‘I don’t see the point of the gold box.’

‘Listen, Hastings, Carlotta Adams was not addicted to veronal. Lucie Adams says so, and I, too, believe it to be true. She was a clear-eyed healthy girl with no predilection for such things. None of her friends nor her maid recognized the box. Why, then, was it found in her possession after she died? To create the impression that she did take veronal and that she had taken it for a considerable time – that is to say at least six months. Let us say that she met the murderer after the murder if only for a few minutes. They had a drink together, Hastings, to celebrate the success of their plan. And in the girl’s drink he put sufficient veronal to ensure that there should be no waking for her on the following morning.’ 

‘Horrible,’ I said with a shudder.

‘Yes, it was not pretty,’ said Poirot dryly.

‘Are you going to tell Japp all this?’ I asked after a minute or two.

‘Not at the moment. What have I got to tell? He would say, the excellent Japp, “another nest of the mare! The girl wrote on an odd sheet of paper!” C’est tout.’

I looked guiltily at the ground.

‘What can I say to that? Nothing. It is a thing that might have happened. I only know it did not happen because it is necessary that it should not have happened.’

He paused. A dreamy expression stole across his face.

‘Figure to yourself, Hastings, if only that man had had the order and the method, he would have cut that sheet not torn it. And we should have noticed nothing. But nothing!’

‘So we deduce that he is a man of careless habits,’ I said, smiling.

‘No, no. He might have been in a hurry. You observe it is very carelessly torn. Oh! assuredly he was pressed for time.’

He paused and then said:

‘One thing you do remark, I hope. This man – this D – he must have had a very good alibi for that evening.’ 

‘I can’t see how he could have had any alibi at all if he spent his time first at Regent Gate doing a murder and then with Carlotta Adams.’

‘Precisely,’ said Poirot. ‘That is what I mean. He is badly in need of an alibi, so no doubt he prepared one. Another point: Does his name really begin with D? Or does D stand for some nickname by which he was known to her?’

He paused and then said softly:

‘A man whose initial or whose nickname is D. We have got to find him, Hastings. Yes, we have got to find him.’

Chapter 24. News from Paris

On the following day we had an unexpected visit.

Geraldine Marsh was announced.

I felt sorry for her as Poirot greeted her and set a chair for her. Her large dark eyes seemed wider and darker than ever. There were black circles round them as though she had not slept. Her face looked extraordinarily haggard and weary for one so young – little more, really, than a child.

‘I have come to see you, M. Poirot, because I don’t know how to go on any longer. I am so terribly worried and upset.’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle?’

His manner was gravely sympathetic.

‘Ronald told me what you said to him that day. I mean that dreadful day when he was arrested.’ She shivered. ‘He told me that you came up to him suddenly, just when he had said that he supposed no one would believe him, and that you said to him: “I believe you.” Is that true, M. Poirot?’

‘It is true, Mademoiselle, that is what I said.’

‘I know, but I meant not was it true you said it, but were the words really true. I mean, did you believe his story?’

Terribly anxious she looked, leaning forward there, her hands clasped together.

‘The words were true, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘I do not believe your cousin killed Lord Edgware.’

‘Oh!’ The colour came into her face, her eyes opened big and wide. ‘Then you must think – that someone else did it!’

‘Evidemment, Mademoiselle.’ He smiled.

‘I’m stupid. I say things badly. What I mean is – you think you know who that somebody is?’

She leaned forward eagerly.

‘I have my little ideas, naturally – my suspicions, shall we say?’

‘Won’t you tell me? Please – please.’

Poirot shook his head.

‘It would be – perhaps – unfair.’

‘Then you have got a definite suspicion of somebody?’

Poirot merely shook his head non-committally.

‘If only I knew a little more,’ pleaded the girl. ‘It would make it so much easier for me. And I might perhaps be able to help you. Yes, really I might be able to help you.’

Her pleading was very disarming, but Poirot continued to shake his head.

‘The Duchess of Merton is still convinced it was my stepmother,’ said the girl thoughtfully. She gave a slight questioning glance at Poirot.

He showed no reaction.

‘But I hardly see how that can be.’

‘What is your opinion of her? Of your stepmother?’

‘Well – I hardly know her. I was at school in Paris when my father married her. When I came home, she was quite kind. I mean, she just didn’t notice I was there. I thought her very empty-headed and – well, mercenary.’

Poirot nodded.

‘You spoke of the Duchess of Merton. You have seen much of her?’

‘Yes. She has been very kind to me. I have been with her a great deal during the last fortnight. It has been terrible – with all the talk, and the reporters, and Ronald in prison and everything.’ She shivered. ‘I feel I have no real friends. But the Duchess has been wonderful, and he has been nice too – her son, I mean.’

‘You like him?’

‘He is shy, I think. Stiff and rather difficult to get on with. But his mother talks a lot about him, so that I feel I know him better than I really do.’

‘I see. Tell me, Mademoiselle, you are fond of your cousin?’

‘Of Ronald? Of course. He – I haven’t seen much of him the last two years – but before that he used to live in the house. I – I always thought he was wonderful. Always joking and thinking up mad things to do. Oh! in that gloomy house of ours it made all the difference.’

Poirot nodded sympathetically, but he went on to make a remark that shocked me in its crudity.

‘You do not want to see him – hanged, then?’

‘No, no.’ The girl shivered violently. ‘Not that. Oh! if only it were her – my stepmother. It must be her. The Duchess says it must.’

‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘If only Captain Marsh had stayed in the taxi – eh?’

‘Yes – at least, what do you mean?’ Her brow wrinkled. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘If he had not followed that man into the house. Did you hear anyone come in, by the way?’

‘No, I didn’t hear anything.’

‘What did you do when you came into the house?’

‘I ran straight upstairs – to fetch the pearls, you know.’

‘Of course. It took you some time to fetch them.’ 

‘Yes. I couldn’t find the key to my jewel-case all at once.’

‘So often is that the case. The more in haste, the less the speed. It was some time before you came down, and then – you found your cousin in the hall?’

‘Yes, coming from the library.’ She swallowed.

‘I comprehend. It gave you quite a turn.’

‘Yes, it did.’ She looked grateful for his sympathetic tone. ‘It startled me, you see.’

‘Quite, quite.’

‘Ronnie just said: “Hello, Dina, got them?” from behind me – and it made me jump.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot gently. ‘As I said before it is a pity he did not stay outside. Then the taxi-driver would have been able to swear he never entered the house.’

She nodded. Her tears began to fall, splashing unheeded on her lap. She got up. Poirot took her hand.

‘You want me to save him for you – is that it?’

‘Yes, yes – oh! please, yes. You don’t know…’

She stood there striving to control herself, clenching her hands.

‘Life has not been easy for you, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot gently. ‘I appreciate that. No, it has not been easy. Hastings, will you get Mademoiselle a taxi?’