is.”
Constable Hoskins was clearly delighted at having a specific foreigner rather than foreigners in the mass, introduced into the case. But Inspector Bland's mind was running on a different course.
“I want Lady Stubbs,” he said curtly. “Get hold of her for me. If she isn't about, look for her.”
Hoskins looked slightly puzzled but he left the room obediently. In the doorway he paused and fell back a little to allow Hercule Poirot to enter. He looked back over his shoulder with some interest before closing the door behind him.
“I don't suppose,” said Bland, rising and holding out his hand, “that you remember me, M. Poirot.”
“But assuredly,” said Poirot. “It is - now give me a moment, just a little moment. It is the young sergeant - yes, Sergeant Bland whom I met fourteen - no, fifteen years ago.”
“Quite right. What a memory!”
“ Not at all. Since you remember me, why should I not remember you?”
It would be difficult, Bland thought, to forget Hercule Poirot, and this not entirely for complimentary reasons.
“So here you are, M. Poirot,” he said. “Assisting at a murder once again.”
“You are right,” said Poirot. “I was called down here to assist.”
“Called down to assist?” Bland looked puzzled.
Poirot said quickly:
“I mean, I was asked down here to give away the prizes of this murder hunt.”
“So Mrs Oliver told me.”
“She told you nothing else?” Poirot said it with apparent carelessness. He was anxious to discover whether Mrs Oliver had given the Inspector any hint of the real motives which had led her to insist on Poirot's journey to Devon.
“Told me nothing else? She never stopped telling me things. Every possible and impossible motive for the girl's murder. She set my head spinning. Phew! What an imagination!”
“She earns her living by her imagination, mon ami,” said Poirot dryly.
“She mentioned a man called De Sousa - did she imagine that?”
“No, that is sober fact.”
“There was something about a letter at breakfast and a yacht and coming up the river in a launch- I couldn't make head or tail of it.”
Poirot embarked upon an explanation. He told of the scene at the breakfast table, the letter, Lady Stubbs's headache.
“Mrs Oliver said that Lady Stubbs was frightened. Did you think she as afraid, too?”
“That was the impression she gave me”
“Afraid of this cousin of hers? Why?”
Poirot shrugged shoulders.
“I have no idea. All she told me was that he was bad - a bad man. She is, you understand, a little simple. Subnormal.”
“Yes, that seems to be pretty generally known round here. She didn't say she was afraid of this De Sousa?”
“No.”
“But you think her fear was real?”
“If it was not, then she is a clever actress,” said Poirot dryly.
“I'm beginning to have some odd ideas about this case,” said Bland. He got up and walked restlessly to and fro. “It's that cursed woman's fault. I believe.”
“Mrs Oliver's?”
“Yes. She's put a lot of melodramatic ideas into my head.”
“And you think they may be true?”
“Not all of them - naturally - but one or two of them mightn't be as wild as they sounded. It all depends...” He broke off as the door opened to re-admit P.C. Hoskins.
“Don't seem able to find the lady, sir,” he said. “She's not about anywhere.”
“I know that already,” said Bland irritably. “I told you to find her.”
“Sergeant Farrell and P.C. Lorimer are searching the grounds, sir,” said Hoskins. “She's not in the house,” he added.
“Find out from the man who's taking admission tickets at the gate if she's left the place. Either, on foot or in a car.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoskins departed.
“And find out when she was last seen and where,” Bland shouted after him.
“So that is the way your mind is working,” said Poirot.
“It isn't working anywhere yet,” said Bland, “but I've just woken up to the fact that a lady who ought to be on the
Constable Hoskins was clearly delighted at having a specific foreigner rather than foreigners in the mass, introduced into the case. But Inspector Bland's mind was running on a different course.
“I want Lady Stubbs,” he said curtly. “Get hold of her for me. If she isn't about, look for her.”
Hoskins looked slightly puzzled but he left the room obediently. In the doorway he paused and fell back a little to allow Hercule Poirot to enter. He looked back over his shoulder with some interest before closing the door behind him.
“I don't suppose,” said Bland, rising and holding out his hand, “that you remember me, M. Poirot.”
“But assuredly,” said Poirot. “It is - now give me a moment, just a little moment. It is the young sergeant - yes, Sergeant Bland whom I met fourteen - no, fifteen years ago.”
“Quite right. What a memory!”
“ Not at all. Since you remember me, why should I not remember you?”
It would be difficult, Bland thought, to forget Hercule Poirot, and this not entirely for complimentary reasons.
“So here you are, M. Poirot,” he said. “Assisting at a murder once again.”
“You are right,” said Poirot. “I was called down here to assist.”
“Called down to assist?” Bland looked puzzled.
Poirot said quickly:
“I mean, I was asked down here to give away the prizes of this murder hunt.”
“So Mrs Oliver told me.”
“She told you nothing else?” Poirot said it with apparent carelessness. He was anxious to discover whether Mrs Oliver had given the Inspector any hint of the real motives which had led her to insist on Poirot's journey to Devon.
“Told me nothing else? She never stopped telling me things. Every possible and impossible motive for the girl's murder. She set my head spinning. Phew! What an imagination!”
“She earns her living by her imagination, mon ami,” said Poirot dryly.
“She mentioned a man called De Sousa - did she imagine that?”
“No, that is sober fact.”
“There was something about a letter at breakfast and a yacht and coming up the river in a launch- I couldn't make head or tail of it.”
Poirot embarked upon an explanation. He told of the scene at the breakfast table, the letter, Lady Stubbs's headache.
“Mrs Oliver said that Lady Stubbs was frightened. Did you think she as afraid, too?”
“That was the impression she gave me”
“Afraid of this cousin of hers? Why?”
Poirot shrugged shoulders.
“I have no idea. All she told me was that he was bad - a bad man. She is, you understand, a little simple. Subnormal.”
“Yes, that seems to be pretty generally known round here. She didn't say she was afraid of this De Sousa?”
“No.”
“But you think her fear was real?”
“If it was not, then she is a clever actress,” said Poirot dryly.
“I'm beginning to have some odd ideas about this case,” said Bland. He got up and walked restlessly to and fro. “It's that cursed woman's fault. I believe.”
“Mrs Oliver's?”
“Yes. She's put a lot of melodramatic ideas into my head.”
“And you think they may be true?”
“Not all of them - naturally - but one or two of them mightn't be as wild as they sounded. It all depends...” He broke off as the door opened to re-admit P.C. Hoskins.
“Don't seem able to find the lady, sir,” he said. “She's not about anywhere.”
“I know that already,” said Bland irritably. “I told you to find her.”
“Sergeant Farrell and P.C. Lorimer are searching the grounds, sir,” said Hoskins. “She's not in the house,” he added.
“Find out from the man who's taking admission tickets at the gate if she's left the place. Either, on foot or in a car.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hoskins departed.
“And find out when she was last seen and where,” Bland shouted after him.
“So that is the way your mind is working,” said Poirot.
“It isn't working anywhere yet,” said Bland, “but I've just woken up to the fact that a lady who ought to be on the
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