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A little flush rose to her cheeks.

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘What is it, Madame, that you want me to do?’

‘Oh,’ she seemed surprised. ‘I thought – you knew who I was?’

‘I know who you are. Your husband was killed – stabbed, and a Major Rich has been arrested and charged with his murder.’

The flush heightened.

‘Major Rich did not kill my husband.’

Quick as a flash Poirot said:

‘Why not?’

She stared, puzzled. ‘I – I beg your pardon?’

‘I have confused you – because I have not asked the question that everybody asks – the police – the lawyers . . . “Why should Major Rich kill Arnold Clayton?” But I ask the opposite. I ask you, Madame, why you are sure that Major Rich did not kill him?’

‘Because,’ she paused a moment – ‘because I know Major Rich so well.’

‘You know Major Rich so well,’ repeated Poirot tonelessly.

He paused and then said sharply:

‘How well?’

Whether she understood his meaning, he could not guess. He thought to himself: Here is either a woman of great simplicity or of great subtlety . . . Many people, he thought, must have wondered that about Margharita Clayton . . .

‘How well?’ She was looking at him doubtfully. ‘Five years – no, nearly six.’

‘That was not precisely what I meant . . . You must understand, Madame, that I shall have to ask you the impertinent questions. Perhaps you will speak the truth, perhaps you will lie. It is very necessary for a woman to lie sometimes. Women must defend themselves, and the lie, it can be a good weapon. But there are three people, Madame, to whom a woman should speak the truth. To her Father confessor, to her hairdresser, and to her private detective – if she trusts him. Do you trust me, Madame?’

Margharita Clayton drew a deep breath.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’ And added: ‘I must.’

‘Very well, then. What is it you want me to do – find out who killed your husband?’

‘I suppose so – yes.’

‘But it is not essential? You want me, then, to clear Major Rich from suspicion?’

She nodded quickly – gratefully.

‘That – and that only?’

It was, he saw, an unnecessary question. Margharita Clayton was a woman who saw only one thing at a time.

‘And now,’ he said, ‘for the impertinence. You and Major Rich, you are lovers, yes?’

‘Do you mean, were we having an affair together? No.’

‘But he was in love with you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you – were in love with him?’

‘I think so.’

‘You do not seem quite sure?’

‘I am sure – now.’

‘Ah! You did not, then, love your husband?’

‘No.’

‘You reply with an admirable simplicity. Most women would wish to explain at great length just exactly what their feelings were. How long had you been married?’

‘Eleven years.’

‘Can you tell me a little about your husband – what kind of a man he was?’

She frowned.

‘It’s difficult. I don’t really know what kind of a man Arnold was. He was very quiet – very reserved. One didn’t know what he was thinking. He was clever, of course – everyone said he was brilliant – in his work, I mean . . . He didn’t – how can I put it – he never explained himself at all . . .’

‘Was he in love with you?’

‘Oh, yes. He must have been. Or he wouldn’t have minded so much –’ She came to a sudden stop.

‘About other men? That is what you were going to say? He was jealous?’

Again she said:

‘He must have been.’ And then, as though feeling that the phrase needed explanation, she went on. ‘Sometimes, for days, he wouldn’t speak . . .’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully. ‘This violence – that has come into your life. Is it the first that you have known?’

‘Violence?’ She frowned, then flushed. ‘Is it – do you mean – that poor boy who shot himself ?’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘I expect that is what I mean.’

‘I’d no idea he felt like that . . . I was sorry for him – he seemed so shy – so lonely. He must have been very neurotic, I think. And there were two Italians – a duel – It was ridiculous! Anyway, nobody was killed, thank goodness . . . And honestly, I didn’t care about either of them! I never even pretended to care.’

‘No. You were just – there! And where you are – things happen! I have seen that before in my life. It is