“Do not be afraid to forget,” said Poirot gently. “She was not so well worth remembering. In Mademoiselle Megan you have one in a hundred—un coeur magnifique!”
Donald Fraser’s eyes lit up.
“I believe you are right.”
We all crowded round Poirot asking questions, elucidating this point and that.
“Those questions, Poirot? That you asked of everybody. Was there any point in them?”
“Some of them were simplement une blague. But I learnt one thing that I wanted to know—that Franklin Clarke was in London when the first letter was posted—and also I wanted to see his face when I asked my question of Mademoiselle Thora. He was off his guard. I saw all the malice and anger in his eyes.”
“You hardly spared my feelings,” said Thora Grey.
“I do not fancy you returned me a truthful answer, mademoiselle,” said Poirot dryly. “And now your second expectation is disappointed. Franklin Clarke will not inherit his brother’s money.”
She flung up her head.
“Is there any need for me to stay here and be insulted?”
“None whatever,” said Poirot and held the door open politely for her.
“That fingerprint clinched things, Poirot,” I said thoughtfully. “He went all to pieces when you mentioned that.”
“Yes, they are useful—fingerprints.”
He added thoughtfully:
“I put that in to please you, my friend.”
“But, Poirot,” I cried, “wasn’t it true?”
“Not in th
e least, mon ami,” said Hercule Poirot.
II
I must mention a visit we had from Mr. Alexander Bonaparte Cust a few days later. After wringing Poirot’s hand and endeavouring very incoherently and unsuccessfully to thank him, Mr. Cust drew himself up and said:
“Do you know, a newspaper has actually offered me a hundred pounds—a hundred pounds—for a brief account of my life and history—I—I really don’t know what to do about it.”
“I should not accept a hundred,” said Poirot. “Be firm. Say five hundred is your price. And do not confine yourself to one newspaper.”
“Do you really think—that I might—”
“You must realize,” said Poirot, smiling, “that you are a very famous man. Practically the most famous man in England today.”
Mr. Cust drew himself up still further. A beam of delight irradiated his face.
“Do you know, I believe you’re right! Famous! In all the papers. I shall take your advice, M. Poirot. The money will be most agreeable—most agreeable. I shall have a little holiday…And then I want to give a nice wedding present to Lily Marbury—a dear girl—really a dear girl, M. Poirot.”
Poirot patted him encouragingly on the shoulder.
“You are quite right. Enjoy yourself. And—just a little word—what about a visit to an oculist? Those headaches, it is probably that you want new glasses.”
“You think that it may have been that all the time?”
“I do.”