Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

Poirot, still sitting after Henrietta had left him, saw Inspector Grange walk across the pool with a firm, easy step, and took the path past the awning. This sheriff was on purpose in walking this path. He must be going, either to the fast or to the loft.Poirot wondered where he was going. He got up and walked back the way he had just come.If Inspector Grange was going to visit him, he would be very interested in hearing what the Inspector had to say. But when he returned to Qizhai, there was no sign of any visitors.Poirot looked thoughtfully at the road leading to the lofts.Veronica Clay hadn't, he knew, she hadn't returned to London.

He found himself becoming more curious about Veronica Clay.The white, dazzling fox fur shawl, the pile of matchboxes, Saturday night's half-explained intrusion, and finally Henrietta Savnac's leak of John Crystal Wyndham Ronika's relationship. This is, he thought, an interesting pattern.Yep, that's how he sees it: a pattern. A picture of entangled feelings and clashing personalities.A strangely complex picture, threaded by dark threads of hatred and desire. Did Gerda Christo kill her husband?Maybe it's not that simple. Henrietta had come to the conclusion that he suspected her of being the murderer, but in fact what was going on in his mind was no further than the conviction that Henrietta knew something.Know something or hide something - what is it?

He shook his head dissatisfied. That scene by the pool. Who performed it?Who is it for? The answer to the second question was him, Hercule Poirot, who he strongly suspected was so.He thought so too at the time.But then he thought it was inappropriate behavior - a joke. It's still inappropriate behavior -- but it's not a joke. So what about the answer to the first question? He shook his head.he does not know.He had no idea at all. He half-closed his eyes and began to go through all this in his mind--all this--and his rational eye saw it clearly: Sir Henry, an upright, responsible, trustworthy administrator of the Empire The magistrate, Mrs. Angkatell, was vague and evocative, with that unpredictable, bewildering charm, and the outsized influence of that incoherent proposal; Henry Rietta Savnak, who loved John Crystal more than herself; the gentle, passive Edward Angkatell; the brown-black, positive girl named Mitch Hardcastle ; Gerda Christo clutching a pistol tightly in her hand, her dizzy, confused face; David Angkatell's adolescent rebellious personality.

All of them were tightly wrapped by the French Open.After his sudden, violent death, they were stuck together for a short time in the unrelenting aftermath.Each of them has its own tragedy and meaning, its own story. The truth lies somewhere in the interplay of personality and emotion. For Hercule Poirot, there is only one thing that fascinates him more than the study of man himself, and that is the pursuit of truth. He wanted to know the truth about John Crystal's death. "Of course, Mr. Sheriff," said Veronica, "I am very eager to help you." "Thank you, Miss Clay."

For some reason, Veronica Clay was not at all what the sheriff imagined. He is prepared for possible seductiveness, affectation, and even grandiosity.He wouldn't be in the least surprised if she put on a bit of air. In fact, she was, he shrewdly guessed, putting on a show, but not in the way he expected. There isn't any excess of femininity - and no allure is exerted. Instead, he felt that he was sitting opposite a beautiful, expensively dressed woman who was also an excellent businesswoman.Veronica Clay is definitely not a fool, he thought. "All we want is a clear narrative, Miss Clay. Did you go to Hollow Manor Saturday night?"

"Yes, I'm out of matches. Forgot how important these things are in the country." "You've come all the way to Hollow Manor? Why don't you go to Mr. Poirot, your neighbor next door?" She smiled—a superior, confident, camera-ready smile. "I don't know who the next-door neighbor is - though I should know, I just think he's a small foreigner, and I think he's boring living so close together, you know." "Yes," thought Grange, "seems quite reasonable." She must have prepared that reason for the occasion. "You got the matches," he said, "and recognized an old friend—Dr. Crystal, am I right?"

She nodded. "Poor John. Yes, I haven't seen him for fifteen years." "Really?" There was a polite disbelief in the Sheriff's tone. "Really." She affirmed this firmly in her tone. "You were glad to see him, weren't you?" "Very pleased. It's always pleasant, don't you think, Mr. Sheriff, to come across an old friend by chance?" "On certain occasions." Veronica Clay continued without waiting for further inquiries: "John sent me back. You wonder if he said something in connection with this tragedy. I've thought about our conversation very carefully - but there really isn't a clue."

"What did you talk about, Miss Clay?" "The old days. 'Do you remember this, that, and the rest,'" she smiled sentimentally. "We've known each other since we were in the south of France and John hasn't changed much - older, of course, and more confident. I guess he's very well known in his line of business. He doesn't say anything about his Personal life. I just have the impression that his married life may not be very happy--but only the vaguest impression. I guess his wife, poor fellow, is just one of those many suspicious, jealous women-- Probably always fussing over his pretty female patients."

"No," said Grange, "she doesn't seem like that." Veronica said quickly: "You mean--it's all under the surface? Yes--yes, I can see it's far scarier." "I understand you think Mrs. Crystal shot him, Miss Clay?" "I shouldn't have said those things. One shouldn't have made a comment—was it—before the trial? I'm so sorry, Mr. Sheriff, it was my maid who told me that she was found standing next to the body with her hand in her hand. Still holding a revolver. You know how everything is exaggerated in these quiet countryside, and the servants spread it."

"The servants are very useful sometimes, Miss Clay." "Yes, I suppose you get a lot of news this way?" Grange went on dully: "Of course, it's a question of whose motives—" He paused.Veronica said with a faint, rueful smile: "Is the wife always the number one suspect? How ironic! But there's usually someone called 'the other woman' and I guess she might be thought to have a motive as well?" "Well—yes, I guess quite a bit there might be. One just gets an impression, you know." "Impressions can be very helpful at times," says Grange.

"I guess quite a bit—from what he said—that the sculptor was, well, a very close friend of his. But I hope you already know all these things." "We've got to look into all these things, of course." There was absolutely no promise in Sheriff Grange's voice, but he saw it, a quick, contented, hateful spark flickering in those big blue eyes. He asked the question in full bureaucratic tone: "Dr. Crystal sent you back. You said it. What time was it when you said good-bye to him?" "You know what, I really can't remember! We talked for a while, and that's all I know. It must be very late." "Did he go in?" "Yes, I bought him a drink." "I see. I guess your conversation was probably in the — under the gazebo by the pool." He saw her eyelids flicker, and after a moment of hesitation, she said: "You really are a detective, aren't you? Yes, we sat there smoking and talking for a while. How did you know?" There was that happy, eager expression of a child asking to demonstrate a clever trick on her face. "You left your fur there, Miss Cray," he added without emphasis: "And matches." "Yes, I forgot to take them." "Dr. Crystal returned to Hollow at three o'clock," the sheriff declared, again without any emphasis. "Is it really this late?" Veronica sounded surprised. "Yes, it's that late, Miss Clay." "Of course, we have so much to talk about - haven't seen each other for so many years." "Are you sure it's been this long since you last saw Dr. Crystal?" "I have just told you that I have not seen him for fifteen years." "Are you quite sure you're not mistaken? I have a feeling you've probably seen him many times." "What on earth makes you think so?" "Well, on the one hand it's this note." Inspector Grange took out a letter from his pocket, glanced at it, cleared his throat and read: "Please come over this morning, I must see you. Veronica." "Yeah," she smiled. "It's a little irresistible, maybe. I suspect Hollywood makes a person—well, pretty arrogant." "Dr. Crystal came to your room the next morning in answer to your summons. You had a quarrel. Will you tell me, Miss Cray? What was the quarrel about?" The sheriff made no secret of his hostile intentions.He caught the spark of exasperation and her lips locked in sullenness deftly.She quickly changed her mood and said: "We didn't argue." "Oh no, you had a row, Miss Clay. Your last words were: 'I think I hate you more than I hate anyone.'" She fell silent.He could feel her thinking - thinking quickly and carefully.Some women might say something hastily.But Veronica Clay is too shrewd, she won't do this. She shrugged and said lightly: "I understand. There are plenty of fairy tales told by servants, too. My little maid has a pretty active imagination. There are many different ways of telling things, you know. I can assure you I'm not playing popular Farce. It was really just a mildly flirtatious comment. We argued together." "That sentence is not serious, is it?" "Of course not. And I can assure you, Mr. Sheriff, that it has been fifteen years since I last saw John Crystal. You can prove it for yourself." Once again she was poised, calm and confident in herself. Instead of arguing or pressing on the subject, Grange stood up. "That's it for now, Miss Clay," he said cheerfully. He walked out of the pigeon loft, set foot on the country road, and turned to the gate of Qizhai. Hercule Poirot gazed at the sheriff with the utmost astonishment.He repeated incredulously: "Isn't the revolver that Gerda Cristo held in her hand and then fell into the swimming pool the same revolver that fired the fatal shot? But that's unusual." "Indeed, M. Poirot. Frankly speaking, it doesn't make any sense." Poirot murmured softly: "Yes, it doesn't make any sense. But then, Mr. Sheriff, it should make sense, huh?" The Sheriff sighed heavily: "That's the way it is, M. Poirot. We've got to find something meaningful--but I couldn't see it at the time. The truth is, until we find the gun that works We can only go a step further after the lost gun. It came from Sir Henry’s collection – at least, one gun was lost – which means the whole thing still has a strong connection to Hollowland.” "Yes," muttered Poirot, "there is still a close connection with Hollow Manor." "It seems like a simple, obvious incident," continued the Inspector. "Well, it's neither so simple nor so obvious." "No," said Poirot, "it is not simple." "We have to admit that there is a possibility that this matter is a frame-up conspiracy-that is to say, everything has been arranged to implicate Gerda Christo. If this is the case, why is it not in the corpse?" Leave the revolver that was the murder weapon, let her pick it up?" "It she probably won't pick it up." "That's right, but even if she didn't pick it up, as long as it didn't have anyone else's fingerprints on it - that is, if the pistol had been wiped after use - she would likely be suspect. And that's what the killer Hope, isn't it?" "yes?" Grange watched Poirot. "Well, if you commit a murder, you're going to want to plant it on someone else quickly and skillfully, don't you? That's a normal reaction of a murderer." "Yes—yes," said Poirot. "But maybe we've got a rather unusual type of murderer here. Maybe that's the solution to our problem." "What's the solution?" Poirot said thoughtfully: "An unusual type of murderer." Inspector Grange looked at him oddly.He said: "But at that point—what was Murderer thinking? What were his or her intentions?" Poirot sighed and spread his hands. "I don't know—I don't know at all. It seems to me—vaguely—" "what?" "The murderer is someone who wants to kill John Crystal, but doesn't want to implicate Gerda Crystal." "Ha! In fact, we were immediately suspicious of her." "Ah, yes, but it's only a matter of time before the truth about the gun comes out, and this will bring a new perspective. In the intermission, the murderer has time—" Poirot paused completely. "What do you have time for?" "Ah, momami, you stump me. I'm going to have to say again that I don't know." Inspector Grange made several turns up and down the room.Then he stopped, stopping in front of Poirot. "I have come to you this afternoon, Monsieur Poirot, for two reasons. One is because I know - and it is well known in the Police - that you are an experienced and skilled man in such matters. But there was another reason. You were there when it happened, you were a witness. You saw what happened." Poirot nodded. "Yes, I saw what happened—but eyes, Inspector Grange, are very unreliable witnesses." "What do you mean, M. Poirot?" "The eyes see, sometimes, what they want to see." "Do you think that was all pre-planned?" "I suspect so. It's all completely, you know, like a scene on a stage. I see it clearly. A man who's just been shot, and the woman who shot him was holding the gun in her hand. Used gun. That's what I saw, and we've learned that the picture is false at one point. That gun wasn't used to shoot John Crystal." "Hmph!" The sheriff tugged back at his drooping mustache. "Are you referring to some other points in this picture that may be wrong?" Poirot nodded.He said: "There were three others on the scene - three who had obviously just arrived. But that may not be real either. The swimming pool was surrounded by a dense grove of young chestnut trees. From the pool there were five paths, One leads to the house, one leads to the woods, one leads to the flower path, one goes down from the swimming pool to the farm, and one leads to the country road here. "Of course these three people, each came from a different way, Edward Angkatel came from the woods above, Mrs Angkatel came from the farm, and Henrietta Savnac It came from the flower path beyond the house. The three men arrived at the crime scene almost at the same time, just a few minutes after Gerda Christo arrived. "But one of the three, Mr. Sheriff, probably arrived before Gerda Crystal, shot John Crystal, and re-entered one of these lanes, then , turned around, and pretended to arrive at the same time as the others." Sheriff Grange said: "Yes, it is entirely possible." "As for the other possibility, I didn't think of it at the time. Someone might have gone down this country road here, killed John Crystal, and then returned the same way without being seen." Grange said: "You're absolutely right. There are two other possible suspects besides Gerda Crystal. We have found the same motive—jealousy. It must be a love affair. And The other two women were involved with John Crystal." He paused, then said: "Krystal went to see Veronica Clay that morning and they had an argument. She told him she was going to make him regret everything she had done and said she hated him more than anyone." "Very interesting," muttered Poirot. "She's straight from Hollywood—and from what I've read in the papers, they sometimes shoot each other and fight each other to the death. She's probably going to fetch her in the cooler the night before." Fur in the canopy. They met--then it exploded--she shot him--and then, hearing someone coming, she turned back the way she had come." He paused for a moment, and added a few words angrily: "And now we're back to the part that makes the whole thing mess up. That damn gun! Unless," his eyes light up. "She killed him with her own gun, and threw down a gun she stole from Sir Henry's study, to deflect suspicion on the group at Hollow Manor. She certainly didn't know that we Being able to tell from the marks in the chamber whether the gun has been fired." "I doubt how many people know about this." "I made this point clear to Sir Henry. He said he thought there were quite a few people who would know the method of identification from the descriptions in detective novels. He cited a new book, Clues in Running Springs, which he said Saying that John Crystal himself was reading the book on Saturday emphasizes how special it is." "But Veronica Clay managed to get a gun out of Sir Henry's study." "Yes, that would mean that everything was pre-planned." The sheriff tugged his beard again, and then looked at Poirot: "But you have alluded to another possibility, Mr. Poirot." .and Miss Savnak. And this will be where your sightings, or, I should rather say, hearsays, may be useful again. Dr. Crystal uttered 'Henrietta' when he was dying time. You heard him—they all heard him, though Mr. Angkatell didn't seem to hear what he said." "Didn't Edward Angkatell hear? That's interesting." "But everyone else heard it. Miss Savnak herself said he tried to address her. Mrs Angkatell said he opened his eyes and saw Miss Savnak and said 'Henrière Tower, 'she has nothing to do with it, I think." Poirot smiled. "Yes—she will have nothing to do with it." "Now, M. Poirot, what do you think? You were there - saw - heard. Is Dr. Crystal trying to tell you that it was Henrietta who shot him? In short By the way, is that word an accusation?" Poirot said slowly: "At the time I didn't think that was the case." "But now, M. Poirot? How do you think now!" Poirot sighed.Then he said slowly: "Maybe so. I can't say much more. It's just a glimpse of what you've asked me, and when the moment is over there's a temptation to read that out of the thing." meaning that didn’t exist at the time.” Grange said quickly: "None of this is on the record, of course. M. Poirot's ideas are not evidence—I know that, I'm just trying to get a clue." "Oh, I understand you very well—and an eyewitness impression would be very useful. But I am ashamed to have to tell you that my impression is of no value. I was induced to think that Mrs. Crystal had just shot her husband so that when Dr. Crystal opened his eyes and said 'Henrietta', I never took that as an accusation. Now I am very I want to look back at that time and read something from the scene that wasn't there." "I see what you mean," said Grange, "but it seems to me that since 'Henrietta' was the last word Crystal uttered, it must mean one of the two. Either The accusation of murder, either—well, sheer outpouring of emotion. She's the woman he's been in love with, and he's dying. Now, with everything in your mind, it's two Which of the two sounds more reasonable?" Poirot sighed, moved, closed his eyes, opened them again, and spread his hands in agony.He said: "His voice was urgent - that's all I could tell - urgent. To me, it didn't seem accusatory, nor emotional - but urgent, yes! And I'm sure of one thing. He was completely occupied by his profession. He talked—yes, he talked like a doctor—a doctor who had a sudden surgical emergency on hand—a patient about to bleed to death, Perhaps," shrugged Poirot, "that is the best I can do for you." "Medical, huh?" said the sheriff. "Oh yeah, that's the third way of looking at it. He's been shot, he suspects he's going to die, and he wants to get people to do something for him quickly. .and if, as Mrs. Angkatell said, Miss Savnak was the first person he saw when he opened his eyes, then he would have asked her. However, this does not Very satisfying." "There is nothing to please anyone about this case," said Poirot with a certain bitterness. A murder scene, staged and staged to deceive Hercule Poirot - and indeed to deceive him!Yes, this is unsatisfactory. Sheriff Grange looked out the window. "Hello," he said, "this is Clark, my sergeant. Looks like he's got something. He's been asking the servants—friendly touches. He's a handsome lad, and he's got a way with women." Officer Clark came in, a little out of breath.He was clearly very pleased with himself, beaming despite the restraint of his formidable official demeanor. "I thought it best to report, sir, now that I know where you've been." He hesitated, casting a suspicious glance at Poirot, whose exotic appearance was not welcomed by his official rigor. "Speak, my man," said Grange. "It doesn't matter that M. Poirot is here. He will forget more about the game in the years to come than you will ever know." "Yes, sir. Well, sir, I got some information from the kitchen maid—" Grange cut him off.He turned to Poirot triumphantly. "What did I just tell you? Where there's a cook, there's hope. God help us when there's no one to keep a cook in the house. Cooks talk and tell Secret. They are seen as the lower class, and their place is right next to cooks and high-class servants. It's human nature to talk about what you know to whoever wants to hear it. Go on, Clark." "That's what the girl said, sir. She saw Gjen, the housekeeper, walking down the hall Saturday afternoon with a revolver in his hand." "Gagen?" "Yes, sir." Clarke checked a blotter, "these are her own words, 'I don't know what to do, but I think I should tell what I saw that day. I saw Gerger Well, he's standing in the hall with a revolver in his hand. Mr. Gjeyn looks really special.'" "I don't think," Clark said, pausing, "that there's nothing about the part that looks special. She might have added it in her head. But I think you should know that right away, sir." Inspector Grange rose to his feet with the complacency of a man who sees the task before him coming to a close. "Gagen?" he said. "I want to speak to Gazeon immediately."