“I suppose we can guess what you are after? You’re out to break that alibi. But I can’t see what you’re so pleased about. You haven’t got a new fact of any kind.”
“No—that is true.”
“Well, then?”
“Patience. Everything arranges itself, given time.”
“You seem quite pleased with yourself anyway.”
“Nothing so far has contradicted my little idea—that is why.”
His face grew serious.
“My friend Hastings told me once that he had, as a young man, played a game called The Truth. It was a game where everyone in turn was asked three questions—two of which must be answered truthfully. The third one could be barred. The questions, naturally, were of the most indiscreet kind. But to begin with everyone had to swear that they would indeed speak the truth, and nothing but the truth.”
He paused.
“Well?” said Megan.
“Eh bien—me, I want to play that game. Only it is not necessary to have three questions. One will be enough. One question to each of you.”
“Of course,” said Clarke impatiently. “We’ll answer anything.”
“Ah, but I want it to be more serious than that. Do you all swear to speak the truth?”
He was so solemn about it that the others, puzzled, became solemn themselves. They all swore as he demanded.
“Bon,” said Poirot briskly. “Let us begin—”
“I’m ready,” said Thora Grey.
“Ah, but ladies first—this time it would not be the politeness. We will start elsewhere.”
He turned to Franklin Clarke.
“What, mon cher M. Clarke, did you think of the hats the ladies wore at Ascot this year?”
Franklin Clarke stared at him.
“Is this a joke?”
“Certainly not.”
“Is that seriously your question?”
“It is.”
Clarke began to grin.
“Well, M. Poirot, I didn’t actually go to Ascot, but from what I could see of them driving in cars, women’s hats for Ascot were an even bigger joke than the hats they wear ordinarily.”
“Fantastic?”
“Quite fantastic.”
Poirot smiled and turned to Donald Fraser.
“When did you take your holiday this year, monsieur?”