Stillingfleet said: “Miss Jacobs, did she at any time admit that she had killed him?” “Oh yes. I should have mentioned that before— It was the very first thing she did say. As though she was answering some question I had asked her. She said ‘Yes, Pve killed him.9 And then went on about having washed her hands.” Restarick groaned and buried his face in his hands. Claudia put her hand on his arm.
Poirot said: “Miss Jacobs, you say the girl put down the knife she was carrying on that table.
It was quite near you? You saw it clearly?
Did it appear to you that the knife also had been washed?” Miss Jacobs looked hesitantly at Chief Inspector Neele. It was clear that she felt that Poirot struck an alien and unofficial note in this presumably official enquiry.
“Perhaps you would be kind enough to answer that?” said Neele.
“No — I don’t think the knife had been washed or wiped in any way. It was stained and discoloured with some thick sticky substance.” “Ah,” Poirot leaned back in his chair.
“I should have thought you would have known all about the knife yourself,” said Miss Jacobs to Neele accusingly. “Didn’t your police examine it? It seems to me very lax if they didn’t.” “Oh yes, the police examined it,” said Neele. “But we — er — always like to get corroboration.” She darted him a shrewd glance.
“What you really mean, I suppose, is that you like to find out how accurate the observation of your witnesses is. How much they make up, or how much they actually see, or think they have seen.” He smiled slightly as he said: “I don’t think we need have doubts about you. Miss Jacobs. You will make an excellent witness.” “I shan’t enjoy it. But it’s the kind of thing one has to go through with, I suppose.” “I’m afraid so. Thank you. Miss Jacobs.” He looked round. “No one has any additional questions?” Poirot indicated that he had. Miss Jacobs paused near the doorway, displeased.
“Yes?” she said.
“About this mention of someone called Louise. Did you know who it was the girl meant?” “How should I know?” “Isn’t it possible that she might have meant Mrs. Louise Charpentier. You knew Mrs. Charpentier, didn’t you?” “I did not.” “You knew that she recently threw herself out of a window in this block of flats?” “I knew that, of course. I didn’t know her Christian name was Louise, and I was not personally acquainted with her.” “Nor, perhaps, particularly wished to be?” “I have not said so, since the woman is dead. But I will admit that that is quite true. She was a most undesirable tenant, and I and other residents have frequently complained to the management here.” “Of what exactly?” “To speak frankly, the woman drank.
Her flat was actually on the top floor above mine and there were continual disorderly parties, with broken glass, furniture knocked over, singing and shouting, a lot of— er — coming and going.” “She was, perhaps, a lonely woman,” suggested Poirot.
“That was hardly the impression she conveyed,” said Miss Jacobs acidly. “It was put forward at the inquest that she was depressed over the state of her health.
Entirely her own imagination. She seems to have had nothing the matter with her.” And having disposed of the late Mrs.
Charpentier without sympathy. Miss Jacobs took her departure.
Poirot turned his attention to Andrew Restarick. He asked delicately: “Am I correct in thinking, Mr. Restarick, that you were at one time well acquainted with Mrs. Charpentier?” Restarick did not answer for a moment or two. Then he sighed deeply and transferred his gaze to Poirot.
“Yes. At one time, many years ago, I knew her very well indeed… Not, I may say, under the name of Charpentier. She was Louise Birell when I knew her.” “You were — er — in love with her!” “Yes, I was in love with her… Head over ears in love with her! I left my wife on her account. We went to South Africa.
After barely a year the whole thing blew up.
She returned to England. I never heard from her again. I never even knew what had become of her.” “What about your daughter? Did she, also, know Louise Birell?” “Not to remember her, surely. A child of five years old!” “But did she know her?” Poirot persisted.