Nothing at all?"
"No. He was absolutely normal."
Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully: "I, too, found him absolutely normal."
There was a long pause. Then Poirot said: "Do you happen to remember, Monsieur, a young man who was in the waiting room downstairs with you that morning?"
Alistair Blunt frowned. "Let me see – yes, there was a young man – rather restless he was.
I don't remember him particularly, though. Why?"
"Would you know him again if you saw him?"
Blunt shook his head.
"I hardly glanced at him."
"He didn't try to enter into conversation with you at all?"
"No."
Blunt looked with frank curiosity at the other.
"What's the point? Who is this young man?"
"His name is Howard Raikes."
Poirot watched keenly for any reaction, but he saw none.
"Ought I to know his name?
Have I met him elsewhere?"
"I do not think you have met him.
He is a friend of your niece, Miss Olivera's."
"Oh, one of Jane's friends."
"Her mother, I gather, does not approve of the friendship."
Alistair Blunt said absently: "I don't suppose that will cut any ice with Jane."
"So seriously does her mother regard the friendship that I gather she brought her daughter over from the States on purpose to get her away from this young man."
"Oh!" Blunt's face registered comprehension. "It's that fellow, is it?"
"Aha, you become more interested now."
"He's a most undesirable young fellow in every way, I believe.
Mixed up in a lot of subversive activities."
"I understand from Miss Olivera that he made an appointment that morning in Queen Charlotte Street, solely in order to get a look at you."
"To try and get me to approve of him?". "Well – no – I understand the idea was that he should be induced to approve of you."
Alistair Blunt said indignantly: "Well, of all the damned cheek!"
Poirot concealed a smile.
"It appears you are everything that he most disapproves of."
"He's certainly the kind of young man I disapprove of!
Spends his time tub-thumping and talking hot air, instead of doing a decent job of work!"
Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:
"Will you forgive me if I ask you an impertinent and very personal question?"
"Fire ahead."
"In the event of your death, what are your testamentary dispositions?"
Blunt stared. He said sharply: "Why do you want to know that?" "Because – it is just possible -" he shrugged his shoulders – " that it might be relevant to this case." "Nonsense!" "Perhaps. But perhaps not." Alistair Blunt said coldly: "I think you are being unduly melodramatic, M. Poirot. Nobody has been trying to murder me – or anything like that!" "A bomb on your breakfast table – a shot in the street -" "Oh, those!
Any man who deals in the world's finance in a big way is liable to that kind of attention from some crazy fanatic!"
"It might possibly be a case of someone who is not a fanatic and not crazy."
Blunt stared.
"What are you driving at?"
"In plain language, I want to know who benefits by your death."
Blunt grinned.
"Chiefly the St. Edward's Hospital, the Cancer Hospital, and the Royal Institute for the Blind."
"Ah!"
"In addition, I have left a sum of money to my niece by marriage, Mrs. Julia Olivera, an equivalent sum, but in trust, to her daughter, Jane Olivera, and also a substantial provision for my only surviving relative, a second cousin, Helen Montressor, who was left very badly off and who occupies a small cottage on the estate here."
He paused and then said: "This, M. Poirot, is strictly in confidence."
"Naturally, Monsieur, naturally."