longer dear to her. Never before had she displayed that attitude. She had been defiant-yes-she had snapped the fingers, yes-and then, when that broke down, she was afraid. Afraid, mark you, because life was sweet and she did not wish to die. But weary of life-no! That never! Even before dinner that was not so. We have there, Hastings, a psychological change. And that is interesting. What was it caused her point of view to change?'
'The shock of her cousin's death.'
'I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?'
'I don't know of anything.'
'Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.'
'Really-'
'What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?'
'Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.'
'Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome-purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?'
'She went to telephone,' I said, slowly.
'A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was absent a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.'
'You really think so?'
'Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn't think it has any connection with the murder-but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking-why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me-eh bien-then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings. I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then-and then-I shall begin to see...'
'Well,' I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, 'I think a bath and a shave are indicated.'
By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.
I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton's death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: 'GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.' Something like that.
I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain little frock of black marocain with a little soft pleated white collar. Her fairness was more evident than ever.
'I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?'
'I will take you up with me now,' I said. 'We shall find him in the sitting-room.'
'Thank you.'
'I hope,' I said, as we left the dining-room together, 'that you didn't sleep too badly?'
'It was a shock,' she said, in a meditative voice. 'But, of course, I didn't know the poor girl. It's not as though it had been Nick.'
'I suppose you'd never met this girl before?'
'Once-at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.'
'It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,' I said.
'Dreadful.'
But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.
Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.
'Madame,' he said. 'Enchante!' He drew forward a chair.
She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into
'The shock of her cousin's death.'
'I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?'
'I don't know of anything.'
'Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.'
'Really-'
'What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?'
'Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.'
'Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome-purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?'
'She went to telephone,' I said, slowly.
'A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was absent a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.'
'You really think so?'
'Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn't think it has any connection with the murder-but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking-why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me-eh bien-then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings. I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then-and then-I shall begin to see...'
'Well,' I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, 'I think a bath and a shave are indicated.'
By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.
I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton's death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: 'GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.' Something like that.
I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain little frock of black marocain with a little soft pleated white collar. Her fairness was more evident than ever.
'I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?'
'I will take you up with me now,' I said. 'We shall find him in the sitting-room.'
'Thank you.'
'I hope,' I said, as we left the dining-room together, 'that you didn't sleep too badly?'
'It was a shock,' she said, in a meditative voice. 'But, of course, I didn't know the poor girl. It's not as though it had been Nick.'
'I suppose you'd never met this girl before?'
'Once-at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.'
'It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,' I said.
'Dreadful.'
But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.
Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.
'Madame,' he said. 'Enchante!' He drew forward a chair.
She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into
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