‘Perhaps it is you, my friend, who make an impression on her heart the other day,’ replied Poirot as he rang the bell.
I recalled the startled face of the girl who had stood in the doorway. I could still see those burning dark eyes in the white face. That momentary glimpse had made a great impression on me.
We were shown upstairs to a big drawing-room and in a minute or two Geraldine Marsh came to us there.
The impression of intensity which I had noticed before was heightened on this occasion. This tall, thin, white-faced girl with her big haunting black eyes was a striking figure.
She was extremely composed—in view of her youth, remarkably so.
‘It is very good of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot,’ she said. ‘I am sorry to have missed you this morning.’
‘You were lying down?’
‘Yes. Miss Carroll—my father’s secretary, you know—insisted. She has been very kind.’
There was a queer grudging note in the girl’s voice that puzzled me.
‘In what way can I be of service to you, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot.
She hesitated a minute and then said:
‘On the day before my father was killed you came to see him?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle.’
‘Why? Did he—send for you?’
Poirot did not reply for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating. I believe, now, that it was a cleverly calculated move on his part. He wanted to goad her into further speech. She was, he realized, of the impatient type. She wanted things in a hurry.
‘Was he afraid of something? Tell me. Tell me. I must know. Who was he afraid of? Why? What did he say to you? Oh! why can’t you speak?’
I had thought that that forced composure was not natural. It had soon broken down. She was leaning forward now, her hands twisting themselves nervously on her lap.
‘What passed between Lord Edgware and myself was in confidence,’ said Poirot slowly.
His eyes never left her face.
‘Then it was about—I mean, it must have been something to do with—the family. Oh! you sit there and torture me. Why won’t you tell me? It’s necessary for me to know. It’s necessary. I tell you.’
Again, very slowly, Poirot shook his head, apparently a prey to deep perplexity.
‘M. Poirot.’ She drew herself up. ‘I’m his daughter. It is my right to know—what my father dreaded on the last day but one of his life. It isn’t fair to leave me in the dark. It isn’t fair to him—not to tell me.’
‘Were you so devoted to your father, then, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot gently.
She drew back as though stung.
‘Fond of him?’ she whispered. ‘Fond of him. I—I—’
And suddenly her self-control snapped. Peals of laughter broke from her. She lay back in her chair and laughed and laughed.
‘It’s so funny,’ she gasped. ‘It’s so funny—to be asked that.’
That hysterical laughter had not passed unheard. The door opened and Miss Carroll came in. She was firm and efficient.
‘Now, now, Geraldine, my dear, that won’t do. No, no. Hush, now. I insist. No. Stop it. I mean it. Stop it at once.’
Her determined manner had its effect. Geraldine’s laughter grew fainter. She wiped her eyes and sat up.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I’ve never done that before.’
Miss Carroll was still looking at her anxiously.
‘I’m all right now, Miss Carroll. It was idiotic.’
She smiled suddenly. A queer bitter smile that twisted her lips. She sat up very straight in her chair and looked at no one.
‘He asked me,’ she said in a cold clear voice, ‘if I had been very fond of my father.’
Miss Carroll made a sort of indeterminate cluck. It denoted irresolution on her part. Geraldine went on, her voice high and scornful.
‘I wonder if it is better to tell lies or the truth? The truth, I think. I wasn’t fond of my father. I hated him!’
‘Geraldine dear.’
‘Why pretend? You didn’t hate him because he couldn’t touch you! You were one of the few people in the world that he couldn’t get at. You saw him as the employer who paid you so much a year. His rages and his queerness didn’t interest you—you ignored them. I know what you’d say, “Everyone has got to put up with something.” You were cheerful and uninterested. You’re a very strong woman. You’re not really human. But then you could have walked out of the house any minute. I couldn’t. I belonged.’