“Is that what she did?” “Presumably. There was no suggestion of suicide, or suicidal tendencies.” “And no suggestion of-anything else?” Again that keen glance was shot at him.
“Her husband gave evidence.” “And what did he say?” “He made it clear that she did sometimes got confused after comtaking her nightly dose and ask for another.” “Was he lying?” “Really, Poirot, what an outrageous question.
Why should you suppose for a minute that I should know?” Poirot smiled. The attempt at bluster did not deceive him.
“I suggest, my friend, that you know very well. But for the moment I will not embarrass you by asking you what you know.
Instead I will ask you for an opinion. The opinion of one man about another. Was Arthur Stanley the kind of man who would do away with his wife if he wanted to marry another woman?” Mr. Endicott jumped as though he had been stung by a wasp.
“Preposterous,” he said angrily. “Quite preposterous. And there was no other woman. Stanley was devoted to his wife.” “Yes,” said Poirot. “I thought so. And now-I will come to the purpose of my call upon you. You arethe solicitors who drew up Arthur Stanley’s will. You are, perhaps, his executor.” “That is so.” “Arthur Stanley had a son. The son quaffelled with his father at the time of his mother’s death.
Quarrelled with him and left home. He even went so far as to change his name.” “That I did not know. What’s he calling himself?” “We shall come to that. Before we do I am going’ to make an assumption. If I am right, perhaps you will admit the fact. I think that Arthur Stanley left a sealed letter with you, a letter to be opened under certain circumstances or after his death.” “Really, Poirot! In the Middle Ages you would certainly have been burnt at the stake. How you can possibly know the things you do!” “I am right then? I think there was an alternative in the letter. Its contents were either to be destroyed comor you were to take a certain course of action.” He paused. The other did not speak.
“Bon Dieu!” said Poirot, with alarm. “You have not ajready destroyed-was He broke off in relief as Mr. Endicott slowly shook his head in negation.
“We never act in haste,” he said reprovingly. “I have to make full enquiries-to satisfy myself absolutely’ He paused. “This matter,” he said severely, “is highly confidential. Even to you, Poirot’ He shook his head.
“And if I show you good cause why you should speak?” “That- is- up to you. I cannot conceive how you can possibly know anything at all that is relevant to the matter we are discussing.” “I do not know coms I have to guess. If I guess correctly-was “HigWy unlikely,” said Mr. Endicott with a wave of his hand.
Poirot drew a deep breath.
“Very well then. It is in my mind that your instructions are as follows. In the event of Sir Arthur’s death, you are to trace his son, Nigel, to ascertain where he is living and how he is living and particularly whether he is or has been engaged in any criminal activity whatsoever.” This time Mr. Endicott’s impregnable legal calm was really shattered. He uttered an exclamation such as few had ever heard from his Eps.
“Since you appear to be in full possession of the facts,” he said, “I’ll tell you anything you want to know. I gather you’ve come across young Nigel in the course of your professional activities. What’s the young devil been up to?” “I think the story goes as follows. After he left home he changed his name, telling anyone who was interested that he had to do so as a condition of a legacy. He then fell in with some people who were ranning a smuggling racketrugs and jewels. I think it was due to him that the racket assumed its final form-an exceedingly clever one involving the using of innocent bona fide students. The whole thing was operated by two people, Nigel Chapman, as he now called himself, and a young woman called Valerie Hobhouse who, I think, originally introduced him to the smuggling trade. It was a small private concern and they worked it on a commission basis-but it was immensely profitable.