“Yes.” She added vehemently, “It was murder—murder!”
Poirot said gravely:
“I will not say that you are wrong, mademoiselle.”
Japp said:
“What cigarettes did Mrs. Allen smoke?”
“Gaspers. There are some in that box.”
Japp opened the box, took out a cigarette and nodded. He slipped the cigarette into his pocket.
“And you, mademoiselle?” asked Poirot.
“The same.”
“You do not smoke Turkish?”
“Never.”
“Nor Mrs. Allen?”
“No. She didn’t like them.”
Poirot asked:
“And Mr. Laverton-West. What did he smoke?”
She stared hard at him.
“Charles? What does it matter what he smoked? You’re not going to pretend that he killed her?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“A man has killed the woman he loved before now, mademoiselle.”
Jane shook her head impatiently.
“Charles wouldn’t kill anybody. He’s a very careful man.”
“All the same, mademoiselle, it is the careful men who commit the cleverest murders.”
She stared at him.
“But not for the motive you have just advanced, M. Poirot.”
He bowed his head.
“No, that is true.”
Japp rose.
“Well, I don’t think that there’s much more I can do here. I’d like to have one more look round.”
“In case that money should be tucked away somewhere? Certainly. Look anywhere you like. And in my room too—although it isn’t likely Barbara would hide it there.”
Japp’s search was quick but efficient. The living room had given up all its secrets in a very few minutes. Then he went upstairs. Jane Plenderleith sat on the arm of a chair, smoking a cigarette and frowning at the fire. Poirot watched her.