"You are wrong," he said; "you have done it on several occasions. Let
me see." He took a small notebook from his pocket and consulted it.
"Ah, yes; on seven occasions at least. I will recite them to you."
In a gentle unemotional voice he proceeded to outline the seven
occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
"But it is not of these past lapses that I wish to speak," continued
Poirot, "only, my dear friend, do not get into the habit of thinking
yourself too clever. I come now to the particular lie in which I am
concerned--your statement that the Comte de la Roche arrived at this
villa on the morning of 14th January."
"But that was no lie, Monsieur; that was the truth. Monsieur le Comte
arrived here on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That is so, Marie, is
it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give your good master for
_déjeuner_ that day?"
"I--" Marie paused, trying to collect herself.
"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers some things--and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a blow with his fist; his eyes
flashed with anger.
"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies and you think nobody
knows. But there are two people who know. Yes--two people. One is _le
bon Dieu_--"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling himself back in his chair
and shutting his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
"And the other is Hercule Poirot."
"I assure you, Monsieur, you are completely mistaken. Monsieur le Comte
left Paris on Monday night--"
"True," said Poirot--"by the Rapide. I do not know where he broke
his journey. Perhaps you do not know that. What I do know is that he
arrived here on Wednesday morning, and not on Tuesday morning."
"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.
Poirot rose to his feet.
"Then the law must take its course," he murmured. "A pity."
"What do you mean, Monsieur?" asked Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
"You will be arrested and held as accomplices concerned in the murder
of Mrs. Kettering, the English lady who was killed."
"Murder!"
The man's face had gone chalk white, his knees knocked together. Marie
dropped the rolling-pin and began to weep.
"But it is impossible--impossible. I thought--"
"Since you stick to your story, there is nothing to be said. I think
you are both foolish."
He was turning towards the door when an agitated voice arrested him.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment. I--I had no idea that it was
anything of this kind. I--I thought it was just a matter concerning a
lady. There have been little awkwardnesses with the police over ladies
before. But murder--that is very different."
"I have no patience with you," cried Poirot. He turned round on them
and angrily shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to stop here all
day, arguing with a couple of imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want.
If you will not give it to me, that is your look out. _For the last
time, when did Monsieur le Comte arrive at the Villa Marina--Tuesday
morning or Wednesday morning?_"
"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head
gravely.
"You are wise, my children," he said quietly. "Very nearly you were in
serious trouble."
He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.
"One guess, confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance
on the other?"
It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur Hercule Poirot was
brought up to Mirelle. She stared at it for a moment or two, and then
nodded. When Poirot entered, he found her walking up and down the room
feverishly. She turned on him furiously.
"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now? Have you not tortured me
enough, all of you? Have you not made me betray my poor Dereek? What
more do you want?"
"Just one little question, Mademoiselle. After the train left Lyons,
when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment--"
"What is that?"
Poirot looked at her with an air of mild reproach and began again.
"I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's compartment--"
"I never did."
"And found her--"
"I never did."
"_Ah, sacré!_"
He turned on her in a rage and shouted at her, so that she cowered back
before him.
"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know what happened as well as though
I had been there. You went into her compartment and you found her
dead. I tell you I know it. To lie to me is dangerous. Be careful,
Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and fell.
"I--I didn't--" she began uncertainly and stopped.
"There is only one thing about which I wonder," said Poirot--"I wonder,
Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking for or whether--"
"Whether what?"
"Or whether some one else had been before you."
"I will answer no more questions," screamed the dancer. She tore
herself away from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging herself down
on the floor in a frenzy, she screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid
came rushing in.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders, raised his eyebrows, and quietly
left the room.
But he seemed satisfied.