"I'm sorry I haven't been able to help you more."
"But you have helped me," said Hercule Poirot.
"I hardly think so." She spoke with decision.
"But yes. You have told me something I wanted to know."
She asked no question as to what that something was. He held out his hand.
"Thank you, madame, for your forbearance."
As she shook hands with him she said, "You are an extraordinary man, Monsieur Poirot."
"I am as the good God made me, madame."
"We are all that, I suppose."
"Not all, madame.
Some of us have tried to improve on his pattern.
Mr. Shaitana, for instance."
"In what way do you mean?"
"He had a very pretty taste in objets de vertus and bric-a-brac; he should have been content with that.
Instead, he collected other things."
"What sort of things?"
"Well - shall we say - sensations?"
"And don't you think that was dans son caractere?"
Poirot shook his head gravely.
"He played the part of the devil too successfully.
But he was not the devil.
Au fond, he was a stupid man.
And so - he died."
"Because he was stupid?"
"It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, madame."
There was a silence.
Then Poirot said,
"I take my departure.
A thousand thanks for your amiability, madame.
I I will not come again unless you send for me."
Her eyebrows rose.
"Dear me, Monsieur Poirot, why should I send for you?"
"You might. It is just an idea.
If so, I will come.
Remember that."
He bowed once more and left the room.
In the street he said to himself,
"I am right - I am sure I am right - It must be that!"
Chapter 12 ANNE MEREDITH
Mrs. Oliver extricated herself from the driving seat of her little two-seater with some difficulty.
To begin with, the makers of modern motor cars assume that only a pair of sylphlike knees will ever be under the steering wheel. It is also the fashion to sit low.
That being so, for a middle-aged woman of generous proportions it requires a good deal of superhuman wriggling to get out from under the steering wheel.
In the second place the seat next to the driving seat was encumbered by several maps, a hand-bag, three novels, and a large bag of apples.
Mrs. Oliver was partial to apples and had indeed been known to eat as many as five pounds straight off while composing the complicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipe, coming to herself with a start and an incipient stomach-ache an hour and ten minutes after she was due at an important luncheon party given in her honor.
With a final determined heave and a sharp shove with the knee against a recalcitrant door, Mrs. Oliver arrived a little too suddenly on the sidewalk outside the gate of Wendon Cottage, showering apple cores freely round her as she did so.
She gave a deep sigh, pushed back her country hat to an unfashionable angle, looked down with approval at the tweeds she had remembered to put on, frowned a little when she saw that she had absent-mindedly retained her London high-heeled patent leather shoes, and, pushing open the gate of Wendon Cottage, walked up the flagged path to the front door.
She rang the bell and executed a cheerful little rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker - a quaint conceit in the form of a toad's head.
As nothing happened she repeated the performance.
After a further pause of a minute and a half, Mrs. Oliver stepped briskly round the side of the house on a voyage of exploration.
There was a small old-fashioned garden with Michaelmas daisies and straggling chrysanthemums behind the cottage and beyond it a field.