Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie

imagining a man in a launch?”
    “Somebody told me he'd come in a launch,” said Mrs Oliver. “I can't remember who. The one we were talking about at breakfast, I mean,” she added.
    “Please.” The inspector's tone was now pleading. He had had no idea before what the writers of detective stories were like. He knew that Mrs Oliver had written forty-odd books. It seemed to him astonishing at the moment that she had not written a hundred and forty. He rapped out a peremptory inquiry. “What is all this about a man at breakfast who came in a launch?”
    “He didn't come in the launch at breakfast time,” said Mrs Oliver, “it was a yacht. At least, I don't mean that exactly. It was a letter.”
    “Well, what was it?” demanded Bland. “A yacht or a letter?”
    “It was a letter,” said Mrs Oliver, “to Lady Stubbs. From a cousin in a yacht. And she was frightened,” she ended.
    “Frightened? What of?”
    “Of him, I suppose,” said Mrs Oliver. “Anybody could see it. She was terrified of him and she didn't want him to come, and I think that's why she's hiding now.”
    “Hiding?” said the inspector.
    “Well, she isn't about anywhere,” said Mrs Oliver. “Everyone's been looking for her. And I think she's hiding because she's afraid of him and doesn't want to meet him.”
    “Who is this man?” demanded the inspector.
    “You'd better ask M. Poirot,” said Mrs Oliver. “Because he spoke to him and I haven't. His name's Estaban - no, it isn't, that was in my plot. De Sousa, that's what his name is, Etienne de Sousa.”
    But another name had caught the inspector's attention.
    “Who did you say?” he asked. “Mr Poirot?”
    “Yes. Hercule Poirot. He was with me when we found the body.”
    “Hercule Poirot... I wonder now. Can it be the same man? A Belgian, a small man with a very big moustache.”
    “An enormous moustache,” agreed Mrs Oliver. “Yes. Do you know him?”
    “It's a good many years since I met him. I was a young sergeant at the time.”
    “You met him on a murder case?”
    “Yes, I did. What's he doing down here?”
    “He was to give away the prizes,” said Mrs Oliver.
    There was a momentary hesitation before she gave this answer, but it went unperceived by the inspector.
    “And he was with you when you discovered the body,” said Bland. “H'm, I'd like to talk to him.”
    “Shall I get him for you?” Mrs Oliver gathered up her purple draperies hopefully.
    “There's nothing more that you can add, madam? Nothing more that you think could help us in any way?”
    “I don't think so,” said Mrs Oliver. “I don't know anything. As I say, I could imagine reasons -”
    The inspector cut her short. He had no wish to hear any more of Mrs Oliver's imagined solutions. They were far too confusing.
    “Thank you very much, madam,” he said briskly. “If you'll ask M. Poirot to come and speak to me here I shall be very much obliged to you.”
    Mrs Oliver left the room. P.O. Hoskins inquired with interest:
    “Who's this Monsieur Poirot, sir?”
    “You'd describe him probably as a scream,” said Inspector Bland. “Kind of music hall parody of a Frenchman, but actually he's a Belgian. But in spite of his absurdities, he's got brains. He must be a fair age now.”
    “What about this De Sousa?” asked the constable. “Think there's anything in that, sir?”
    Inspector Bland did not hear the question. He was struck by a fact which, though he had been told it several times, was only now beginning to register.
    First it had been Sir George, irritated and alarmed. “My wife seems to have disappeared. I can't think where she has got to.” Then Miss Brewis, contemptuous: “Lady Stubbs was not to be found. She'd got bored with the show.” And now Mrs Oliver with her theory that Lady Stubbs was hiding.
    “Eh? What?” he said absently.
    Constable Hoskins cleared his throat.
    “I was asking you, sir, if you thought there was anything in this business of De Sousa - whoever he