"Indeed? Why did you have to do anything of the kind?" "I don't know… At least - I suppose I do-really. He was in great trouble.

He sent for me - and I came… But I wanted to be free of him. I wanted to get away from him. I didn't really love him." She laid the knife carefully on the table and sat down on a chair.

"It isn't safe, is it?" she said. "To hate anyone… It isn't safe because you never know what you might do.

Like Louise…" Then she said quietly: "Hadn't you better ring up the police?" Obediently, Miss Jacobs dialled 999.

II There were six people now in the room with the Harlequin on the wall. A long time had passed. The police had come and gone.

Andrew Restarick sat like a man stunned. Once or twice he said the same words. "I can't believe it…" Telephoned for, he had come from his office, and Claudia Reece-Holland had come with him. In her quiet way, she had been ceaselessly efficient. She had put through telephone calls to lawyers, had rung Crosshedges and two firms of estate agents to try and get in touch with Mary Restarick.

She had given Frances Cary a sedative and sent her to lie down.

Hercule Poirot and Mrs. Oliver sat side by side on a sofa. They had arrived together at the same time as the police.

Last of all to arrive, when nearly everyone else had gone, had been a quiet man with grey hair and a gentle manner, Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard who had greeted Poirot with a slight nod, and been introduced to Andrew Restarick. A tall red-haired young man was standing by the window staring down into the courtyard.

What were they all waiting for? Mrs.

Oliver wondered. The body had been removed, the photographers and other police officers had done their work, they themselves, after being herded into Claudia's bedroom, had been readmitted into the sitting-room, where they had been waiting, she supposed, for the Scotland Yard man to arrive.

"If you want me to go," Mrs. Oliver said to him uncertainly - "Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, aren't you? No, if you have no objection, I'd rather you remained. I know it hasn't been pleasant - " "It didn't seem real." Mrs. Oliver shut her eyes - seeing the whole thing again. The Peacock Boy, so picturesquely dead that he had seemed like a stage figure. And the girl-the girl had been different - not the uncertain Norma from Crosshedges - the unattractive Ophelia, as Poirot had called her-but some quiet figure of tragic dignity - accepting her doom.

Poirot had asked if he might make two telephone calls. One had been to Scotland Yard, and that had been agreed to, after the sergeant had made a preliminary suspicious enquiry on the phone. The sergeant had directed Poirot to the extension in Claudia's bedroom, and he had made his call from there, closing the door behind him.

The sergeant had continued to look doubtful, murmuring to his subordinate. "They say it's all right. Wonder who he is? Odd-looking little bloke." "Foreign, isn't he? Might be Special Branch?" "Don't think so. It was Chief Inspector Neele he wanted." His assistant raised his eyebrows and suppressed a whistle.

After making his calls, Poirot had reopened the door and beckoned Mrs.

Oliver from where she was standing uncertainly inside the kitchen, to join him.

They had sat down side by side on Claudia Reece-Holland's bed.

"I wish we could do something," said Mrs. Oliver - always one for action.

"Patience, chere Madame." "Surely you can do something?" "I have. I have rung up the people it is necessary to ring up. We can do nothing here until the police have finished their preliminary investigations." "Who did you ring up after the inspector man? Her father? Couldn't he come and bail her out or something?" "Bail is not likely to be granted where murder is concerned," said Poirot dryly.

"The police have already notified her father. They got his number from Miss Cary." "Where is she?" "Having hysterics in the flat of a Miss Jacobs next door, I understand. She was the one who discovered the body. It seems to have upset her. She rushed out of here screaming." "She's the arty one, isn't she? Claudia would have kept her head." "I agree with you. A very-poised young woman." "Who did you ring up, then?" "First, as perhaps you heard. Chief Inspector Neele of Scotland Yard." "Will this lot like his coming and meddling?" "He is not coming to meddle. He has of late been making certain enquiries for me, which may throw light on this matter." "Oh - I see… Who else did you ring up?" "Dr. John Stillingfleet." "Who's he? To say that poor Norma is potty and can't help killing people?" "His qualifications would entitle him to give evidence to that effect in court if necessary." "Does he know anything about her?" "A good deal, I should say. She has been in his care since the day you found her in the Shamrock cafe." "Who sent her there?" Poirot smiled. "I did. I made certain arrangements by telephone before I came to join you at the cafe." "What? All the time I was so disappointed in you and kept urging you to do something - you had done something?

And you never told me! Really, M. Poirot!

Nor a word! How could you be so-so mean." "Do not enrage yourself, Madame, I beg.

What I did, I did for the best." "People always say that when they have done something particularly maddening.

What else did you do?" "I arranged that my services should be retained by her father, so that I could make the necessary arrangements for her safety." "Meaning this Doctor Stillingwater?" "Stilling^?. Yes." "How on earth did you manage that?

I shouldn't have thought for a moment that you would be the kind of person that her father would choose to make all these arrangements. He looks the kind of man who would be very suspicious of foreigners." "I forced myself upon him - as a conjurer forces a card. I called upon him, purporting to have received a letter from him asking me to do so." "And did he believe you?" "Naturally. I showed the letter to him.

It was typed on his office stationery and signed with his name-though as he pointed out to me, the handwriting was not his." "Do you mean you had actually written that letter yourself." "Yes. I judged correctly that it would awaken his curiosity, and that he would want to see me. Having got so far, I trusted to my own talents." "You told him what you were going to do about this Dr. Stillingfleet?" "No. I told no one. There was danger, you see." "Danger to Norma?" "To Norma, or Norma was dangerous to someone else. From the very beginning there have always been the two possibilities.

The facts could be interpreted in either way. The attempted poisoning of Mrs. Restarick was not convincing-it was delayed too long, it was not a serious attempt to kill. Then there was an indeterminate story of a revolver shot fired here in Borodene Mansions - and another tale of flick-knives and bloodstains. Every time these things happen, Norma knows nothing about them, cannot remember, etcetera. She finds arsenic in a drawer - but does not remember putting it there.

Claims to have had lapses of memory, to have lost long periods of time when she does not remember what she has been doing. So one has to ask oneself- is what she says true, or did she, for some reason of her own, invent it? Is she a potential victim of some monstrous and perhaps crazy plot - or is it she herself who is the moving spirit? Is she painting a picture of herself as a girl suffering from mental instability, or has she murder in mind, with a defence of diminished responsibility." "She was different today," said Mrs.

Oliver slowly. "Did you notice? Quite different. Not - not scatty any longer." Poirot nodded.

"Not Ophelia - Iphigeneia." A sound of added commotion outside in the flat diverted the attention of both of them.

"Do you think - " Mrs. Oliver stopped.

Poirot had gone to the window and was looking down to the courtyard far below.