The shot told. Eustace fell back into his chair. His eyes went from side to side. The collapse of the bully and the appearance of the craven was not a pretty sight.
“You’ve got nothing on me.” His voice was almost a whine. “You’re trying to frame me . . . But you can’t do it. I’ve got an alibi . . . I never came near the house again that night. . . .”
Poirot in his turn, spoke.
“No, you did not come near the house again . . . You did not need to . . . For perhaps Mrs. Allen was already dead when you left it.”
“That’s impossible—impossible—She was just inside the door—she spoke to me—People must have heard her—seen her. . . .”
Poirot said softly:
“They heard you speaking to her . . . and pretending to wait for her answer and then speaking again . . . It is an old trick that . . . People may have assumed she was there, but they did not see her, because they could not even say whether she was wearing evening dress or not—not even mention what colour she was wearing. . . .”
“My God—it isn’t true—it isn’t true—”
He was shaking now—collapsed. . . .
Japp looked at him with disgust. He spoke crisply.
“I’ll have to ask you, sir, to come with me.”
“You’re arresting me?”
“Detained for inquiry—we’ll put it that way.”
The silence was broken with a long, shuddering sigh. The despairing voice of the erstwhile blustering Major Eustace said:
“I’m sunk. . . .”
Hercule Poirot rubbed his hands together and smiled cheerfully. He seemed to be enjoying himself.
Nine
“Pretty the way he went all to pieces,” said Japp with professional appreciation, later that day.
He and Poirot were driving in a car along the Brompton Road.
“He knew the game was up,” said Poirot absently.
“We’ve got plenty on him,” said Japp. “Two or three different aliases, a tricky business over a cheque, and a very nice affair when he stayed at the Ritz and called himself Colonel de Bathe. Swindled half a dozen Piccadilly tradesmen. We’re holding him on that charge for the moment—until we get this affair finally squared up. What’s the idea of this rush to the country, old man?”
“My friend, an affair must be rounded off properly. Everything must be explained. I am on the quest of the mystery you suggested. The Mystery of the Missing Attaché Case.”
“The Mystery of the Small Attaché Case—that’s what I called it—It isn’t missing that I know of.”
“Wait, mon ami.”
The car turned into the mews. At the door of No. 14, Jane Plenderleith was just alighting from a small Austin Seven. She was in golfing clothes.
She looked from one to the other of the two men, then produced a key and opened the door.
“Come in, won’t you?”
She led the way. Japp followed her into the sitting room. Poirot remained for a minute or two in the hall, muttering something about:
“C’est embêtant—how difficult to get out of these sleeves.”
In a moment or two he also entered the sitting room minus his overcoat but Japp’s lips twitched under his moustache. He had heard the very faint squeak of an opening cupboard door.