He stopped and then went on.
‘I questioned at the time the reason the inspector gave for the body being concealed behind the curtain. To gain time? No, there was more than that. And so I thought of just one thing—the post, my friend. The evening post that comes at half past nine or thereabouts. Say the murderer does not find something he expects to find, but that something may be delivered by post later. Clearly, then, he must come back. But the crime must not be discovered by the maid when she comes in, or the police would take possession of the flat, so he hides the body behind the curtain. And the maid suspects nothing and lays the letters on the table as usual.’
‘The letters?’
‘Yes, the letters.’ Poirot drew something from his pocket. ‘This is the second article I took from M. Donovan when he was unconscious.’ He showed the superscription—a typewritten envelope addressed to Mrs Ernestine Grant. ‘But I will ask you one thing first. M. Faulkener, before we look at the contents of this letter. Are you or are you not in love with Mademoiselle Patricia?’
‘I care for Pat damnably—but I’ve never thought I had a chance.’
‘You thought that she cared for M. Donovan? It may be that she had begun to care for him—but it was only a beginning, my friend. It is for you to make her forget—to stand by her in her trouble.’
‘Trouble?’ said Jimmy sharply.
‘Yes, trouble. We will do all we can to keep her name out of it, but it will be impossible to do so entirely. She was, you see, the motive.’
He ripped open the envelope that he held. An enclosure fell out. The covering letter was brief, and was from a firm of solicitors.
Dear Madam,
The document you enclose is quite in order, and the fact of the marriage having taken place in a foreign country does not invalidate it in any way.
Yours truly, etc.
Poirot spread out the enclosure. It was a certificate of marriage between Donovan Bailey and Ernestine Grant, dated eight years ago.
‘Oh, my God!’ said Jimmy. ‘Pat said she’d had a letter from the woman asking to see her, but she never dreamed it was anything important.’
Poirot nodded. ‘Donovan knew—he went to see his wife this evening before going to the flat above—a strange irony, by the way, that led the unfortunate woman to come to this building where her rival lived—he murdered her in cold blood, and then went on to his evening’s amusement. His wife must have told him that she had sent the marriage certificate to her solicitors and was expecting to hear from them. Doubtless he himself had tried to make her believe that there was a flaw in the marriage.’
‘He seemed in quite good spirits, too, all the evening. M. Poirot, you haven’t let him escape?’ Jimmy shuddered.
‘There is no escape for him,’ said Poirot gravely. ‘You need not fear.’
‘It’s Pat I’m thinking about mostly,’ said Jimmy. ‘You don’t think—she really cared.’
‘Mon ami, that is your part,’ said Poirot gently. ‘To make her turn to you and forget. I do not think you will find it very difficult!’
Double Sin
I had called in at my friend Poirot’s rooms to find him sadly overworked. So much had he become the rage that every rich woman who had mislaid a bracelet or lost a pet kitten rushed to secure the services of the great Hercule Poirot. My little friend was a strange mixture of Flemish thrift and artistic fervour. He accepted many cases in which he had little interest owing to the first instinct being predominant.
He also undertook cases in which there was a little or no monetary reward sheerly because the problem involved interested him. The result was that, as I say, he was overworking himself. He admitted as much himself, and I found little difficulty in persuading him to accompany me for a week’s holiday to that well-known South Coast resort, Ebermouth.
We had spent four very agreeable days when Poirot came to me, an open letter in his hand.
‘Mon ami, you remember my friend Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent?’