He said: "That is not true."
"Oh, all right, Poirot, I didn't mean it.
But you're so pleased sometimes with your damned ingenuity.
What do you want to see Carter for? To ask whether he really murdered Morley?"
To Japp's surprise, Poirot nodded his head emphatically. "Yes, my friend, that is exactly the reason."
"And I suppose you think he'll tell you if he did?" Japp laughed as he spoke.
But Hercule Poirot remained grave.
He said: "He might tell me – yes."
Japp looked at him curiously.
He said: "You know, I've known you a long time – twenty years? Something like that.
But I still don't always catch on to what you're driving at.
I know you've got a bee in your bonnet about young Frank Carter.
For some reason or other, you don't want him to be guilty -"
Hercule Poirot shook his head energetically. "No, no, there you are wrong. It is the other way about -" "I thought perhaps it was on account of that girl of his – the blond piece. You're a sentimental old buzzard in some ways -"
Poirot was immediately indignant. "It is not I who am sentimental!
That is an English failing! It is in England that they weep over young sweethearts and dying mothers and devoted children.
Me, I am logical.
If Frank Carter is a killer, then I am certainly not sentimental enough to wish to unite him in marriage to a nice but commonplace girl who, if he is hanged, will forget him in a year or two and find someone else."
"Then why don't you want to believe he is guilty?"
"I do want to believe he is guilty."
"I suppose you mean that you've got hold of something which more or less conclusively proves him to be innocent? Why hold it up, then? You ought to play fair with us, Poirot." "I am playing fair with you. Presently, very shortly, I will give you the name and address of a witness who will be invaluable to you for the prosecution.
Her evidence ought to clinch the case against him."
"But then – Oh!
You've got me all tangled up.
Why are you so anxious to see him?"
"To satisfy myself," said Hercule Poirot.
And he would say no more.
III Frank Carter, haggard, white-faced, still feebly inclined to bluster, looked on his unexpected visitor with unconcealed disfavor.
He said rudely: "So it's you, you ruddy little foreigner?
What do you want?"
"I want to see you and talk to you."
"Well, you see me all right. But I won't talk.
Not without my lawyer.
That's right, isn't it? You can't go against that. I've got the right to have my solicitor present before I say a word."
"Certainly you have.
You can send for him if you like – but I should prefer that you did not."
"I daresay.
Think you're going to trap me into making some damaging admissions, eh?"
"We are quite alone, remember."
"That's a bit unusual, isn't it? Got your Police pals listening in, I've no doubt."
"You are wrong.
This is a private interview between you and me." Frank Carter laughed. He looked cunning and unpleasant. He said: "Come off it! You don't take me in with that old gag."
"Do you remember a girl called Agnes Fletcher?"
"Never heard of her."
"I think you will remember her, though you may never have taken much notice of her.
She was houseparlormaid at 58 Queen Charlotte Street."
"Well, what of it?"
Hercule Poirot said slowly: "On the morning of the day that Mr. Morley was shot, this girl Agnes happened to look over the banisters from the top floor. She saw you on the stairs – waiting and listening.
Presently she saw you go along to Mr. Morley's room.
The time was then twenty-six minutes or thereabouts past twelve."