‘There was no evidence at all of a mysterious Man-in-the-Background,’ said Japp, pursuing his advantage doggedly. ‘I haven’t got evidence yet of a connection between her and his lordship, but I shall do – it’s only a question of time. I must say I’m disappointed about Paris, but nine months ago is a long time. I’ve still got someone making inquiries over there. Something may come to light yet. I know you don’t think so. You’re a pig-headed old boy, you know.’

‘You insult first my nose and then my head!’ 

‘Figure of speech, that’s all,’ said Japp soothingly. ‘No offence meant.’

‘The answer to that,’ I said, ‘is “nor taken.”’

Poirot looked from one to the other of us completely puzzled.

‘Any orders?’ inquired Japp facetiously from the door. Poirot smiled forgivingly at him.

‘An order, no. A suggestion – yes.’

‘Well, what is it? Out with it.’

‘A suggestion that you circularize the taxi-cabs. Find one that took a fare – or more probably two fares – yes, two fares – from the neighbourhood of Covent Garden to Regent Gate on the night of the murder. As to time it would probably be about twenty minutes to eleven.’

Japp cocked an eye alertly. He had the look of a smart terrier dog.

‘So, that’s the idea, is it?’ he said. ‘Well, I’ll do it. Can’t do any harm – and you sometimes know what you’re talking about.’

No sooner had he left than Poirot arose and with great energy began to brush his hat.

‘Ask me no questions, my friend. Instead bring me the benzine. A morsel of omelette this morning descended on my waistcoat.’

I brought it to him.

‘For once,’ I said. ‘I do not think I need to ask questions. It seems fairly obvious. But do you think it really is so?’

‘Mon ami, at the moment I concern myself solely with the toilet. If you will pardon me saying so, your tie does not please me.’

‘It’s a jolly good tie,’ I said.

‘Possibly – once. It feels the old age as you have been kind enough to say I do. Change it, I beseech you, and also brush the right sleeve.’

‘Are we proposing to call on King George?’ I inquired sarcastically.

‘No. But I saw in the newspaper this morning that the Duke of Merton had returned to Merton House. I understand he is a premier member of the English aristocracy. I wish to do him all honour.’

There is nothing of the Socialist about Poirot.

‘Why are we going to call on the Duke of Merton?’

‘I wish to see him.’

That was all I could get out of him. When my attire was at last handsome enough to please Poirot’s critical eye, we started out.

At Merton House, Poirot was asked by a footman if he had an appointment. Poirot replied in the negative. The footman bore away the card and returned shortly to say that His Grace was very sorry but he was extremely busy this morning. Poirot immediately sat down in a chair. 

‘Tres bien,’ he said. ‘I wait. I will wait several hours if need be.’

This, however, was not necessary. Probably as the shortest way of getting rid of the importunate caller, Poirot was bidden to the presence of the gentleman he desired to see.

The Duke was about twenty-seven years of age. He was hardly prepossessing in appearance, being thin and weakly. He had nondescript thin hair going bald at the temples, a small bitter mouth and vague dreamy eyes. There were several crucifixes in the room and various religious works of art. A wide shelf of books seemed to contain nothing but theological works. He looked far more like a weedy young haberdasher than like a duke. He had, I knew, been educated at home, having been a terribly delicate child. This was the man who had fallen an immediate prey to Jane Wilkinson! It was really ludicrous in the extreme. His manner was priggish and his reception of us just short of courteous.

‘You may, perhaps, know my name,’ began Poirot.

‘I have no acquaintance with it.’

‘I study the psychology of crime.’

The Duke was silent. He was sitting at a writing-table, an unfinished letter before him. He tapped impatiently on the desk with his pen.

‘For what reason do you wish to see me?’ he inquired coldly. 

Poirot was sitting opposite him. His back was to the window. The Duke was facing it.

‘I am at present engaged on investigating the circumstances connected with Lord Edgware’s death.’

Not a muscle of the weak but obstinate face moved.

‘Indeed? I was not acquainted with him.’

‘But you are, I think, acquainted with his wife – with Miss Jane Wilkinson?’

‘That is so.’

‘You are aware that she is supposed to have had a strong motive for desiring the death of her husband?’

‘I am really not aware of anything of the kind.’

‘I should like to ask you outright, Your Grace. Are you shortly going to marry Miss Jane Wilkinson?’

‘When I am engaged to marry anyone the fact will be announced in the newspapers. I consider your question an impertinence.’ He stood up. ‘Good morning.’

Poirot stood up also. He looked awkward. He hung his head. He stammered.

‘I did not mean… I… Je vous demande pardon…’

‘Good morning,’ repeated the Duke, a little louder.

This time Poirot gave it up. He made a characteristic gesture of hopelessness, and we left. It was an ignominious dismissal.

I felt rather sorry for Poirot. His usual bombast had not gone well. To the Duke of Merton a great detective was evidently lower than a black beetle. 

‘That didn’t go too well,’ I said sympathetically. ‘What a stiff-necked tartar that man is. What did you really want to see him for?’

‘I wanted to know whether he and Jane Wilkinson are really going to marry.’

‘She said so.’

‘Ah! she said so. But, you realize, she is one of those who say anything that suits their purpose. She might have decided to marry him and he – poor man – might not yet be aware of the fact.’

‘Well, he certainly sent you away with a flea in the ear.’

‘He gave me the reply he would give to a reporter – yes.’ Poirot chuckled. ‘But I know! I know exactly how the case stands.’

‘How do you know? By his manner?’

‘Not at all. You saw he was writing a letter?’

‘Yes.’

‘Eh bien, in my early days in the police force in Belgium I learned that it was very useful to read handwriting upside down. Shall I tell you what he was saying in that letter? “My dearest Jane, my adored, my beautiful angel, how can I tell you what you are to me? You who have suffered so much! Your beautiful nature–”’

‘Poirot!’ I cried, scandalized, stopping him.

‘That was as far as he had got. “Your beautiful nature – only I know it.”’ 

I felt very upset. He was so naively pleased with his performance.

‘Poirot,’ I cried. ‘You can’t do a thing like that. Overlook a private letter.’

‘You say the imbecilities, Hastings. Absurd to say I “cannot do” a thing which I have just done!’

‘It’s not – not playing the game.’

‘I do not play games. You know that. Murder is not a game. It is serious. And anyway, Hastings, you should not use that phrase – playing the game. It is not said any more. I have discovered that. It is dead. Young people laugh when they hear it. Mais oui, young beautiful girls will laugh at you if you say “playing the game” and “not cricket”.’

I was silent. I could not bear this thing that Poirot had done so light-heartedly.

‘It was so unnecessary,’ I said. ‘If you had only told him that you had gone to Lord Edgware at Jane Wilkinson’s request, then he would have treated you very differently.’

‘Ah! but I couldn’t do that. Jane Wilkinson was my client. I cannot speak of my client’s affairs to another. I undertake a mission in confidence. To speak of it would not be honourable.’

‘Honourable!’

‘Precisely.’

‘But she’s going to marry him?’ 

‘That does not mean that she has no secrets from him. Your ideas about marriage are very old-fashioned. No, what you suggest, I couldn’t possibly have done. I have my honour as a detective to think of. The honour, it is a very serious thing.’