Death in the Clouds - Agatha Christie [55]
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember the part of Harry, played by Mr Raymond Barraclough?’
‘Yes. He was very good.’
‘You thought him attractive? Yes?’
‘Frightfully attractive.’
‘Ah, il a le sex appeal?’
‘Decidedly,’ said Jane, laughing.
‘Just that—or is he a good actor as well?’
‘Oh, I think he acts well too.’
‘I must go and see him,’ said Poirot.
Jane stared at him, puzzled.
What an odd little man he was—hopping from subject to subject like a bird from one branch to another!
Perhaps he read her thoughts. He smiled:
‘You do not approve of me, Mademoiselle? Of my methods?’
‘You jump about a good deal.’
‘Not really. I pursue my course logically with order and method. One must not jump wildly to a conclusion. One must eliminate.’
‘Eliminate?’ said Jane. ‘Is that what you’re doing?’ She thought a moment. ‘I see. You’ve eliminated Mr Clancy—’
‘Perhaps,’ said Poirot.
‘And you’ve eliminated us; and now you’re going, perhaps, to eliminate Lady Horbury. Oh!’
She stopped as a sudden thought struck her.
‘What is it, Mademoiselle?’
‘That talk of attempted murder? Was that a test?’
‘You are very quick, Mademoiselle. Yes, that was part of the course I pursue. I mention attempted murder and I watch Mr Clancy, I watch you, I watch Mr Gale—and in neither of you three is there any sign—not so much as the flicker of an eyelash. And let me tell you that I could not be deceived on that point. A murderer can be ready to meet any attack that he foresees. But that entry in a little notebook could not have been known to any of you. So, you see, I am satisfied.’
‘What a horrible, tricky sort of person you are, M. Poirot,’ said Jane, rising. ‘I shall never know why you are saying things.’
‘That is quite simple. I want to find out things.’
‘I suppose you’ve got very clever ways of finding out things?’
‘There is only one really simple way.’
‘What is that?’
‘To let people tell you.’
Jane laughed.
‘Suppose they don’t want to?’
‘Everyone likes talking about themselves.’
‘I suppose they do,’ admitted Jane.
‘That is how many a quack makes a fortune. He encourages patients to come and sit and tell him things. How they fell out of the perambulator when they were two, and how their mother ate a pear and the juice fell on her orange dress, and how when they were one and a half they pulled their father’s beard; and then he tells them that now they will not suffer from the insomnia any longer, and he takes two guineas; and they go away, having enjoyed themselves—oh, so much—and perhaps they do sleep.’
‘How ridiculous,’ said Jane.
‘No, it is not so ridiculous as you think. It is based on a fundamental need of human nature—the need to talk—to reveal oneself. You yourself, Mademoiselle, do you not like to dwell on your childhood memories—on your mother and your father?’
‘That doesn’t apply in my case. I was brought up in an orphanage.’
‘Ah, that is different. It is not gay, that.’
‘I don’t mean that we were the kind of charity orphans who go out in scarlet bonnets and cloaks. It was quite fun really.’
‘It was in England?’
‘No, in Ireland—near Dublin.’
‘So you are Irish. That is why you have the dark hair and the blue-grey eyes, with the look—’
‘As though they had been put in with a smutty finger—’ Norman finished with amusement.
‘Comment? What is that you say?’
‘That is a saying about Irish eyes—that they have been put in with a smutty finger.’
‘Really? It is not elegant, that. And yet—it expresses it well.’ He bowed to Jane. ‘The effect is very good, Mademoiselle.’
Jane laughed as she got up.
‘You’ll turn my head, M. Poirot. Good night, and thank you for supper. You’ll have to stand me another if Norman is sent to prison for blackmail.’
A frown came over Norman’s face at the reminder.
Poirot bade the two young people good night.
When he got home he unlocked a drawer and took out a list of eleven names.
Against four of these names he put a light tick. Then he nodded his head thoughtfully.
‘I think I know,’ he murmured to himself. ‘But I have got to be sure. Il faut continuer.’
Chapter 17
In Wandsworth