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, mon ami!" `
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"It's very confusing," I agreed. `
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"Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's `
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another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her `
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attitude?" `
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"I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that `
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she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it `
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looks like." `
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Poirot nodded reflectively. `
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"Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good `
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deal more of that 'private conversation' than she was willing to `
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admit." `
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"And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to `
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eavesdrop!" `
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"Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a `
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mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place `
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earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said." `
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I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence `
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on that point. `
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"Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued `
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Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed `
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at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one `
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commented on the fact." `
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"He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully. `
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"Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked `
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Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall `
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keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein." `
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"Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired `
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satirically. `
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"Mon ami," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are `
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not telling you the truth--look out! Now, unless I am much `
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mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one--at most, two persons `
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were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge." `
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"Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. `
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But there's John--and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the `
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truth?" `
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"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both----!" `
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His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, `
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unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright `
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straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt `
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her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's `
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sagacity--except on the occasions when he was what I described to `
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myself as "foolishly pig-headed." `
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"Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always `
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seemed to me so essentially honest--almost uncomfortably so." `
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Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. `
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He seemed to speak, and then checked himself. `
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