Dead Man's Folly - Agatha Christie [73]
Bland slid tactfully over the answer to this question which, in any case, he did not know. Poirot himself was always reticent on the subject of his age.
‘The point is, sir, he was there – on the spot. And we’re not getting anywhere any other way. Up against a blank wall, that’s where we are.’
The chief constable blew his nose irritably.
‘I know. I know. Makes me begin to believe in Mrs Masterton’s homicidal pervert. I’d even use bloodhounds, if there were anywhere to use them.’
‘Bloodhounds can’t follow a scent over water.’
‘Yes. I know what you’ve always thought, Bland. And I’m inclined to agree with you. But there’s absolutely no motive, you know. Not an iota of motive.’
‘The motive may be out in the islands.’
‘Meaning that Hattie Stubbs knew something about De Sousa out there? I suppose that’s reasonably possible, given her mentality. She was simple, everyone agrees on that. She might blurt out what she knew to anyone at any time. Is that the way you see it?’
‘Something like that.’
‘If so, he waited a long time before crossing the sea and doing something about it.’
‘Well, sir, it’s possible he didn’t know what exactly had become of her. His own story was that he’d seen a piece in some society periodical about Nasse House, and its beautiful châtelaine. (Which I have always thought myself,’ added Bland parenthetically, ‘to be a silver thing with chains, and bits and pieces hung on it that people’s grandmothers used to clip on their waistbands – and a good idea, too. Wouldn’t be all these silly women for ever leaving their handbags around.) Seems, though, that in women’s jargon châtelaine means mistress of a house. As I say, that’s history and maybe it’s true enough, and he didn’t know where she was or who she’d married until then.’
‘But once he did know, he came across post-haste in a yacht in order to murder her? It’s far-fetched, Bland, very far-fetched.’
‘But it could be, sir.’
‘And what on earth could the woman know?’
‘Remember what she said to her husband. “He kills people.”’
‘Murder remembered? From the time she was fifteen? And presumably only her word for it? Surely he’d be able to laugh that off ?’
‘We don’t know the facts,’ said Bland stubbornly. ‘You know yourself, sir, how once one knows who did a thing, one can look for evidence and find it.’
‘H’m. We’ve made inquiries about De Sousa – discreetly – through the usual channels – and got nowhere.’
‘That’s just why, sir, this funny old Belgian boy might have stumbled on something. He was in the house – that’s the important thing. Lady Stubbs talked to him. Some of the random things she said may have come together in his mind and made sense. However that may be, he’s been down in Nassecombe most of today.’
‘And he rang you up to ask what kind of a yacht Etienne de Sousa had?’
‘When he rang up the first time, yes. The second time was to ask me to arrange this meeting.’
‘Well,’ the chief constable looked at his watch, ‘if he doesn’t come within five minutes…’
But it was at that very moment that Hercule Poirot was shown in.
His appearance was not as immaculate as usual. His moustache was limp, affected by the damp Devon air, his patent-leather shoes were heavily coated with mud, he limped, and his hair was ruffled.
‘Well, so here you are, M. Poirot.’ The chief constable shook hands. ‘We’re all keyed up, on our toes, waiting to hear what you have to tell us.’
The words were faintly ironic, but Hercule Poirot, however damp physically, was in no mood to be damped mentally.
‘I cannot imagine,’ he said, ‘how it was I did not see the truth before.’
The chief constable received this rather coldly.
‘Are we to understand that you do see the truth now?’
‘Yes, there are details – but the outline is clear.’
‘We want more than an outline,’ said the chief constable dryly. ‘We want evidence. Have you got evidence, M. Poirot?’
‘I can tell you where to find the evidence.’
Inspector Bland spoke. ‘Such as?’
Poirot turned to him and asked a question.
‘Etienne de Sousa has, I suppose, left the country?’
‘Two weeks