It may be that I know it already.
But it will be a point in your favour if it comes from you spontaneously.”
“You talk like the American police.
‘Come clean’ – that is what they say – ‘come clean.’ ”
“Ah! so you have had experience of the New York police?”
“No, no, never.
They could not prove a thing against me – but it was not for want of trying.”
Poirot said quietly: “That was in the Armstrong case, was it not? You were the chauffeur?”
His eyes met those of the Italian.
The bluster went out of the big man. He was like a pricked balloon.
“Since you know – why ask me?”
“Why did you lie this morning?”
“Business reasons.
Besides, I do not trust the Jugo-Slav police.
They hate the Italians.
They would not have given me justice.”
“Perhaps it is exactly justice that they would have given you!”
“No, no, I had nothing to do with this business last night.
I never left my carriage.
The long-faced Englishman, he can tell you so.
It was not I who killed this pig – this Ratchett.
You cannot prove anything against me.”
Poirot was writing something on a sheet of paper. He looked up and said quietly:
“Very good.
You can go.”
Foscarelli lingered uneasily.
“You realise that it was not I? That I could have had nothing to do with it!”
“I said that you could go.”
“It is a conspiracy.
You are going to frame me? All for a pig of a man who should have gone to the chair!
It was an infamy that he did not.
If it had been me – if I had been arrested–”
“But it was not you.
You had nothing to do with the kidnapping of the child.”
“What is that you are saying?
Why, that little one – she was the delight of the house.
Tonio, she called me.
And she would sit in the car and pretend to hold the wheel.
All the household worshipped her!
Even the police came to understand that.
Ah, the beautiful little one!”
His voice had softened.
The tears came into his eyes.
Then he wheeled round abruptly on his heel and strode out of the dining-car.
“Pietro,” called Poirot.
The dining-car attendant came at a run.
“The No. 10 – the Swedish lady.”
“Bien, Monsieur.”
“Another?” cried M. Bouc. “Ah, no – it is not possible.
I tell you it is not possible.”