‘That depends,’ said Poirot calmly.
‘What do you mean?’
‘If there is any question of crime—’
‘Oh! there’s no crime concerned.’
‘You do not know. There may be.’
‘But you would do your best for her—for us?’
‘That, naturally.’
He was silent for a moment and then said:
‘Tell me, this follower of yours—this shadow—of what age was he?’
‘Oh! quite youngish. About thirty.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘That is indeed remarkable. Yes, that makes the whole thing very much more interesting.’
I stared at him. So did Bryan Martin. This remark of his was, I am sure, equally unexplicable to us both. Bryan questioned me with a lift of the eyebrows. I shook my head.
‘Yes,’ murmured Poirot. ‘It makes the whole story very interesting.’
‘He may have been older,’ said Bryan doubtfully, ‘but I don’t think so.’
‘No, no, I am sure your observation is quite accurate, M. Martin. Very interesting—extraordinarily interesting.’
Rather taken aback by Poirot’s enigmatical words, Bryan Martin seemed at a loss what to say or do next. He started making desultory conversation.
‘An amusing party the other night,’ he said. ‘Jane Wilkinson is the most high-handed woman that ever existed.’
‘She has the single vision,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘One thing at a time.’
‘She gets away with it, too,’ said Martin. ‘How people stand it, I don’t know!’
‘One will stand a good deal from a beautiful woman, my friend,’ said Poirot with a twinkle. ‘If she had the pug nose, the sallow skin, the greasy hair, then—ah! then she would not “get away with it” as you put it.’
‘I suppose not,’ conceded Bryan. ‘But it makes me mad sometimes. All the same, I’m devoted to Jane, though in some ways, mind you, I don’t think she’s quite all there.’
‘On the contrary, I should say she was very much on the spot.’
‘I don’t mean that, exactly. She can look after her interests all right. She’s got plenty of business shrewdness. No, I mean morally.’
‘Ah! morally.’
‘She’s what they call amoral. Right and wrong don’t exist for her.’
‘Ah! I remember you said something of the kind the other evening.’
‘We were talking of crime just now—’
‘Yes, my friend?’
‘Well, it would never surprise me if Jane committed a crime.’
‘And you should know her well,’ murmured Poirot thoughtfully. ‘You have acted much with her, have you not?’
‘Yes. I suppose I know her through and through and up and down. I can see her killing, and quite easily.’
‘Ah! she has the hot temper, yes?’
‘No, no, not at all. Cool as a cucumber. I mean if anyone were in her way she’d just remove them—without a thought. And one couldn’t really blame her—morally, I mean. She’d just think that anyone who interfered with Jane Wilkinson had got to go.’
There was a bitterness in his last words that had been lacking heretofore. I wondered what memory he was recalling.
‘You think she would do—murder?’
Poirot watched him intently.
Bryan drew a deep breath.
‘Upon my soul, I do. Perhaps one of these days, you’ll remember my words…I know her, you see. She’d kill as easily as she’d drink her morning tea. I mean it, M. Poirot.’
He had risen to his feet.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot quietly. ‘I can see you mean it.’
‘I know her,’ said Bryan Martin again, ‘through and through.’
He stood frowning for a minute, then with a change of tone, he said:
‘As to this business we’ve been talking about, I’ll let you know, M. Poirot, in a few days. You will undertake it, won’t you?’
Poirot looked at him for a moment or two without replying.
‘Yes,’ he said at last. ‘I will undertake it. I find it—interesting.’
There was something queer in the way he said the last word. I went downstairs with Bryan Martin. At the door he said to me:
‘Did you get the hang of what he meant about that fellow’s age? I mean, why was it interesting that he should be about thirty? I didn’t get the hang of that at all.’
‘No more did I,’ I admitted.
‘It doesn’t seem to make sense. Perhaps he was just having a game with me.’