ABC Murders - Agatha Christie [68]
Milly Higley giggled a good deal and told him not to go on so. She knew what French gentlemen were like.
Poirot did not trouble to contradict her mistake as to his nationality. He merely ogled her in such a way that I was startled and almost shocked.
“Voilà,” said Poirot, “I have finished in Bexhill. Presently I go to Eastbourne. One little inquiry there—that is all. Unnecessary for you all to accompany me. In the meantime come back to the hotel and let us have a cocktail. That Carlton tea, it was abominable!”
As we were sipping our cocktails Franklin Clarke said curiously:
“I suppose we can guess what you are after? You’re out to break that alibi. But I can’t see what you’re so pleased about. You haven’t got a new fact of any kind.”
“No—that is true.”
“Well, then?”
“Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time.”
“You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway.”
“Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea—that is why.”
His face grew serious.
“My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young man, played a game called The Truth. It was a game where everyone in turn was asked three questions—two of which must be answered truthfully. The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the most indiscreet kind. But to begin with everyone had to swear that they would indeed speak the truth, and nothing but the truth.”
He paused.
“Well?” said Megan.
“Eh bien—me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of you.”
“Of course,” said Clarke impatiently. “We’ll answer anything.”
“Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to speak the truth?”
He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn themselves. They all swore as he demanded.
“Bon,” said Poirot briskly. “Let us begin—”
“I’m ready,” said Thora Grey.
“Ah, but ladies first—this time it would not be the politeness. We will start elsewhere.”
He turned to Franklin Clarke.
“What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies wore at Ascot this year?”
Franklin Clarke stared at him.
“Is this a joke?”
“Certainly not.”
“Is that seriously your question?”
“It is.”
Clarke began to grin.
“Well, M. Poirot, I didn’t actually go to Ascot, but from what I could see of them driving in cars, women’s hats for Ascot were an even bigger joke than the hats they wear ordinarily.”
“Fantastic?”
“Quite fantastic.”
Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser.
“When did you take your holiday this year, monsieur?”
It was Fraser’s turn to stare.
“My holiday? The first two weeks in August.”
His face quivered suddenly. I guessed that the question had brought the loss of the girl he loved back to him.
Poirot, however, did not seem to pay much attention to the reply. He turned to Thora Grey and I heard the slight difference in his voice. It had tightened up. His question came sharp and clear.
“Mademoiselle, in the event of Lady Clarke’s death, would you have married Sir Carmichael if he had asked you?”
The girl sprang up.
“How dare you ask me such a question. It’s—it’s insulting!”
“Perhaps. But you have sworn to speak the truth. Eh bien—Yes or no?”
“Sir Carmichael was wonderfully kind to me. He treated me almost like a daughter. And that’s how I felt to him—just affectionate and grateful.”
“Pardon me, but that is not answering Yes or No, mademoiselle.”
She hesitated.
“The answer, of course, is no!”
He made no comment.
“Thank you, mademoiselle.”
He turned to Megan Barnard. The girl’s face was very pale. She was breathing hard as though braced up for an ordeal.
Poirot’s voice came out like the crack of a whiplash.
“Mademoiselle, what do you hope will be the result of my investigations? Do you want me to find out the truth—or not?”
Her head went back proudly. I was fairly sure of her answer. Megan, I knew, had a fanatical passion for truth.
Her answer came clearly—and it stupefied me.
“No!”
We all jumped. Poirot leant forward studying her face.
“Mademoiselle Megan,” he said,