‘Was it you who cleaned the shoes of the young lady upstairs?’
The maid shook her head. ‘No, sir. I don’t think they’ve been cleaned.’
‘Who cleaned them, then?’ I inquired of Poirot, as we walked down the road.
‘Nobody. They did not need cleaning.’
‘I grant that walking on the road or path on a fine night would not soil them. But surely after going through the long grass of the garden, they would have been soiled and stained.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot with a curi(us smile. ‘In that case, I agree, they would have been stained.’
‘But – ‘
‘Have patience a little half-hour, my friend. We are going back to Mon Dsir.’
The butler looked surprised at our reappearance, but offered no objection to our returning to the library.
‘Hi, that’s the wrong window, Poirot,’ I cried as he made for the one overlooking the carriage-drive.
‘I think not, my friend. See here.’ He pointed to the marble lion’s head. On it was a faint discoloured smear. He shifted his finger and pointed to a similar stain on the polished floor.
‘Some one struck Reedburn a blow with his clenched fist between the eyes. He fell backward on this projecting bit of marble, then slipped to the floor. Afterwards, he was dragged across the floor to the other window, and laid there instead, but not quite at the same angle, as the Doctor’s evidence told us.’
‘But why? It seems utterly unnecessary.’ ‘On the contrary, it was essential. Also, it is the key to the murderer’s identity – though, by the way, he had no intention of killing Reedburn, and so it is hardly permissible to call him a murderer. He must be a very strong manl’ ‘Because of having dragged the body across the floor?’ ‘Not altogether. It has been an interesting case. I nearly made an imbecile of myself, though.’ ‘Do you mean to say it is over, that you know everything?’ ‘Yes.’ A remembrance smote me. ‘No,’ I cried. ‘There is one thing you do not know!’ ‘And that?’ ‘You do not know where the missing king of clubs isl’ ‘Eh? Oh, that is droll! That is very droll, my friend.’ ‘Why?’ ‘Because it is in my pocketl’ He drew it forth with a flourish.
‘Ohl’ I said, rather crestfallen. ‘Where did you find it?
Here?’ ‘There was nothing sensational about it. It had simply not been taken out with the other cards. It was in the box.’ ‘H’m All the same, it gave you an idea, didn’t it?’ ‘Yes, my friend. I present my respects to His Majesty.’ ‘And to Madame Zaral’ ‘Ah, yes – to the lady also.’ ‘Well, what are we going to do now?’ ‘We are going to return to town. But I must have a few words with a certain lady at Daisymead first.’ The same little maid opened the door to us.
‘They’re all at lunch now, sir – unless it’s Miss $aintclair you want to see, and she’s resting.’ ‘It will do if I can see Mrs Oglander for a few minutes. Will you tell her?’ We were led into the drawing-room to wait. I had a glimpse of the family in the dining-room as we passed, now reinforced by the presence of two heavy, solid-looking men, one with a moustache, the other with a beard also.
In a few minutes Mrs Oglander came into the room, looking inquiringly at Poirot, who bowed.
‘Madame, we, in our country, have a great tenderness, a great respect for the mother. The mi, re defamille, she is everything!’ Mrs Oglander looked rather astonished at this opening.
‘It is for that reason that I have come – to allay a mother’s anxiety. The murderer of Mr Reedburn will not be discovered.
Have no fear. I, Hercule Poirot, tell you so. I am right, am I not?
Or is it a wife that I must reassure?’
There was a moment’s pause. Mrs Oglander seemed searching Poirot with her eyes. At last she said quietly: ‘I don’t know how you know – but yes, you are right.’
Poirot nodded gravely. ‘That is all, madame. But do not be uneasy. Your English policemen have not the eyes of Hercule Poirot.’ He tapped the family portrait on the wall with his finger-nail.