Don't rub it in.
The trouble is, one has got one's own experience, I've been mixed up in that sort of thing so much I suppose I'm inclined to see it everywhere."
Poirot said: "You have observed in your time an obvious a card, have you not? What is called forcing a card?"
"Yes, of course."
"That is what was done here.
Every time one thinks of a private reason for Morley's dismiss, Adipresto! – the card is forced on one.
Ambition – of Alistair Blunt, the unsettled state of politics of the country -" He shrugged his shoulders.
"Ma foi, Mr. Barnes, you did more to mislead me than anybody." "Oh, I say, Poirot, I'm sorry. I suppose that's true."
"You were in a position to know, your words carried weight."
"Well – I believed what I said.
That's the only apology I can make."
He paused and sighed.
"And all the time, it was a purely private reasons?"
"Exactly.
It has taken me a long time to check every reason for the murder – although I had a definite piece of luck."
"What was that?"
"A fragment of a conversation.
Really, a very illuminating fragment if only I had had the sense to realize its significance at the time."
Mr. Barnes scratched his nose thoughtfully with the trowl.
A small piece of earth adhered to the side of his nose.
"Being rather cryptic, aren't you?" he asked genially.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
He said: "I am, perhaps, aggrieved that you were not more frank with me."
"I?"
"Yes."
"My dear fellow – I never had the least idea of Carter's guilt.
As far as I knew, he'd left the house long before Morley was killed.
I suppose now they've found he didn't leave when he said he did?"
Poirot said: "Carter was in the house at twenty-six minutes past twelve. He actually saw the murderer."
"Then Carter didn't -"
"Carter saw the murderer, I tell you!"
Mr. Barnes said: "Did – did he recognize him?"
Slowly Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Chapter 9 SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN, MAIDS IN WAITING
I On the following day Hercule Poirot spent some hours with a theatrical agent of his acquaintance. In the afternoon he went to Oxford.
On the day after that he drove down to the country – it was late when he returned.
He had telephoned before he left to make an appointment with Mr. Alistair Blunt for that same evening.
It was half past nine when he reached the Gothic House. Alistair Blunt was alone in his library when Poirot was shown in. He looked an eager question at his visitor as he shook hands.
He said: "Well?"
Slowly Hercule Poirot nodded his head. Blunt looked at him in almost incredulous appreciation.
"Have you found her?"
"Yes. Yes, I have found her."
He sat down. And he sighed.
Alistair Blunt said: "You are tired?"
"Yes.
I am tired. And it is not pretty – what I have to tell you."
Blunt said: "Is she dead?"
"That depends," said Hercule Poirot slowly, "on how you like to look at it."
Blunt frowned.
He said: "My dear man, a person must be dead or alive.