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Poirot was immediately indignant.
“It is not I who am sentimental! That is an English failing! It is in England that they weep over young sweethearts and dying mothers and devoted children. Me, I am logical. If Frank Carter is a killer, then I am certainly not sentimental enough to wish to unite him in marriage to a nice but commonplace girl who, if he is hanged, will forget him in a year or two and find someone else!”
“Then why don’t you want to believe he is guilty?”
“I do want to believe he is guilty.”
“I suppose you mean that you’ve got hold of something which more or less conclusively proves him to be innocent? Why hold it up, then? You ought to play fair with us, Poirot.”
“I am playing fair with you. Presently, very shortly, I will give you the name and address of a witness who will be invaluable to you for the prosecution. Her evidence ought to clinch the case against him.”
“But then—Oh! You’ve got me all tangled up. Why are you so anxious to see him.”
“To satisfy myself,” said Hercule Poirot.
And he would say no more.
III
Frank Carter, haggard, white-faced, still feebly inclined to bluster, looked on his unexpected visitor with unconcealed disfavour. He said rudely:
“So it’s you, you ruddy little foreigner? What do you want?”
“I want to see you and talk to you.”
“Well, you see me all right. But I won’t talk. Not without my lawyer. That’s right, isn’t it? You can’t go against that. I’ve got the right to have my solicitor present before I say a word.”
“Certainly you have. You can send for him if you like—but I should prefer that you did not.”
“I daresay. Think you’re going to trap me into making some damaging admissions, eh?”
“We are quite alone, remember.”
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Got your police pals listening in, no doubt.”
“You are wrong. This is a private interview between you and me.”
Frank Carter laughed. He looked cunning and unpleasant. He said:
“Come off it! You don’t take me in with that old gag.”
“Do you remember a girl called Agnes Fletcher?”
“Never heard of her.”
“I think you will remember her, though you may never have taken much notice of her. She was house-parlourmaid at 58, Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Well, what of it?”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“On the morning of the day that Mr. Morley was shot, this girl Agnes happened to look over the banisters from the top floor. She saw you on the stairs—waiting and listening. Presently she saw you go along to Mr. Morley’s room. The time was then twenty-six minutes or thereabouts past twelve.”
Frank Carter trembled violently. Sweat came out on his brow. His eyes, more furtive than ever, went wildly from side to side. He shouted angrily:
“It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie! You’ve paid her—the police have paid her—to say she saw me.”
“At that time,” said Hercule Poirot, “by your own account, you had left the house and were walking in the Marylebone Road.”
