“Ask away,” said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
“I want to be able to count upon your help.”
“I’ll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure,” she replied gruffly. “Hanging’s too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times.”
“We are at one then,” said Poirot, “for I, too, want to hang the criminal.”
“Alfred Inglethorp?”
“Him, or another.”
“No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until he came along. I don’t say she wasn’t surrounded by sharks—she was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp—and within two months—hey presto!”
“Believe me, Miss Howard,” said Poirot very earnestly, “if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!”
“That’s better,” said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
“But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept.”
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice.
“If you mean that I was fond of her—yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them—and, that way she missed love. Don’t think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first. ‘So many pounds a year I’m worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides—not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.’ She didn’t understand—was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn’t that—but I couldn’t explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing.”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
“I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm—that we lack fire and energy—but trust me, it is not so.”
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially:
“Look here, what’s going to happen when these two meet?”
I shook my head helplessly.
“I’ve told Mary to keep them apart if she can.”
“Will she be able to do so?”
“The Lord only knows. There’s one thing, Inglethorp himself won’t be too keen on meeting her.”
“You’ve got the keys still, haven’t you, Poirot?” I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
“My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe,” he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
“Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning.”
“But it’s not locked now.”
“Impossible!”
“See.” And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
“Milles tonnerres!” cried Poirot, dumbfounded. “And I—who have both the keys in my pocket!” He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. “Eh voilà une affaire! This lock has been forced.”
“What?”
Poirot laid down the case again.
“But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?” These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically—almost mechanically.
“Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it.”
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently.
“See here, it was like this,” he said at last. “There was something in that case—some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance.”
“But what was it?”
“Ah!” cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. “That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I—” his anger burst forth freely—“miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed—but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance—we must leave no stone unturned—”
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.
