“Naturally you do not. You are very feminine.” Race interrupted this scene of heavy approval.
“Since Doyle is all right, there’s no reason I shouldn’t come along and resume our talk of this afternoon. He was just telling me about a telegram.” Dr. Bessner’s bulk moved up and down appreciatively.
“Ho, ho, ho, it was very funny that! Doyle, he tells me about it. It was a telegram all about vegetables–potatoes–artichokes leeks–Ach! pardon?” With a stifled exclamation, Race had sat up in his chair. “My God,” he said. “So that’s it. Richetti!” He looked round on three uncomprehending faces.
“A new code–it was used in the South ffrican rebellion. Potatoes mean machine guns, artichokes are high explosives–and so on. Richetti is no more an archaeologist than I am! He’s a very dangerous agitator, a man who’s killed more than once. And I’ll swear that he’s killed once again. Mrs. Doyle opened that telegram by mistake, you see. If she were ever to repeat what was in it before me, he knew his goose would be cooked!” He turned to Poirot.
“Am I right?” he said. “Is Richetti the man?” “He is your man,” said Poirot. “I always thought there was something wrong about him! He was almost too word-perfect in his rlehe was all archaeologist, not enough human being.” He paused and then said: “But it was not Richetti who killed Linnet Doyle. For some time now I have known what I may express as the ‘first half of the murder. Now I know the ‘second half also. The picture is complete. But you understand that although I know what must have happened. I have no proof that it happened. Intellectually the case is satisfying. Actually it is profoundly unsatisfactory. There is only one hopea confession from the murderer.” Dr. Bessner raised his shoulders sceptically.
“Ach! but that–it would be a miracle.” “I think not. Not under the circumstances.” Cornelia cried out: “But who is it? Aren’t you going to tell us?” Poirot’s eyes ranged quietly over the three of them. Race smiling sardonically, Bessner, still looking sceptical, Cornelia, her mouth hanging a little open, gazing at him with eager eyes.
“Mais oui,” he said. “I like an audience, I must confess. I am vain, you see. I am puffed up with conceit. I like to say, ‘See how clever is Hercule Poirot!'” Race shifted a little in his chair.
“Well,” he said gently, “just how clever/s Hercule Poirot?” Shaking his head sadly from side to side Poirot said: “To begin with I was stupid incredibly stupid. To me the stumbling-block was the pistol–Jacqueline de Bellefort’s pistol. Why had that pistol not been left on the scene of the crime? The idea of the murderer was quite plainly to incriminate her. Why then did the murderer take it away? I was so stupid that I thought of all sorts of fantastic reasons. The real one was very simple. The murderer took it away because he had to take it away–because he had no choice in the matter.”
CHAPTER 28
“You and I, my friend,” Poirot leaned towards Race, “started our investigation with a preconceived idea. That idea was that the crime was committed on the spur of the moment without any preliminary planning. Somebody wished to remove Linnet Doyle and had seized their opportunity to do so at a moment when the crime would almost certainly be attributed to Jacqueline de Bellefort. It therefore followed that the person in question had overheard the scene between Jacqueline and Simon Doyle and had obtained possession of the pistol after the others had left the saloon.
“But, my friends, if that preconceived idea was wrong, the whole aspect of the case altered. And it was wrong! This was no spontaneous crime committed on the spur of the moment. It was, on the contrary, very carefully planned and accurately timed, with all the details meticulously worked out beforehand, even to the drugging of Hercule Poirot’s bottle of wine on the night in question!
“But, yes, that is so! I was put to sleep so that there should be no possibility of my participating in the events of the night. It did just occur to me as a possibility. I drink wine, my two companions at table drink whisky and mineral water respectively. Nothing easier than to slip a dose of harmless narcotic into my bottle of wine the bottles stand on the tables all day. But I dismissed the thought–it had been a hot day–I had been unusually tired—it was not really extraordinary that I should for once have slept heavily instead of lightly as I usually do.