“No indeed. I am utterly at sea. Barbara! Murdered! It seems incredible.”
“Now, Mr. Laverton-West, can you tell me what your own movements were on the night of November fifth?”
“My movements? My movements?”
Laverton-West’s voice rose in shrill protest.
“Purely a matter of routine,” explained Japp. “We—er—have to ask everybody.”
Charles Laverton-West looked at him with dignity.
“I should hope that a man in my position might be exempt.”
Japp merely waited.
“I was—now let me see . . . Ah, yes. I was at the House. Left at half past ten. Went for a walk along the Embankment. Watched some of the fireworks.”
“Nice to think there aren’t any plots of that kind nowadays,” said Japp cheerily.
Laverton-West gave him a fish-like stare.
“Then I—
er—walked home.”
“Reaching home—your London address is Onslow Square, I think—at what time?”
“I hardly know exactly.”
“Eleven? Half past?”
“Somewhere about then.”
“Perhaps someone let you in.”
“No, I have my key.”
“Meet anybody whilst you were walking?”
“No—er—really, Chief Inspector, I resent these questions very much!”
“I assure you, it’s just a matter of routine, Mr. Laverton-West. They aren’t personal, you know.”
The reply seemed to soothe the irate M.P.
“If that is all—”
“That is all for the present, Mr. Laverton-West.”
“You will keep me informed—”
“Naturally, sir. By the way, let me introduce M. Hercule Poirot. You may have heard of him.”
Mr. Laverton-West’s eye fastened itself interestedly on the little Belgian.
“Yes—yes—I have heard the name.”
“Monsieur,” said Poirot, his manner suddenly very foreign. “Believe me, my heart bleeds for you. Such a loss! Such agony as you must be enduring! Ah, but I will say no more. How magnificently the English hide their emotions.” He whipped out his cigarette case. “Permit me—Ah, it is empty. Japp?”