“And so, naturally, you were afraid….”
“I didn’t think he’d actually done it—not for a minute! But I was afraid it might be brought up—the quarrel and all that he’d said—several people knew about it.”
Again Poirot nodded his head gravely.
“Just so. And I may say, mademoiselle, that but for the egoistical vanity of a killer, that is just what would have happened. If Donald Fraser escapes suspicion, it will be thanks to A B C’s maniacal boasting.”
He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
“Do you know if your sister met this married man, or any other man, lately?”
Megan shook her head.
“I don’t know. I’ve been away, you see.”
“But what do you think?”
“She mayn’t have met that particular man again. He’d probably sheer off if he thought there was a chance of a row, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Betty had—well, been telling Don a few lies again. You see, she did so enjoy dancing and the pictures, and of course, Don couldn’t afford to take her all the time.”
“If so, is she likely to have confided in anyone? The girl at the café, for instance?”
“I don’t think that’s likely. Betty couldn’t bear the Higley girl. She thought her common. And the others would be new. Betty wasn’t the confiding sort anyway.”
An electric bell trilled sharply above the girl’s head.
She went to the window and leaned out. She drew back her head sharply.
“It’s Don….”
“Bring him in here,” said Poirot quickly. “I would like a word with him before our good inspector takes him in hand.”
Like a flash Megan Barnard was out of the kitchen, and a couple of seconds later she was back again leading Donald Fraser by the hand.
Twelve
DONALD FRASER
I felt sorry at once for the young man. His white haggard face and bewildered eyes showed how great a shock he had had.
He was a well-made, fine-looking young fellow, standing close on six foot, not good-looking, but with a pleasant, freckled face, high cheek-bones and flaming red hair.
“What’s this, Megan?” he said. “Why in here? For God’s sake, tell me—I’ve only just heard—Betty….”
His voice trailed away.
Poirot pushed forward a chair and he sank down on it.
My friend then extracted a small flask from his pocket, poured some of its contents into a convenient cup which was hanging on the dresser and said:
“Drink some of this, Mr. Fraser. It will do you good.”
The young man obeyed. The brandy brought a little colour back into his face. He sat up straighter and turned once more to the girl. His manner was quite quiet and self-controlled.
“It’s true, I suppose?” he said. “Betty is—dead—killed?”
“It’s true, Don.”
He said as though mechanically: