think you have?”
“Because I don't always remember what I've done - or where I've been. I lose an hour of time - two hours - and I can't remember. I was in a corridor once - a corridor outside a door, her door. I'd something in my hand - I don't know how I got it. She came walking along towards me - But when she got near me, her face changed. It wasn't her at all. She'd changed into somebody else.”
“You are remembering, perhaps, a nightmare. There people do change into somebody else.”
“It wasn't a nightmare. I picked up the revolver - It was lying there at my feet -”
“In a corridor?”
“No, in the courtyard. She came and took it away from me.”
“Who did?”
“Claudia. She took me upstairs and gave me some bitter stuff to drink.”
“Where was your stepmother then?”
“She was there, too - No, she wasn't. She was at Crosshedges. Or in hospital. That's where they found out she was being poisoned - and that it was me.”
“It need not have been you - It could have been someone else.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“Perhaps - her husband.”
“Father? Why on earth should Father want to poison Mary. He's devoted to her. He's silly about her!”
“There are others in the house, are there not?”
“Old Uncle Roderick? Nonsense!”
“One does not know,” said Poirot, “he might be mentally afflicted. He might think it was his duty to poison a woman who might be a beautiful spy. Something like that.”
“That would be very interesting,” said Norma, momentarily diverted, and speaking in a perfectly natural manner. “Uncle Roderick was mixed up a good deal with spies and things in the last war. Who else is there? Sonia? I suppose she might be a beautiful spy, but she's not quite my idea of one.”
“No, and there does not seem very much reason why she should wish to poison your stepmother. I suppose there might be servants, gardeners?”
“No, they just come in for the day. I don't think - well, they wouldn't be the kind of people to have any reason.”
“She might have done it herself.”
“Committed suicide, do you mean? Like the other one?”
“It is a possibility.”
“I can't imagine Mary committing suicide. She's far too sensible. And why should she want to?”
“Yes, you feel that if she did, she would put her head in the gas oven, or she would lie on a bed nicely arranged and take an overdose of sleeping draught. Is that right?”
“Well, it would have been more natural. So you see,” said Norma earnestly, “it must have been me.”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “that interests me. You would almost, it would seem, prefer that it should be you. You are attracted to the idea that it was your hand who slipped the fatal dose of this, that or the other. Yes, you like the idea.”
“How dare you say such a thing! How can you?”
“Because I think it is true,” said Poirot. “Why does the thought that you may have committed murder excite you, please you?”
“It's not true.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot.
She scooped up her bag and began feeling in it with shaking fingers.
“I'm not going to stop here and have you say these things to me.” She signalled to the waitress who came, scribbled on a pad of paper, detached it and laid it down by Norma's plate.
“Permit me,” said Hercule Poirot.
He removed the slip of paper deftly, and prepared to draw his notecase from his pocket. The girl snatched it back again.
“No, I won't let you pay for me.”
“As you please,” said Poirot.
He had seen what he wanted to see.
The bill was for two. It would seem therefore that David of the fine feathers had no objection to having his bills paid by an infatuated girl.
“So it is you who entertain a friend to elevenses, I see.”
“How did you know that I was with anyone?”
“I tell you, I know a good deal.”
She placed coins on the table and rose.
“I'm going now,” she said, “and I forbid you to follow me.”
“I doubt if I could,” said
“Because I don't always remember what I've done - or where I've been. I lose an hour of time - two hours - and I can't remember. I was in a corridor once - a corridor outside a door, her door. I'd something in my hand - I don't know how I got it. She came walking along towards me - But when she got near me, her face changed. It wasn't her at all. She'd changed into somebody else.”
“You are remembering, perhaps, a nightmare. There people do change into somebody else.”
“It wasn't a nightmare. I picked up the revolver - It was lying there at my feet -”
“In a corridor?”
“No, in the courtyard. She came and took it away from me.”
“Who did?”
“Claudia. She took me upstairs and gave me some bitter stuff to drink.”
“Where was your stepmother then?”
“She was there, too - No, she wasn't. She was at Crosshedges. Or in hospital. That's where they found out she was being poisoned - and that it was me.”
“It need not have been you - It could have been someone else.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“Perhaps - her husband.”
“Father? Why on earth should Father want to poison Mary. He's devoted to her. He's silly about her!”
“There are others in the house, are there not?”
“Old Uncle Roderick? Nonsense!”
“One does not know,” said Poirot, “he might be mentally afflicted. He might think it was his duty to poison a woman who might be a beautiful spy. Something like that.”
“That would be very interesting,” said Norma, momentarily diverted, and speaking in a perfectly natural manner. “Uncle Roderick was mixed up a good deal with spies and things in the last war. Who else is there? Sonia? I suppose she might be a beautiful spy, but she's not quite my idea of one.”
“No, and there does not seem very much reason why she should wish to poison your stepmother. I suppose there might be servants, gardeners?”
“No, they just come in for the day. I don't think - well, they wouldn't be the kind of people to have any reason.”
“She might have done it herself.”
“Committed suicide, do you mean? Like the other one?”
“It is a possibility.”
“I can't imagine Mary committing suicide. She's far too sensible. And why should she want to?”
“Yes, you feel that if she did, she would put her head in the gas oven, or she would lie on a bed nicely arranged and take an overdose of sleeping draught. Is that right?”
“Well, it would have been more natural. So you see,” said Norma earnestly, “it must have been me.”
“Aha,” said Poirot, “that interests me. You would almost, it would seem, prefer that it should be you. You are attracted to the idea that it was your hand who slipped the fatal dose of this, that or the other. Yes, you like the idea.”
“How dare you say such a thing! How can you?”
“Because I think it is true,” said Poirot. “Why does the thought that you may have committed murder excite you, please you?”
“It's not true.”
“I wonder,” said Poirot.
She scooped up her bag and began feeling in it with shaking fingers.
“I'm not going to stop here and have you say these things to me.” She signalled to the waitress who came, scribbled on a pad of paper, detached it and laid it down by Norma's plate.
“Permit me,” said Hercule Poirot.
He removed the slip of paper deftly, and prepared to draw his notecase from his pocket. The girl snatched it back again.
“No, I won't let you pay for me.”
“As you please,” said Poirot.
He had seen what he wanted to see.
The bill was for two. It would seem therefore that David of the fine feathers had no objection to having his bills paid by an infatuated girl.
“So it is you who entertain a friend to elevenses, I see.”
“How did you know that I was with anyone?”
“I tell you, I know a good deal.”
She placed coins on the table and rose.
“I'm going now,” she said, “and I forbid you to follow me.”
“I doubt if I could,” said
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