Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been.
Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison?
That was the only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.
"It's frozen meat," I explained gently. "Imported, you know.
New Zealand."
He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.
"How marvellous is my friend Hastings!
He knows everything - but everything!
How do they say - Inquire Within Upon Everything.
That is my friend Hastings."
He flung down the leg of mutton onto its dish again and left the larder.
Then he looked through the window.
"Here comes our friend the Inspector.
It is well.
I have seen all I want to see here." He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, "What is the day of the week, mon ami?"
"Monday," I said, rather astonished. "What -?"
"Ah!
Monday, is it?
A bad day of the week.
To commit a murder on a Monday is a mistake."
Passing back to the living-room, he tapped the glass on the wall and glanced at the thermometer.
"Set fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit.
An orthodox English summer's day."
Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.
"You do not take much interest in this inquiry, monsieur?" said Poirot.
The other gave a slow smile.
"It's not my job, you see.
I'm a connoisseur of some things, but not of this.
So I just stand back and keep out of the way.
I've learnt patience in the East."
The Inspector came bustling in, apologising for having been so long away.
He insisted on taking us over most of the ground again, but finally we got away.
"I must appreciate your thousand politenesses. Inspector," said Poirot, as we were walking down the village street again. "There is just one more request I should like to put to you."
"You want to see the body, perhaps, sir?"
"Oh, dear me, no!
I have not the least interest in the body.
I want to see Robert Grant."
"You'll have to drive back with me to Moreton to see him, sir."
"Very well, I will do so.
But I must see him and be able to speak to him alone."
The Inspector caressed his upper lip.
"Well, I don't know about that, sir."
"I assure you that if you can get through to Scotland Yard you will receive full authority."
"I've heard of you, of course, sir, and I know you've done us a good turn now and again.
But it's very irregular."
"Nevertheless, it is necessary," said Poirot calmly. "It is necessary for this reason - Grant is not the murderer."
"What?
Who is, then?"
"The murderer was, I should fancy, a youngish man.
He drove up to Granite Bungalow in a trap, which he left outside.