‘You think that covers all the facts?’

‘Well, naturally there are a lot of things we don’t know yet. It’s a good working hypothesis to go on with. The other explanation is that the hoax and the murder had nothing to do with each other. It’s just a damned queer coincidence.’

Poirot did not agree, I knew. But he merely said noncommittally:

‘Mais oui, c’est possible.’

‘Or, look here, how’s this? The hoax is innocent enough. Someone gets to hear of it and thinks it will suit their purpose jolly well. That’s not a bad idea?’ He paused and went on: ‘But personally I prefer idea No. 1. What the link was between his lordship and the girl we’ll find out somehow or other.’

Poirot told him of the letter to America posted by the maid, and Japp agreed that that might possibly be of great assistance.

‘I’ll get on to that at once,’ he said, making a note of it in his little book.

‘I’m the more in favour of the lady being the killer because I can’t find anyone else,’ he said, as he put the book away. ‘Captain Marsh, now, his lordship as now is. He’s got a motive sticking out a yard. A bad record too. Hard up and none too scrupulous over money. What’s more he had a row with his uncle yesterday morning. He told me that himself as a matter of fact – which rather takes the taste out of it. Yes, he’d be a likely customer. But he’s got an alibi for yesterday evening. He was at the opera with the Dortheimers. Rich Jews. Grosvenor Square. I’ve looked into that and it’s all right. He dined with them, went to the opera and they went on to supper at Sobranis. So that’s that.’

‘And Mademoiselle?’

‘The daughter, you mean? She was out of the house too. Dined with some people called Carthew West. They took her to the opera and saw her home afterwards. Quarter to twelve she got in. That disposes ofher. The secretary woman seems all right – very efficient decent woman. Then there’s the butler. I can’t say I take to him much. It isn’t natural for a man to have good looks like that. There’s something fishy about him – and something odd about the way he came to enter Lord Edgware’s service. Yes, I’m checking up on him all right. I can’t see any motive for murder, though.’

‘No fresh facts have come to light?’

‘Yes, one or two. It’s hard to say whether they mean anything or not. For one thing, Lord Edgware’s key’s missing.’

‘The key to the front door?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is interesting, certainly.’ 

‘As I say, it may mean a good deal or nothing at all. Depends. What is a bit more significant to my mind is this. Lord Edgware cashed a cheque yesterday – not a particularly large one – a hundred pounds as a matter of fact. He took the money in French notes – that’s why he cashed the cheque, because of his journey to Paris today. Well, that money has disappeared.’

‘Who told you of this?’

‘Miss Carroll. She cashed the cheque and obtained the money. She mentioned it to me, and then I found that it had gone.’

‘Where was it yesterday evening?’

‘Miss Carroll doesn’t know. She gave it to Lord Edgware about half-past three. It was in a bank envelope. He was in the library at the time. He took it and laid it down beside him on a table.’

‘That certainly gives one to think. It is a complication.’

‘Or a simplification. By the way – the wound.’

‘Yes?’

‘The doctor says it wasn’t made by an ordinary penknife. Something of that kind but a different shaped blade. And it was amazingly sharp.’

‘Not a razor?’

‘No, no. Much smaller.’

Poirot frowned thoughtfully.

‘The new Lord Edgware seems to be fond of his joke,’ remarked Japp. ‘He seems to think it amusing to be suspected of murder. He made sure we did suspect him of murder, too. Looks a bit queer, that.’

‘It might be merely intelligence.’

‘More likely guilty conscience. His uncle’s death came very pat for him. He’s moved into the house, by the way.’

‘Where was he living before?’

‘Martin Street, St George’s Road. Not a very swell neighbourhood.’

‘You might make a note of that, Hastings.’

I did so, though I wondered a little. If Ronald had moved to Regent Gate, his former address was hardly likely to be needed.

‘I think the Adams girl did it,’ said Japp, rising. ‘A fine bit of work on your part, M. Poirot, to tumble to that. But there, of course, you go about to theatres and amusing yourself. Things strike you that don’t get the chance of striking me. Pity there’s no apparent motive, but a little spade work will soon bring it to light, I expect.’

‘There is one person with a motive to whom you have given no attention,’ remarked Poirot.

‘Who’s that, sir?’

‘The gentleman who is reputed to have wanted to marry Lord Edgware’s wife. I mean the Duke of Merton.’ 

‘Yes. I suppose there is a motive.’ Japp laughed. ‘But a gentleman in his position isn’t likely to do murder. And anyway, he’s over in Paris.’

‘You do not regard him as a serious suspect, then?’

‘Well, M. Poirot, do you?’

And laughing at the absurdity of the idea, Japp left us.

Chapter 17. The Butler

The following day was one of inactivity for us, and activity for Japp. He came round to see us about teatime.

He was red and wrathful.

‘I’ve made a bloomer.’

‘Impossible, my friend,’ said Poirot soothingly.

‘Yes, I have. I’ve let that (here he gave way to profanity)-of a butler slip through my fingers.’

‘He has disappeared?’

‘Yes. Hooked it. What makes me kick myself for a double-dyed idiot is that I didn’t particularly suspect him.’

‘Calm yourself – but calm yourself then.’

‘All very well to talk. You wouldn’t be calm if you’d been hauled over the coals at headquarters. Oh! he’s a slippery customer. It isn’t the first time he’s given anyone the slip. He’s an old hand.’ 

Japp wiped his forehead and looked the picture of misery. Poirot made sympathetic noises – somewhat suggestive of a hen laying an egg. With more insight into the English character, I poured out a stiff whisky and soda and placed it in front of the gloomy inspector. He brightened a little.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘I don’t mind if I do.’

Presently he began to talk more cheerfully.

‘I’m not so sure even now that he’s the murderer! Of course it looks bad his bolting this way, but there might be other reasons for that. I’d begun to get on to him, you see. Seems he’s mixed up with a couple of disreputable night clubs. Not the usual thing. Something a great deal more recherche and nasty. In fact, he’s a real bad hat.’

‘Tout de meme, that does not necessarily mean that he is a murderer.’

‘Exactly! He may have been up to some funny business or other, but not necessarily murder. No, I’m more than ever convinced it was the Adams girl. I’ve got nothing to prove it as yet, though. I’ve had men going all through her flat today, but we’ve found nothing that’s helpful. She was a canny one. Kept no letters except a few business ones about financial contracts. They’re all neatly docketed and labelled. Couple of letters from her sister in Washington. Quite straight and above-board. One or two pieces of good old-fashioned jewellery – nothing new or expensive. She didn’t keep a diary. Her pass-book and cheque-book don’t show anything helpful. Dash it all, the girl doesn’t seem to have had any private life at all!’

‘She was of a reserved character,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘From our point of view that is a pity.’

‘I’ve talked to the woman who did for her. Nothing there. I’ve been and seen that girl who keeps a hat shop and who, it seems, was a friend of hers.’

‘Ah! and what do you think of Miss Driver?’

‘She seemed a smart wide-awake bit of goods. She couldn’t help me, though. Not that that surprises me. The amount of missing girls I’ve had to trace and their family and their friends always say the same things. “She was of a bright and affectionate disposition and had no men friends.” That’s never true. It’s unnatural. Girls ought to have men friends. If not there’s something wrong with them. It’s the muddle-headed loyalty of friends and relations that makes a detective’s life so difficult.’