I had left the breakfast table and was standing looking out of the window. At this sound, I turned sharply.
Poirot was literally quivering with excitement. His eyes were green like a cat’s. His pointing finger trembled.
‘See you, Hastings? Look here—quickly—come and look.’
I ran to his side. Spread out before him was one of the middle sheets of the letter. I could see nothing unusual about it.
‘See you not? All these other sheets they have the clean edge—they are single sheets. But this one—see—one side of it is ragged—it has been torn. Now do you see what I mean? This letter was a double sheet, and so, you comprehend, one page of the letter is missing.’
I stared stupidly, no doubt.
‘But how can it be. It makes sense.’
‘Yes, yes, it makes sense. That is where the cleverness of the idea comes in. Read—and you will see.’
I think I cannot do better than to apprehend a facsimile of the page in question.
‘You see it now?’ said Poirot. ‘The letter breaks off where she is talking of Captain Marsh. She is sorry for him, and then she says: “He enjoyed my show very much.” Then on the new sheet she goes on: “he said…” But, mon ami, a page is missing. The “he” of the new page may not be the “He” of the old page. In fact it is not the “He” of the old page. It is another man altogether who proposed that hoax. Observe, nowhere after that is the name mentioned. Ah! C’est épatant! Somehow or other our murderer gets hold of this letter. It gives him away. No doubt he thinks to suppress it altogether, and then—reading it over—he sees another way of dealing with it. Remove one page, and the letter is capable of being twisted into a damning accusation of another man—a man too who has a motive for Lord Edgware’s death. Ah! it was a gift! The money for the confiture as you say! He tears the sheet off and replaces the letter.’
I looked at Poirot in some admiration. I was not perfectly convinced of the truth of his theory. It seemed to be highly possible that Carlotta had used an odd half sheet that was already torn. But Poirot was so transfigured with joy that I simply had not the heart to suggest this prosaic possibility. After all, he might be right.
I did, however, venture to point out one or two difficulties in the way of his theory.
‘But how did the man, whoever he was, get hold of the letter? Miss Adams took it straight from her handbag and gave it herself to the maid to post. The maid told us so.’
‘Therefore we must assume one of two things. Either the maid was lying, or else, during that evening, Carlotta Adams met the murderer.’
I nodded.
‘It seems to me that that last possibility is the most likely one. We still do not know where Carlotta Adams was between the time she left the flat and nine o’clock when she left her suitcase at Euston station. During that time, I believe myself that she met the murderer in some appointed spot—they probably had some food together. He gave her some last instructions. What happened exactly in regard to the letter we do not know. One can make a guess. She may have been carrying it in her hand meaning to post it. She may have laid it down on the table in the restaurant. He sees the address and scents a possible danger. He may have picked it up adroitly, made an excuse for leaving the table, opened it, read it, torn out the sheet, and then either replaced it on the table, or perhaps given it to her as she left, telling her that she had dropped it without noticing. The exact way of it was not important—but two things do seem clear. That Carlotta Adams met the murderer that evening either before the murder of Lord Edgware, or afterwards (there was time after she left the Corner House for a brief interview). I have a fancy, though there I am perhaps wrong, that it was the murderer who gave her the gold box—it was possibly a sentimental memento of their first meeting. If so, the murderer is D.’