Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

Hercule Poirot took the card of Inspector Maulton of the Berkshire Constabulary which George handed him, and raised his eyebrows and said: "Bring him in, George, let him in. And get... what do the cops like to drink?" "I think it's beer, sir." "It's dreadful! But it's quite English. Take the beer, then." Once Inspector Morton entered the door, he went straight in. "I have to come to London," said he. "I have your address, M. Poirot. I saw you at the investigative court on Thursday, and you aroused my interest." "So you saw me there?"

"Yes. I was surprised...and, as I said, interested. You don't remember me, but I'm impressed with you. Saw you on the Pangborn case." "Well, you have something to do with that case?" "I was a nobody then. It's been a long time, but I haven't forgotten you." "You recognized me that day?" "That's not difficult, sir." Inspector Morton suppressed a smile. "Your appearance...is a bit extraordinary." His eyes flicked across Poirot's immaculate attire, and finally fell on his curly beard. "You stand out from the crowd in the country," he said.

"It is possible, it is possible," said Poirot triumphantly. "I'm interested in why you're there. That kind of crime... robbery... homicide... usually doesn't interest you." "Is that a normal type of violent crime?" "That's exactly what I'm skeptical about." "You were skeptical at first, weren't you?" "Yes, Monsieur Poirot. There are some unusual features. After the incident we dealt with it in the usual way. We had people come for questioning, but everyone gave a satisfactory account of their whereabouts at the time of the incident. That's not the so-called Ordinary crime, M. Poirot... We are quite sure of that. The Commissioner of Police agrees. Someone has deliberately made it look like an ordinary robbery-murder. It may be that woman called Gilchrist. , but there doesn't seem to be any motive... and no emotional underlying reason. Mrs. Lansquenet may be a little psychotic... or 'childish', if you want, but it's purely subjective between them. There was no fanatical same-sex friendship. There were quite a few women like Miss Gilchrist around there, and they weren't generally the type to commit murder."

He paused. "It therefore seems as if we must start elsewhere. I have come to ask if you could help us. There must be a reason for you to be there, M. Poirot." "Yes, there is a reason." "Do you have... information?" "Not what you call intelligence. There's nothing good enough for evidence." "But some of them can be used as... clues?" "good." "You know, M. Poirot, there is progress." He carefully told Poirot the details of the poisoned wedding cake. Poirot took a deep breath. "Brilliant... very clever... I warned Mr. Entwhistle to watch out for Miss Gilchrist's safety, she was in danger of being attacked. I must admit, however, that I did not expect poisoning. I predicted an axe A repeat of the incident. I just thought it would be unwise for her to walk alone in a deserted alley after dark."

"But why do you predict that she will be attacked? I think, M. Poirot, you should tell me." Poirot nodded slowly. "Well, I tell you, Mr. Entwhistle won't tell you, because he's a lawyer, and lawyers don't like to talk about hypotheticals. Or inferences drawn from a dead woman's personality or some irresponsible remarks. .but he won't object to me telling you...he'll be relieved instead.He doesn't want to look stupid or be thought crazy,but he wants you to know that it's possible...just possible... fact." Poirot paused as George brought in a mug of beer.

"Moisturize your throat first, Mr. Inspector. Don't refuse, I insist that you drink first before talking." "Aren't you going to drink together?" "I don't drink beer. But I do have a glass of cinnamon syrup...the British don't like it, I've noticed." Inspector Morton looked gratefully at his glass of beer. "It all started with the funeral. Or, to be more precise, after the funeral." With many gestures, he related the stories Mr. Entwhistle told him vividly, with humor, from his rich nature.It makes people feel like he is there.

Inspector Morton was extremely clear-headed.As soon as he heard it, he immediately grasped the point of continuous leap. "This Mr. Abernethir may have been poisoned?" "possible." "And the body has been cremated without evidence?" "Exactly." Inspector Morton mused. "Interesting. It's none of our business. That said, Richard Abernether's death is nothing worth investigating. It's just a waste of time." "good." "But one of those people... those who were there... those who heard Cora Lansquenet say that, one of them probably thought she might say it again, and in greater detail."

"There is no doubt that she will do so. As you said, Mr. Inspector, those people. Now you should understand why I appeared in the investigative court and why I was interested in this case... because, I have always They're all interested in people." "Then Miss Gilchrist was attacked..." "It's been there all along. Richard Abernethie was at the villa. He talked to Cora. ​​Maybe he mentioned a name. The only person who might have known or overheard Gilchrist Miss T. The murderer may not be at ease after shutting up Cora for good. Did the other woman know? Of course, if the murderer is wise, he will ignore it. But the murderer, Mr. Inspector, is seldom smart enough. Yes. Luckily for us. They ponder, feel uncertain, try to figure it out...until they feel comfortable. They're confident and smart. And then, in the end, they show their fox tail .”

Inspector Morton smiled. Poirot continued: "It was already a mistake to try to silence Miss Gilchrist for good. Now you are investigating two cases. There is handwriting on the cake card. Too bad the wrapper has been burned." "That's right, otherwise I'd be sure it was by post." "According to you, do you have reason to think that the answer is no?" "That's just the postman's idea...he's not sure. If the package had been sent via the village post office, the postmaster would probably have noticed, but nowadays mail is delivered directly by Cannell's mail van, and The guy has a lot of detours and a lot of mail to deliver. He doesn't remember having the package...but he can't be sure. He's actually being annoyed by the girls and doesn't have time to think about anything else. I've tried His memory is not reliable at all. If the package was indeed sent by him, it seems strange to me, why it has not been noticed. Until that... Mr. What... Gu Sirui"

"Ah, Mr. Gu Siri." Inspector Morton smiled. "Yes, M. Poirot. We're investigating him. After all, it's easy enough to pass off as a friend of Mrs. Lanskinet's, isn't it? Mrs. Bankes doesn't know if he is. He might Leave that little package, you know. It's easy enough to make it through the mail, too. Put the stamps on a lamp and smoke them, and you'll get a decent postmark." He paused and then said: "There are other possibilities." Poirot nodded. "Do you think……?" "Mr. George Crossfield was there . . . only the next day, intending to attend the funeral, but something went wrong on the way. Do you know him, M. Poirot?"

"Know a little, but not enough." "Really? From what I understand there are quite a few people interested in Mr. Abernethir's will, and I hope that doesn't mean everyone has to look into it." "I collected some information, you can use it. Of course, I don't have the right to ask these people. Besides, it would be unwise for me to do so." "Then I will proceed slowly by myself. You don't want to startle the snake, but once you start to do it, you will succeed in one fell swoop." "Very good technique, then, my friend, on your part, the routine work... with your manpower and material resources, although slow...but sure, as for myself..." "Well, M. Poirot?" "Myself, I'm going north, as I told you, I'm interested in people, yes... with a little pretense... I'm going north." "I am prepared," continued Hercule Poirot, "to buy a country estate for alien refugees, on behalf of the U.N.A.R.C.O." "What is U·N·A·R·C·O?" "The United Nations Elderly Refugees Relief Center, it sounds pretty good, what do you think?" Inspector Morton grinned.