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“Er—yes. I seem to be making a kind of habit of it.”
“But there is a difference,” Hercule Poirot pointed out. “Yesterday, the man you caught and held was not the man who fired the shot in question. You made a mistake.”
Frank Carter said sullenly:
“He’s made a mistake now.”
“Quiet, you,” said Raikes.
Hercule Poirot murmured to himself:
“I wonder….”
IV
Dressing for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, Hercule Poirot frowned at his reflection in the mirror.
He was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. For the case, as he owned to himself, was so very clear. Frank Carter had indeed been caught red-handed.
It was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking for, Frank Carter. Carter, he thought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a “wrong ’un.” He was an unpleasant young bully of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst, however plain the evidence.
And Carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. This tale of having been approached by agents of the “Secret Service”—and offered a plummy job. To take the post of gardener and report on the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. It was a story that was disproved easily enough—there was no foundation for it.
A particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, Poirot reflected, that a man like Carter would invent.
And on Carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. He could offer no explanation, except that somebody else must have shot off the revolver. He kept repeating that. It was a frame-up.
No, there was nothing to be said for Carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidence that Howard Raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet had just missed Alistair Blunt.
But presumably there wasn’t anything in that. Raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in Downing Street. And his presence down here was fully accounted for—he had come down to be near his girl. No, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story.
It had turned out, of course, very fortunately for Howard Raikes. When a man has just saved you from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. The least you can do is to show friendliness and extend hospitality. Mrs. Olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there was nothing to be done about it.
Jane’s undesirable young man had got his foot in and he meant to keep it there!
Poirot watched him speculatively during the evening.
He was playing his part with a good deal of astuteness. He did not air any subversive views, he kept off politics. He told amusing stories of his hitchhikes and tramps in wild places.
“He is no longer the wolf,” thought Poirot. “No, he has put on the sheep’s clothing. But underneath? I wonder….”
As Poirot was preparing for bed that night, there was a rap on the door. Poirot called, “Come in,” and Howard Raikes entered.
He laughed at Poirot’s expression.
“Surprised to see me? I’ve had my eye on you all evening. I didn’t like the way you were looking. Kind of thoughtful.”
“Why should that worry you, my friend?”
“I don’t know why, but it did. I thought maybe that you were finding certain things just a bit hard to swallow.”
“Eh bien? And if so?”
“Well, I decided that I’d best come clean. About yesterday, I mean. That was a fake show all right! You see, I was watching his lordship come out of 10, Downing Street and I saw Ram Lal fire at him. I know Ram Lal. He’s a nice kid. A bit excitable but he feels the wrongs of India very keenly. Well, there was no harm done, that precious pair of stuffed shirts weren’t harmed—the bullet had missed ’em both by miles—so I decided to put up a show and hope the Indian kid would get clear. I grabbed hold of a shabby little guy just by me and called out that I’d got the villain and hoped Ram Lal was beating it all right. But the dicks were too smart. They were on to him in a flash. That’s just how it was. See?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“And today?”
