Chapter 8 Chapter Eight, Fifteen, Sixteen, There Are Ladies in the Kitchen

The meeting with Agnes Fletcher was in a nearly deserted tea shop in Hertfordshire, for Agnes was very reluctant to speak her words under the stern eye of Miss Morley. The first quarter of an hour was spent listening to how strict Agnes's mother had been upbringing.Also, although her father was a tobacco and alcohol peddler, he had never had any conflicts with the police, and he observed that the closing time was accurate to the second.In the small Gloucestershire town of Darling, Agnes's parents were indeed widely respected and admired.Mrs. Fletcher's six children (two of whom died in infancy) never gave them the least amount of leisure.And now if Agnes had anything to do with the police, Mama and Papa would probably be pissed off, because, as she's said, they've always held their heads up, never The police never made this kind of trouble.

Having said enough of these things over and over, and adding various details, Agnes drew a little closer to the subject of the interview. "I don't like to say anything to Miss Morley, sir, because, you know, she'll probably blame me for not saying it sooner. But the cook and I, having talked it over, don't think it concerns us, because we From what is written in the newspapers about Mr. Morley's taking the wrong medicine, and shooting himself, with the pistol still in his hand, etc., it sure seems all too clear, doesn't it, sir?" "When did you start to feel that something was wrong?" Poirot hoped to approach the unexpected she promised to give with encouragement rather than direct questioning.

Agnes said without thinking: "That's when I read in the papers about Frank Carter - Miss Neville's young man. When I read that he shot at the gentleman who hired him as a gardener." Uh, I thought, it looks like he might be a little out of his mind, because I know some people are like that, always feel like they're being persecuted, surrounded by enemies and all, and in the end it's hard to even lock them up at home Dangerous, had to be sent to asylum. I think that may have been the case with Frank Carter, because I distinctly remember him constantly berating Mr. Morley, and saying that Mr. Morley was against him and was trying to separate him from Miss Neville But of course she wouldn't listen to anything bad about him, and we—Emma and I, thought she was right, because you couldn't deny that Mr. Carter was a good-looking man, and a gentleman. Of course, we Didn't think he'd do anything to Mr Morley. But we just thought it was a little odd, if you know what I mean."

Poirot asked patiently: "What's so strange?" "That was the morning, sir, the morning of Mr. Morley's suicide. I kept wondering if I should have run downstairs to get the letter. The postman had come, but that Alfred hadn't brought it up yet. If there was Letters from Miss Morley and Mr. Morley, he will send, but if it's just for Emma or me, he won't bother to bring them till lunchtime. "So I went up to the landing and looked up the stairs. Miss Morley didn't like us going down into the vestibule during the master's working hours. But I thought I might just see Alfred taking the sick to the master's." , I can call him when he comes back."

Agnes' breathing became a little short, she took a deep breath, and then continued. "That's when I saw him—it was Frank Carter. He was standing in the middle of the stairs—I mean our stairs, just above the master's floor. He was standing there waiting, eyes watching look down—I'm getting more and more curious about it now. He seems to be listening intently, I hope you understand me." "What time was it then?" "It must have been near half-past twelve, sir. I was thinking, Well, now that Frank Carter is here, and Miss Neville isn't here today, is he going to be disappointed? I wonder if I should run off Tell him, because it seems Alfred with the elm head has forgotten, or I don't think he will come to wait for her. While I was hesitating, Mr. Carter seemed to make up his mind, He slipped down the stairs quickly, and passed along the corridor leading to the master's operating room. I thought to myself that the master would not like this, and I was afraid that there would be a row. But at this moment Emma called me, and asked what I was doing. I went. I went upstairs. Later, I heard that the master had committed suicide. Of course, it was too terrible. My mind went blank. But then, after the police detective left, I told Emma, I said, I didn't say at all that Mr. Carter came up to the master this morning, and she asked if he really came? I told her, and she said maybe I should, but anyway I said better wait For a while, she agreed, because we didn't want Frank Carter to get into trouble unless absolutely necessary. Then there was an investigative trial, and it was concluded that the owner had made a mistake with the medicine and was so frightened that he killed himself, which seemed quite reasonable. —Well, of course, then there is no need to say anything. But reading that paragraph in the paper two days ago--oh, it frightened me! I said to myself, if he is the kind of general A lunatic who feels persecuted and kills everywhere, ah, then maybe he really killed his master too!"

Her eyes, full of anxiety and fear, looked hopefully at Hercule Poirot.He did his best to pour relief into his voice. "You may be sure that it was perfectly right to tell me that, Agnes." "I gotta say, sir, it made me feel a lot easier. You see, I kept saying to myself that maybe I should tell. Then, you see, I thought about dealing with the police again. What did my mother say? .She's always been very strict with us—" "Yes Yes".Hercule Poirot said hastily. He felt he could not bear to hear so much about Agnes' mother in one afternoon. Poirot goes to Scotland Yard to find Japp.As soon as he was brought into the Inspector-General's office, Hercule Poirot said: "I want to see Carter."

Japp gave him an instant sidelong glance. He asked, "What's your opinion?" "You don't want to help?" Japp shrugged his shoulders and said: "Well, I wouldn't object. It won't do any good. Who's the Home Secretary's darling? Your old man. Who's going to control half the cabinet? Or your old man. You're trying to cover them up." Cover up." For a moment Poirot had in mind the case which he christened "The Case of King Auguste's Stables."He whispered triumphantly: "It's ingenious, isn't it? You have to admit it. It can be said that the imagination is very rich."

"Only you can think of such a thing! Sometimes, Poirot, I really think you are absolutely lawless!" Poirot's face suddenly darkened."That's not the case," he said. "Oh, well, Poirot, I didn't mean it that way. But sometimes you get too drunk on your damn cleverness. What are you going to see Carter for? To ask him if he really killed Molly? " To Japp's surprise, Poirot nodded decisively. "Yes, my friend, for that." "I suppose you thought, if he did it, he'd tell you?" Japp laughed.But Poirot remained serious."Maybe he'll tell me — yes," he said.

Japp looked at him curiously and said, "You know, I've known you for a long time—twenty years? Almost. But I still can't always figure out what you mean. Young Frank Carter's brains are shattered. For one reason or another, you don't want him to be guilty—" Hercule Poirot shook his head vigorously. "No, no, you're wrong. There's another reason—" "I think maybe it's because of that girl of his—the blond one. You're a sentimental old chap in a way." Poirot was immediately irritated. "It's not me who is sentimental! It's a British weakness! It's in England that people moan over young lovers, dying mothers, and innocent children. I'm logical. If Frank Carter was a murderer I certainly wouldn't be so sentimental as to get him married to a decent but ordinary girl, after all, if he's hanged, she'll forget about him and find another in a year or two."

"Then why don't you want to believe that he's guilty?" "I really want to believe he's guilty." "It seems to me that you are saying that you have some material which, in some way, will prove his innocence? Why don't you say it? You are doing us justice, Poirot." "I've been fair to you. Soon, before long, I'll give you the name and address of a witness who will be invaluable in your case. Her testimony will make the case against him established." "But--oh! You've just confused me. Then why are you so anxious to see him?"

"To satisfy myself".replied Hercule Poirot. He said no more. Frank Carter was haggard and pale, but he still looked like he was about to growl.He looked at his intruder with undisguised distaste, and shouted roughly: "So it's you again, you nasty little gringo? What on earth do you want?" "I want to see you and talk to you." "Well, you just watch it. But I won't talk to you. I won't talk to anyone without a lawyer. That's the way it should be, right? You can't violate this. I have a right to have a lawyer present before I speak." "Of course you have the power. You can call him if you like--but I'd rather you don't." "I daresay you're trying to induce me to give something of myself, don't you?" "Remember, it's just the two of us here." "It's kind of weird, isn't it? To have your fellow cops eavesdropping outside, I know for sure." "You are wrong, this is a private meeting between you and me." Frank Carter laughed, his expression sly and unpleasant.He said, "Don't talk nonsense! I can't be fooled by this old game." "Do you remember a girl named Agnes Fletcher?" "Never heard of it." "I think you'll remember her, though you probably never noticed her much. She was the parlormaid at 58, Queen Charlotte Street." "Oh, so what?" Hercule Poirot said slowly: "On the morning of Morley's assassination, that girl named Agnes happened to look under the banister from the attic. She saw you on the stairs—waiting, listening. After a while she saw you walking towards Mr. Morley's room. It was about twenty-six past twelve." Frank Carter shivered violently, cold sweat dripping from his forehead.His eyes were more furtive, moving from side to side.He roared, "Lie! It's a damned lie! You paid her—the police paid her—to say she saw me." "At that time," said Hercule Poirot, "according to your own account, you had left the clinic and were walking along the Maryl-le-Bonne road." "That's right. The girl is lying. She can't see me. It's a dirty plot. If it's true, why didn't she tell it before?" Hercule Poirot said calmly: "At that time, she told her friend and colleague, the cook. They were scared and confused, and didn't know what to do. After the verdict of suicide was made, they felt You can rest assured that they don’t need to say anything.” "I don't believe it at all! They're a gang, that's all, a pair of dirty, lying little--" What follows is a slew of rampant profanity. Hercule Poirot waited. It was not until Frank Carter finally paused that Poirot spoke again.The voice remains calm and restrained. "Angry and stupid insults won't save you. These two girls will tell what they know, and people will believe it. Because they tell the truth. That girl, Agnes Fletcher, Did see you, you were on the stairs. You didn't leave the house. You did go into Mr. Morley's room." He paused for a moment, then asked softly, "What happened then?" "It's all a lie, I tell you!" Hercule Poirot felt very tired--very old.He didn't like Frank Carter, not at all.In his opinion, Frank Carter was a rascal, a liar, a liar—in short, the kind of young man who could go on without them.He, Hercule Poirot, had to stand back, let the young man persist in the lie, and the world would be rid of one of its most disagreeable inhabitants. Hercule Poirot said: "I wish you would tell me the truth—" The consequences are clear to him.Frank Carter is stupid -- but he's not so stupid that he doesn't see that insisting on denial is his best and safest way out.Once he admitted that he had indeed been in the room at twelve twenty-six, he would have put one foot in the grave.Because since then, everything he has said in the past has every reason to be considered a lie. Then let him insist on denying it.If so, Hercule Poirot's mission is over.Frank Carter could well have been hanged for the murder of Henry Morley - and it might have been a just hanging. All Hercule Poirot could do was to get up and walk away. Frank Carter was still yelling, "It's a lie!" There was a long pause.Hercule Poirot did not get up and go away.He had wanted to do it—very much, but he stayed. Leaning forward, he said—his voice gathered all the compelling force of his powerful personality—"I'm not lying to you, and I beg you to believe me. If you didn't kill Molly, you The only way out is to tell me the truth of what happened that morning." The hateful, treacherous face turned toward him wavered, became less persistent.Frank Carter pursed his lips hard, and his eyes rolled around, full of fear, almost a pair of animal eyes. Now the situation is tense. Suddenly, overwhelmed by the force of humanity before him, Frank Carter gives up resistance. He said hoarsely, "Well, then—I'll tell you. God damn you if you fool me now! I did go in. I went up the stairs to wait until he was alone. Go in and get him. I was waiting there, above Molly's floor. Then a gentleman came out and went downstairs--a fat man. I was making up my mind to go--when another gentleman came from Molly Leigh's room and went downstairs too. I knew I had to hurry. I went over and slipped into his room without knocking. I was determined to make it right with him. Talking nonsense, driving me and my girl relationship—damn—” He stopped. "Well?" asked Poirot, his voice still urging—to make disobedience—"he's lying there—dead. Really! I swear it's true! Like Lying there like they said at the trial. I couldn't believe it. I bent over to see. But he was dead! His hands were cold, and I could see the blood had scabbed around the hole in his head— —” Recalling these, cold sweat oozes from his forehead again. "That's when I found myself in trouble. They'd say I did it. I only touched his hands and the doorknob, and when I went out I took out my handkerchief and wiped both sides, then sneaked away as fast as I could Downstairs. There was no one in the hall, and I came out and ran away. Not surprisingly, I felt dizzy and sick." He stopped and turned his frightened eyes to Poirot. "That's the truth. I swear it's the truth. He's dead. You've got to believe me." Poirot stood up and said--his voice was weary and mournful--"I believe you." He walked towards the door. Frank Carter cried, "They're going to hang me—surely they'll hang me if they know I'm there." Poirot said: "Tell the truth and you will save yourself from the gallows." "I don't see it coming, they're going to say—" Poirot interrupted him. "Your account further confirms what I believe to be the truth. Now, the rest of the matter can be left to me." He walked out. He wasn't happy at all. At six forty-five he arrived at Mr. Barnes's house in Ealing.He remembered Mr. Barnes calling it a good time of day. Mr. Barnes was busy in the garden. He said, as if in greeting: "We need rain, M. Poirot—very much." Looking thoughtfully at his visitor, he said: "You don't look well, M. Poirot." "Sometimes," said Hercule Poirot, "I have to do things I don't feel like doing." Barnes nodded sympathetically. He said, "I understand." Hercule Poirot looked around the neat arrangement in the small flowerbed with a blank expression.He whispered: "This garden is well designed. Everything is just right. Although it is small, it is very delicate." "When you have a small area, you have to make good use of it," Mr Barnes said. "Because you can't afford to have a bad plan." Hercule Poirot nodded. Mr. Barnes went on: "I take it you are the one who found you?" "Frank Carter?" "Yes. Honestly, I'm rather surprised." "It never occurred to you that, for example, it was a private murder?" "No. To be honest, I never thought of it that way. Part Amberiozzi, part Alistair Blunt—I believed it was a case of mixed espionage and counterintelligence." "That's the point you made when we first met." "I know. I was convinced of it back then." Poirot said slowly: "But you are wrong." "Yeah. Stop showing my scars. The thing is, people always judge by what they've experienced. I've dealt with that kind of stuff too much. I feel like I'm seeing it all over the place. " Poirot said: "You used to watch tricksters play their cards, didn't you? What were they called—compulsive cards?" "Yes, exactly." "That's the way it's done here. Every time people think of a personal reason for Molly's death, hey, change it!—the compulsive card is played at him. Amberiozzi, Aris Terbrent, the political instability of this country—" he shrugged, "as for you, Mr. Barnes, you have led me astray farther than anyone else." "Oh, listen, Poirot, I'm sorry. I thought it was so." "You see, your previous work has given you a better understanding. So your words work." "Well—I believe everything I say. That's the only excuse I can offer." He stopped and sighed. "Is it always a purely private motive?" "Exactly. It took me a long time to see the cause of the murder—though I had a good fortune once." "What is it?" "A fragment of a conversation. Seriously, it's a very illuminating fragment, if only I could have grasped its significance then." Mr. Barnes wiped his nose thoughtfully with the trowel.A small piece of dirt stuck to the side of the nose. "You're talking too vaguely, aren't you?" he asked Poirot in a friendly way. Hercule Poirot shrugged.He said, "Perhaps I am aggrieved that you have not been honest with me." "I?" "yes." "My dear chap - it never occurred to me that Carter was guilty. All I knew was that Molly left long before he was killed. I wonder if he said he was gone but now they find out He didn't leave?" Poirot said: "Carter was in the house at twenty-six past twelve. He actually saw the murderer." "So Carter didn't—" "I told you, Carter saw the murderer!" Mr. Barnes said: "So—does he realize who he is?" Hercule Poirot shook his head slowly.