“My dear Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Have you suddenly gone mad?”
“Regard, I pray you, this mutton. But regard it closely!”
I regarded it as closely as I could, but could see nothing unusual about it. It seemed to me a very ordinary leg of mutton. I said as much. Poirot threw me a withering glance.
“But do you not see this—and this—and this—”
He illustrated each “this” with a jab at the unoffending joint, dislodging small icicles as he did so.
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 on to 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 absentmindedly, 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, apologizing 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. He went in, committed the murder, came out, and drove away again. He was bareheaded, and his clothing was slightly bloodstained.”
“But—but the whole village would have seen him!”
“Not under certain circumstances.”
“Not if it was dark, perhaps; but the crime was committed in broad daylight.”
Poirot merely smiled.
“And the horse and trap, sir—how could you tell that? Any amount of wheeled vehicles have passed along outside. There’s no mark of one in particular to be seen.”
“Not with the eyes of the body, perhaps; but with the eyes of the mind, yes.”
The Inspector touched his forehead significantly with a g
rin at me. I was utterly bewildered, but I had faith in Poirot. Further discussion ended in our all driving back to Moreton with the Inspector. Poirot and I were taken to Grant, but a constable was to be present during the interview. Poirot went straight to the point.
“Grant, I know you to be innocent of this crime. Relate to me in your own words exactly what happened.”
The prisoner was a man of medium height, with a somewhat unpleasing cast of features. He looked a jailbird if ever a man did.
“Honest to God, I never did it,” he whined. “Someone put those little glass figures amongst my traps. It was a frame-up, that’s what it was. I went straight to my rooms when I came in, like I said. I never knew a thing till Betsy screeched out. S’welp me, God, I didn’t.”
Poirot rose.
“If you can’t tell me the truth, that is the end of it.”
“But, guv’nor—”
“You did go into the room—you did know your master was dead; and you were just preparing to make a bolt of it when the good Betsy made her terrible discovery.”
The man stared at Poirot with a dropped jaw.
“Come now, is it not so? I tell you solemnly—on my word of honour—that to be frank now is your only chance.”
“I’ll risk it,” said the man suddenly. “It was just as you say. I came in, and went straight to the master—and there he was, dead on the floor and blood all round. Then I got the wind up proper. They’d ferret out my record, and for a certainty they’d say it was me as had done him in. My only thought was to get away—at once—before he was found—”
“And the jade figures?”
The man hesitated.
“You see—”
“You took them by a kind of reversion to instinct, as it were? You had heard your master say that they were valuable, and you felt you might as well go the whole hog. That, I understand. Now, answer me this. Was it the second time that you went into the room that you took the figures?”