The Constable licked his pencil.
“I’m not sure that I quite understand,” began Sharpe.
She cut him short.
“You don’t need to understand. I’ve got my reasons.” Hercule Poirot spoke very gently.
“Mrs. Nicoletis?” he asked.
He heard the sharp intake of her breath.
“She was-your mother, was she not?” “Yes,” said Valerie Hobhouse. “She was my mother. . .
“I DO NOT UNDERSTAND,” said Mr. Akibombo plaintively.
He looked anxiously from one red head to the (yourher.
Sally Finch and Len Bateson were conducting a conversation which Mr. A-kibombo found it hard to follow.
“Do you think,” asked Sally, “that Nigel meant me to be suspected, or you?” “Either, I should say,” replied Len. “I believe he actually took the hairs from my brusIL” “I do not understand, please,” said Mr.
Akibombo. “Was it then Mr. Nigel who jumped the balcony?” “Nigel can jump like a *Cat. I couldn’t have jumped across that space. I’m far too heavy.” . “t want to apologise very deeply and humbly for wholly unjustifiable suspicions.” “That’s all right,” said Len.
“Actually, you helped a lot,” said Sally.
“All your thinking-about the boracie.” Mr. Akibombo brightened up.
“One ought to have realised all along,” said Len, “that Nigel was a thoroughly maladjusted type and-was “Oh, for heaven’s sake-you sound just like Colin.
Frankly, Nigel always gave me the creeps-and at last I see why. Do you realise, Len, that if poor Sir Arthur Stanley hadn’t been sentimental and had turned Nigel straight over to the police, three other people would be alive today? It’s a solemn thought.” “Still, one can understand what he felt about it” “Please, Miss Sally.” “Yes, Akibombo?” “If you meet my Professor at University party tonight will you tell him, please, that I have done some good thinking? My Professor he says often that I have a muddled thought process.” “I’ll tell him,” said Sally.
Len Bateson was looking the picture of gloom.
“In a week’s time you’ll be back in America,” he said.
There was a momentary silence.
“I shall come back,” said Sally. “Or you might come and do a course over there.” “What’s the use?” “Akibombo,” said Sally, “would you like, one day, to be Best Man at a wedding?” “What is Best Man, please?” “The bridegroom, Len here for instance, gives you a ring to keep for him, and he and you go to church very smartly dressed and at the right moment he asks you for the ring and you give it to him, and he puts it on my finger, and the organ plays the wedding march and everybody cries. And there we are.” “You mean that you and Mr. Len are to be married?” “That’s the idea.” “Sallyl” “Unless, of course, Len doesn’t care for the idea.” “Sally! But you don’t know comab my father-was “So what? Of course I know. So your father’s nuts.
All right, so are lots of people’s fathers.” “It isn3t a hereditary type of mania. I can assure you of that, Sally, if you only knew how desperately unhappy I’ve been about you.” “I did just have a tiny suspicion.” “In Africa,” said Mr. Akibombo, “in old days, before Atomic Age and scientific thought had come, marriage customs were very curious and interesting. I tell you-was “You’d better not,” said Sally. “I have an idea they might make both Len and me blush, and when you’ve got red hair it’s very noticeable when you blush.” Hercule Poirot signed the last of the letters that Miss Lenion had laid before him.
“Tr?ness bien,” he said gravely. “Not a single mistake.” Miss Lemon looked slightly affronted.
“I don’t often make mistakes, I hope,” she said.
“Not often. But it has happened. How is your sister, by the way?” “She is thinking of going on a cruise, Mr.
Poirot.
To the Northern capitals.” “Ah,” said Hercule Poirot.
He wondered if-possibly-on a cruise-his Not that he himself would undertake a sea voyage comn for any inducement.
The clock behind him struck one.
The clock struck one, The mouse ran down, Hickory dickory dock, declared Hercule Poirot.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Poirot?” “Nothing,” said Hercule Poirot.
The End