‘Did she now? And the secretary—Miss Carroll?’
‘Wasn’t too surprised, I fancy. However, that’s only my idea.’
‘What about the pearls?’ I asked. ‘Was that part of the story true?’
‘Absolutely. He raised the money on them early the following morning. But I don’t think that touches the main argument. As I see it, the plan came into his head when he came across his cousin at the opera. It came to him in a flash. He was desperate—here was a way out. I fancy he’d been meditating something of the kind—that’s why he had the key with him. I don’t believe that story of suddenly coming across it. Well, as he talks to his cousin, he sees that by involving her he gains additional security for himself. He plays on her feelings, hints at the pearls, she plays up, and off they go. As soon as she’s in the house he follows her in and goes along to the library. Maybe his lordship has dozed off in his chair. Anyway, in two seconds he’s done the trick and he’s out again. I don’t fancy he meant the girl to catch him in the house. He counted on being found pacing up and down near the taxi. And I don’t think the taxi-man was meant to see him go in. The impression was to be that he was walking up and down smoking whilst he waited for the girl. The taxi was facing the opposite direction, remember.
‘Of course, the next morning, he has to pledge the pearls. He must still seem to be in need of the money. Then, when he hears of the crime, he frightens the girl into concealing their visit to the house. They will say that they spent that interval together at the Opera House.’
‘Then why did they not do so?’ asked Poirot sharply.
Japp shrugged his shoulders.
‘Changed his mind. Or judged that she wouldn’t be able to go through with it. She’s a nervous type.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot meditatively. ‘She is a nervous type.’
After a minute or two, he said:
‘It does not strike you that it would have been easier and simpler for Captain Marsh to have left the opera during the interval by himself. To have gone in quietly with his key, killed his uncle, and returned to the opera—instead of having a taxi outside and a nervous girl coming down the stairs any minute who might lose her head and give him away.’
Japp grinned.
‘That’s what you and I would have done. But then we’re a shade brighter than Captain Ronald Marsh.’
‘I am not so sure. He strikes me as intelligent.’
‘But not so intelligent as M. Hercule Poirot! Come now, I’m sure of that!’ Japp laughed.
Poirot looked at him coldly.
‘If he isn’t guilty why did he persuade the Adams girl to take on that stunt?’ went on Japp. ‘There can be only one reason for that stunt—to protect the real criminal.’
‘There I am of accord with you absolutely.’
‘Well, I’m glad we agree about something.’
‘It might be he who actually spoke to Miss Adams,’ mused Poirot. ‘Whilst really—no, that is an imbecility.’
Then, looking suddenly at Japp, he rapped out a quick question.
‘What is your theory as to her death?’
Japp cleared his throat.
‘I’m inclined to believe—accident. A convenient accident, I admit. I can’t see that he could have had anything to do with it. His alibi is straight enough after the opera. He was at Sobranis with the Dortheimers till after one o’clock. Long before that she was in bed and asleep. No, I think that was an instance of the infernal luck criminals sometimes have. Otherwise, if that accident hadn’t happened, I think he had his plans for dealing with her. First, he’d put the fear of the Lord into her—tell her she’d be arrested for murder if she confessed the truth. And then he’d square her with a fresh lot of money.’
‘Does it strike you—’ Poirot stared straight in front of him. ‘Does it strike you that Miss Adams would let another woman be hanged when she herself held evidence that would acquit her?’
‘Jane Wilkinson wouldn’t have been hanged. The Montagu Corner party evidence was too strong for that.’