Doyle was frowning a little. He belonged to that type of men of action who find it difficult to put thoughts into words and who have trouble in expressing themselves clearly.
‘I’m glad of one thing,’ he said. ‘You’ve made her realize that we’re more or less powerless in the matter.’
‘There is clearly no legal redress,’ agreed Poirot.
‘Exactly. Linnet didn’t seem to understand that.’ He gave a faint smile. ‘Linnet’s been brought up to believe that every annoyance can automatically be referred to the police.’
‘It would be pleasant if such were the case,’ said Poirot.
There was a pause. Then Simon said suddenly, his face going very red as he spoke:
‘It’s–it’s infamous that she should be victimized like this! She’s done nothing! If anyone likes to say I behaved like a cad, they’re welcome to say so! I suppose I did. But I won’t have the whole thing visited on Linnet. She had nothing whatever to do with it.’
Poirot bowed his head gravely but said nothing.
‘Did you–er–have you–talked to Jackie–Miss de Bellefort?’
‘Yes, I have spoken with her.’
‘Did you get her to see sense?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
Simon broke out irritably: ‘Can’t she see what an ass she’s making of herself? Doesn’t she realize that no decent woman would behave as she is doing? Hasn’t she got any pride or self-respect?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘She has only a sense of–injury, shall we say?’ he replied.
‘Yes, but damn it all, man, decent girls don’t behave like this! I admit I was entirely to blame. I treated her damned badly and all that. I should quite understand her being thoroughly fed up with me and never wishing to see me again. But this following me round–it’s–it’s indecent! Making a show of herself! What the devil does she hope to get out of it?’
‘Perhaps–revenge!’
‘Idiotic! I’d really understand better if she’d tried to do something melodramatic–like taking a pot shot at me.’
‘You think that would be more like her–yes?’
‘Frankly I do. She’s hot-blooded–and she’s got an ungovernable temper. I shouldn’t be surprised at her doing anything while she was in a white-hot rage. But this spying business–’ He shook his head.
‘It is more subtle–yes! It is intelligent!’
Doyle stared at him.
‘You don’t understand. It’s playing hell with Linnet’s nerves.’
‘And yours?’
Simon looked at him with momentary surprise.
‘Me? I’d like to wring the little devil’s neck.’
‘There is nothing, then, of the old feeling left?’
‘My dear Monsieur Poirot–how can I put it? It’s like the moon when the sun comes out. You don’t know it’s there any more. When once I’d met Linnet–Jackie didn’t exist.’
‘Tiens, c’est drôle, ça!’ muttered Poirot.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your simile interested me, that is all.’
Again flushing, Simon said: ‘I suppose Jackie told you that I’d only married Linnet for her money? Well, that’s a damned lie! I wouldn’t marry any woman for money! What Jackie doesn’t understand is that it’s difficult for a fellow when–when–a woman cares for him as she cared for me.’
‘Ah?’
Poirot looked up sharply.
Simon blundered on: ‘It–it–sounds a caddish thing to say, but Jackie was too fond of me!’
‘Une qui aime et un qui se laisse aimer,’ murmured Poirot.
‘Eh? What’s that you say? You see, a man doesn’t want to feel that a woman cares more for him than he does for her.’ His voice grew warm as he went on. ‘He doesn’t want to feel owned, body and soul. It’s the damned possessive attitude! This man is mine–he belongs to me! That’s the sort of thing I can’t stick–no man could stick! He wants to get away–to get free. He wants to own his woman; he doesn’t want her to own him.’
He broke off, and with fingers that trembled slightly he lit a cigarette.
Poirot said: ‘And it is like that that you felt with Mademoiselle Jacqueline?’
‘Eh?’ Simon stared and then admitted: ‘Er–yes–well, yes, as a matter of fact I did. She doesn’t realize that, of course. And it’s not the sort of thing I could ever tell her. But I was feeling restless–and then I met Linnet, and she just swept me off my feet! I’d never seen anything so lovely. It was all so amazing. Everyone kowtowing to her–and then her singling out a poor chump like me.’
His tone held boyish awe and astonishment.
‘I see,’ said Poirot. He nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yes–I see.’
‘Why can’t Jackie take it like a man?’ demanded Simon resentfully.
A very faint smile twitched Poirot’s upper lip.
‘Well, you see, Monsieur Doyle, to begin with she is not a man.’
‘No, no–but I meant take it like a good sport! After all, you’ve got to take your medicine when it comes to you. The fault’s mine, I admit. But there it is! If you no longer care for a girl, it’s simply madness to marry her. And, now that I see what Jackie’s really like and the lengths she is likely to go to, I feel I’ve had rather a lucky escape.’
‘The lengths she is likely to go to,’ Poirot repeated thoughtfully. ‘Have you an idea, Monsieur Doyle, what those lengths are?’
Simon looked at him rather startled.
‘No–at least, what do you mean?’
‘You know she carries a pistol about with her?’
Simon frowned, then shook his head.
‘I don’t believe she’ll use that–now. She might have done so earlier. But I believe it’s got past that. She’s just spiteful now–trying to take it out of us both.’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘It may be so,’ he said doubtfully.
‘It’s Linnet I’m worrying about,’ declared Simon, somewhat unnecessarily.
‘I
