He paused. Still Poirot said nothing.
‘I’m really flattered by your attention, M. Poirot. Captain Hastings looks as though he had seen a ghost—or were going to see one any minute. Don’t get so strung up, my dear fellow. Wait for the anti-climax. Well, where were we? Oh! yes, case against the Wicked Nephew. Guilt is to be thrown on the hated Aunt by Marriage. Nephew, celebrated at one time for acting female parts, does his supreme histrionic effort. In a girlish voice he announces himself as Lady Edgware and sidles past the butler with mincing steps. No suspicions are aroused. “Jane,” cries my fond uncle. “George,” I squeak. I fling my arms about his neck and neatly insert the penknife. The next details are purely medical and can be omitted. Exit the spurious lady. And so to bed at the end of a good day’s work.’
He laughed, and rising, poured himself out another whisky and soda. He returned slowly to his chair.
‘Works out well, doesn’t it? But you see, here comes the crux of the matter. The disappointment! The annoying sensation of having been led up the garden. For now, M. Poirot, we come to the alibi!’
He finished off his glass.
‘I always find alibis very enjoyable,’ he remarked. ‘Whenever I happen to be reading a detective story I sit up and take notice when the alibi comes along. This is a remarkably good alibi. Three strong, and Jewish at that. In plainer language, Mr, Mrs and Miss Dortheimer. Extremely rich and extremely musical. They have a box in Covent Garden. Into that box they invite young men with prospects. I, M. Poirot, am a young man with prospects—as good a one, shall we say, as they can hope to get. Do I like the opera? Frankly, no. But I enjoy the excellent dinner in Grosvenor Square first, and I also enjoy an excellent supper somewhere else afterwards, even if I do have to dance with Rachel Dortheimer and have a stiff arm for two days afterwards. So you see, M. Poirot, there you are. When uncle’s lifeblood is flowing, I am whispering cheerful nothings into the diamond encrusted ears of the fair (I beg her pardon, dark) Rachel in a box at Covent Garden. Her long Jewish nose is quivering with emotion. And so you see, M. Poirot, why I can afford to be so frank.’
He leaned back in his chair.
‘I hope I have not bored you. Any question to ask?’
‘I can assure you that I have not been bored,’ said Poirot. ‘Since you are so kind, there is one little question that I would like to ask.’
‘Delighted.’
‘How long, Lord Edgware, have you known Miss Carlotta Adams?’
Whatever the young man had expected, it certainly had not been this. He sat up sharply with an entirely new expression on his face.
‘Why on earth do you want to know that? What’s that got to do with what we’ve been talking about?’
‘I was curious, that was all. For the other, you have explained so fully everything there is to explain that there is no need for me to ask questions.’
Ronald shot a quick glance at him. It was almost as though he did not care for Poirot’s amiable acquiescence. He would, I thought, have preferred him to be more suspicious.
‘Carlotta Adams? Let me see. About a year. A little more. I got to know her last year when she gave her first show.’
‘You knew her well?’
‘Pretty well. She’s not the sort of girl you ever got to know frightfully well. Reserved and all that.’
‘But you liked her?’
Ronald stared at him.
‘I wish I knew why you were so interested in the lady. Was it because I was with her the other night? Yes, I like her very much. She’s sympathetic—listens to a chap and makes him feel he’s something of a fellow after all.’
Poirot nodded.
‘I comprehend. Then you will be sorry.’
‘Sorry? What about?’
‘That she is dead!’
‘What?’ Ronald sprang up in astonishment. ‘Carlotta dead?’
He looked absolutely dumbfounded by the news.
‘You’re pulling my leg, M. Poirot. Carlotta was perfectly well the last time I saw her.’