I opened my eyes to find Poirot regarding me with the kindly attention a nurse might display towards a childish charge.
“Eh bien?”
I made a desperate attempt to emulate Poirot’s manner.
“Well,” I said, “it seems to me that the kind of person who laid the original booby trap is not the kind of person to plan out a scientific murder.”
“Exactly.”
“And I doubt if a mind trained to scientific complexities would think of anything so childish as the accident plan—it would be altogether too haphazard.”
“Very clearly reasoned.”
Emboldened, I went on:
“Therefore, the only logical solution seems to be this—the two attempts were planned by two different people. We have here to deal with murder attempted by two entirely different people.”
“You do not think that is too much of a coincidence?”
“You said yourself once that one coincidence is nearly always found in a murder case.”
“Yes, that is true. I have to admit it.”
“Well, then.”
“And who do you suggest for your villains?”
“Donaldson and Theresa Arundell. A doctor is clearly indicated for the final successful murder. On the other hand we know that Theresa Arundell is concerned in the first attempt. I think it’s possible that they acted quite independently of each other.”
“You are so fond of saying, ‘we know,’ Hastings. I can assure you that no matter what you know, I do not know that Theresa was implicated.”
“But Miss Lawson’s story.”
“Miss Lawson’s story is Miss Lawson’s story. Just that.”
“But she says—”
“She says—she says… Always you are so ready to take what people say for a proved and accepted fact. Now listen, mon cher, I told you at the time, did I not, that something struck me as wrong about Miss Lawson’s story?”
“Yes, I remember your saying so. But you couldn’t get hold of what it was.”
“Well, I have done so now. A little moment and I will show you what I, imbecile that I am, ought to have seen at once.” He went over to the desk and opening a drawer took out a sheet of cardboard. He cut into this with a pair of scissors, motioning to me not to overlook what he was doing.
“Patience, Hastings, in a little moment we will proceed to our experiment.”
I averted my eyes obligingly.
In a minute or two Poirot uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He put away the scissors, dropped the fragments of cardboard into the wastepaper basket and came across the room to me.
“Now, do not look. Continue to avert the eyes while I pin something to the lapel of your coat.”
I humoured him. Poirot completed the proceeding to his satisfaction, then, propelling me gently to my feet he drew me across the room, and into the adjoining bedroom.
“Now, Hastings, regard yourself in the glass. You are wearing, are you not, a fashionable brooch with your initials on it—only, bien entendu, the brooch is made not of chromium nor stainless steel, nor gold, nor platinum—but of humble cardboard!”
I looked at myself and smiled. Poirot is uncommonly neat with his fingers. I was wearing a very fair representation of Theresa Arundell’s brooch—a circle cut out of cardboard and enclosing my initials. A.H.
“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “You are satisfied? You have there, have you not, a very smart brooch with your initials?”