the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:
‘Thank goodness you’re sensible. You see that it does matter—and what it involves. You don’t try and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.’
‘I understand very well,’ said Poirot. ‘What I do not understand is what you want of me?’
Carla Lemarchant said simply:
‘I want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and two boys. And you’re going to make that possible!’
‘You mean—you want me to talk to your fiancé? Ah no, it is idiocy what I say there! It is something quite different that you are suggesting. Tell me what is in your mind.’
‘Listen, M. Poirot. Get this—and get it clearly. I’m hiring you to investigate a case of murder.’
‘Do you mean—?’
‘Yes, I do mean. A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteen years ago.’
‘But my dear young lady—’
‘Wait, M. Poirot. You haven’t got it all yet. There’s a very important point.’
‘Yes?’
‘My mother was innocent,’ said Carla Lemarchant.
Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose. He murmured:
‘Well, naturally—I comprehend that—’
‘It isn’t sentiment. There’s her letter. She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to me when I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reason—that I should be quite sure. That’s all that was in it. That she hadn’t done it—that she was innocent—that I could be sure of that always.’
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young vital face staring so earnestly at him. He said slowly:
‘Tout de même—’
Carla smiled.
‘No, mother wasn’t like that! You’re thinking that it might be a lie—a sentimental lie?’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘Listen, M. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well. I can remember my mother—a patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well the sort of person she was. She didn’t tell lies—kind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told you so. Dentists, or thorns in your finger—all that sort of thing. Truth was a—a natural impulse to her. I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her—but I trusted her. I still trust her! If she says she didn’t kill my father then she didn’t kill him! She wasn’t the sort of person who would solemnly write down a lie when she knew she was dying.’
Slowly, almost reluctantly, Hercule Poirot bowed his head.
Carla went on.
‘That’s why it’s all right for me marrying John. I know it’s all right. But he doesn’t. He feels that naturally I would think my mother was innocent. It’s got to be cleared up, M. Poirot. And you’re going to do it!’
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
‘Granted that what you say is true, mademoiselle, sixteen years have gone by!’
Carla Lemarchant said: ‘Oh! of course it’s going to be difficult! Nobody but you could do it!’
Hercule Poirot’s eyes twinkled slightly. He said:
‘You give me the best butter—hein?’
Carla said:
‘I’ve heard about you. The things you’ve done. The way you have done them. It’s psychology that interests you, isn’t it? Well, that doesn’t change with time. The tangible things are gone—the cigarette-end and the footprints and the bent blades of grass. You can’t look for those any more. But you can go over all the facts of the case, and perhaps talk to the people who were there at the time—they’re all alive still—and then—and then, as you said just now, you can lie back in your chair and think. And you’ll know what really happened…’
Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. One hand caressed his moustache. He said:
‘Mademoiselle, I am honoured! I will justify your faith in me. I will investigate your case of murder. I will search back into the events of sixteen years ago and I will find out the truth.’
Carla got up. Her eyes were shining. But she only said:
‘Good.’
Hercule Poirot shook an eloquent forefinger.
‘One little moment. I have said I will find out the truth. I do not, you understand, have the bias. I do not accept your assurance of your mother’s innocence. If she was guilty—eh bien, what then?’
Carla’s proud head went back. She said:
‘I’m her daughter. I want the truth!’
Hercule Poirot said:
‘En avant, then. Though it is not that, that I should say. On the contrary. En arrière…’
‘Do I remember the Crale case?’ asked Sir Montague Depleach. ‘Certainly I do. Remember it very well. Most attractive woman. But unbalanced, of course. No self-control.’
He glanced sideways at Poirot.
‘What makes you ask me about it?’
‘I am interested.’
‘Not really tactful of you, my dear man,’ said Depleach, showing his teeth in his sudden famous ‘wolf’s smile’, which had been reputed to have such a terrifying effect upon witnesses. ‘Not one of my successes, you know. I didn’t get her off.’
‘I know that.’
Sir Montague shrugged his shoulders. He said:
‘Of course I hadn’t quite as much experience then as I have now. All the same I think I did all that could humanly be done. One can’t do much without co-operation. We did get it commuted to penal servitude. Provocation, you know. Lots of respectable wives and mothers got up a petition. There was a lot of sympathy for her.’
He leaned back stretching out his long legs. His face took on a judicial, appraising look.
‘If she’d shot him, you know, or even knifed him—I’d have gone all out for manslaughter. But poison—no, you can’t play tricks with that. It’s tricky—very tricky.’
‘What
