‘But the murderer did not know that. He would have had to count on Jane Wilkinson being hanged and Carlotta Adams keeping silence.’
‘You love talking, don’t you, M. Poirot? And you’re positively convinced now that Ronald Marsh is a white-headed boy who can do no wrong. Do you believe that story of his about seeing a man sneak surreptitiously into the house?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘Do you know who he says he thought it was?’
‘I could guess, perhaps.’
‘He says he thought it was the film star, Bryan Martin. What do you think of that? A man who’d never even met Lord Edgware.’
‘Then it would certainly be curious if one saw such a man entering that house with a key.’
‘Chah!’ said Japp. A rich noise expressive of contempt. ‘And now I suppose it will surprise you to hear that Mr Bryan Martin wasn’t in London that night. He took a young lady to dine down at Molesey. They didn’t get back to London till midnight.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot mildly. ‘No, I am not surprised. Was the young lady also a member of the profession?’
‘No. Girl who keeps a hat shop. As a matter of fact, it was Miss Adams’ friend, Miss Driver. I think you’ll agree her testimony is past suspicion.’
‘I am not disputing it, my friend.’
‘In fact, you’re done down and you know it, old boy,’ said Japp, laughing. ‘Cock and bull story trumped up on the moment, that’s what it was. Nobody entered No. 17…and nobody entered either of the houses either side—so what does that show? That his lordship’s a liar.’
Poirot shook his head sadly.
Japp rose to his feet—his spirits restored.
‘Come, now, we’re right, you know.’
‘Who was D. Paris, November?’
Japp shrugged his shoulders.
‘Ancient history, I imagine. Can’t a girl have a souvenir six months ago without its having something to do with this crime? We must have a sense of proportion.’
‘Six months ago,’ murmured Poirot, a sudden light in his eyes. ‘Dieu, que je suis bête!’
‘What’s he saying?’ inquired Japp of me.
‘Listen.’ Poirot rose and tapped Japp on the chest.
‘Why does Miss Adams’ maid not recognize that box? Why does Miss Driver not recognize it?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because the box was new! It had only just been given to her. Paris, November—that is all very well—doubtless that is the date of which the box is to be a souvenir. But it was given to her now, not then. It has just been bought! Only just been bought! Investigate that, I implore you, my good Japp. It is a chance, decidedly a chance. It was bought not here, but abroad. Probably Paris. If it had been bought here, some jeweller would have come forward. It has been photographed and described in the papers. Yes, yes, Paris. Possibly some other foreign town, but I think Paris. Find out, I implore you. Make the inquiries. I want—I so badly want—to know who is this mysterious D.’
‘It will do no harm,’ said Japp good-naturedly. ‘Can’t say I’m very excited about it myself. But I’ll do what I can. The more we know the better.’
Nodding cheerfully to us he departed.
Chapter 23
The Letter
‘And now,’ said Poirot, ‘we will go out to lunch.’
He put his hand through my arm. He was smiling at me.
‘I have hope,’ he explained.
I was glad to see him restored to his old self, though I was none the less convinced myself of young Ronald’s guilt. I fancied that Poirot himself had perhaps come round to this view, convinced by Japp’s arguments. The search for the purchaser of the box was, perhaps, a last sally to save his face.
We went amicably to lunch together.
Somewhat to my amusement at a table the other side of the room, I saw Bryan Martin and Jenny Driver lunching together. Remembering what Japp had said, I suspected a possible romance.
They saw us and Jenny waved a hand.
When we were sipping coffee, Jenny left her escort and came over to our table. She looked as vivid and dynamic as ever.
‘May I sit and talk to you a minute, M. Poirot?’