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Howard Raikes said:
“Oh, no? Just shooting at the birds, I suppose!”
He stopped—looking at the newcomers.
“Mr. Alistair Blunt? This guy here has just taken a potshot at you. I caught him right in the act.”
Frank Carter cried out:
“It’s a lie! I was clipping the hedge. I heard a shot and the gun fell right here at my feet. I picked it up—that’s only natural, that is, and then this bloke jumped on me.”
Howard Raikes said grimly:
“The gun was in your hand and it had just been fired!”
With a final gesture, he tossed the pistol to Poirot.
“Let’s see what the dick’s got to say about it! Lucky I got hold of you in time. I guess there are several more shots in that automatic of yours.”
Poirot murmured:
“Precisely.”
Blunt was frowning angrily. He said sharply:
“Now then Dunnon—Dunbury—what’s your name?”
Hercule Poirot interrupted. He said:
“This man’s name is Frank Carter.”
Carter turned on him furiously.
“You’ve had it in for me all along! You came spying on me that Sunday. I tell you, it’s not true. I never shot at him.”
Hercule Poirot said gently:
“Then, in that case, who did?”
He added:
“There is no one else here but ourselves, you see.”
III
Jane Olivera came running along the path. Her hair streamlined back behind her. Her eyes were wide with fear. She gasped: “Howard?”
Howard Raikes said lightly:
“Hallo, Jane. I’ve just been saving your uncle’s life.”
“Oh!” She stopped. “You have?”
“Your arrival certainly seems to have been very opportune, Mr.—er—” Blunt hesitated.
“This is Howard Raikes, Uncle Alistair. He’s a friend of mine.”
Blunt looked at Raikes—he smiled.
