“Last night Mrs. Allen had a visitor. He is described as a man of forty-five, military bearing, toothbrush moustache, smartly dressed and driving a Standard Swallow saloon car. Do you know who that is?”
“I can’t be sure, of course, but it sounds like Major Eustace.”
“Who is Major Eustace? Tell me all you can about him?”
“He was a man Barbara had known abroad—in India. He turned up about a year ago, and we’ve seen him on and off since.”
“He was a friend of Mrs. Allen’s?”
“He behaved like one,” said Jane dryly.
“What was her attitude to him?”
“I don’t think she really liked him—in fact, I’m sure she didn’t.”
“But she treated him with outward friendliness?”
“Yes.”
“Did she ever seem—think carefully, Miss Plenderleith—afraid of him?”
Jane Plenderleith considered this thoughtfully for a minute or two. Then she said:
“Yes—I think she was. She was always nervous when he was about.”
“Did he and Mr. Laverton-West meet at all?”
“Only once, I think. They didn’t take to each other much. That is to say, Major Eustace made himself as agreeable as he could to Charles, but Charles wasn’t having any. Charles has got a very good nose for anybody who isn’t well—quite—quite.”
“And Major Eustace was not—what you call—quite—quite?” asked Poirot.
The girl said dryly:
“No, he wasn’t. Bit hairy at the heel. Definitely not out of the top drawer.”
“Alas—I do not know those two expressions. You mean to say he was not the pukka sahib?”
A fleeting smile passed across Jane Plenderleith’s face, but she replied gravely, “No.”
“Would it come as a great surprise to you, Miss Plenderleith, if I suggested that this man was blackmailing Mrs. Allen?”
Japp sat forward to observe the result of his suggestion.
He was well satisfied. The girl started forward, the colour rose in her
cheeks, she brought down her hand sharply on the arm of her chair.
“So that was it! What a fool I was not to have guessed. Of course!”
“You think the suggestion feasible, mademoiselle?” asked Poirot.
“I was a fool not to have thought of it! Barbara’s borrowed small sums off me several times during the last six months. And I’ve seen her sitting poring over her passbook. I knew she was living well within her income, so I didn’t bother, but, of course, if she was paying out sums of money—”
“And it would accord with her general demeanour—yes?” asked Poirot.
“Absolutely. She was nervous. Quite jumpy sometimes. Altogether different from what she used to be.”
Poirot said gently: