“You know,” he said slowly. “I don’t quite get this.”
“That is very simply explained,” said Poirot with a smile. “In two words, to be accurate. Mrs. Vanderlyn!”
“Oh,” said Carrington. “I think I see. Mrs. Vanderlyn?”
“Precisely. It might be, you see, that it would not be very delicate to ask Lord Mayfield the question I want to ask. Why Mrs. Vanderlyn? This lady, she is known to be a suspicious character. Why, then, should she be here? I say to myself there are three explanations. One, that Lord Mayfield has a penchant for the lady (and that is why I seek to talk to you alone. I do not wish to embarrass him). Two, that Mrs. Vanderlyn is perhaps the dear friend of someone else in the house?”
“You can count me out!” said Sir George with a grin.
“Then, if neither of those cases is true, the question returns in redoubled force. Why Mrs. Vanderlyn? And it seems to me I perceive a shadowy answer. There was a reason. Her presence at this particular juncture was definitely desired by Lord Mayfield for a special reason. Am I right?”
Sir George nodded.
“You’re quite right,” he said. “Mayfield is too old a bird to fall for her wiles. He wanted her here for quite another reason. It was like this.”
He retailed the conversation that had taken place at the dinner table. Poirot listened attentively.
“Ah,” he said. “I comprehend now. Nevertheless, it seems that the lady has turned the tables on you both rather neatly!”
Sir George swore freely.
Poirot watched him with some slight amusement, then he said:
“You do not doubt that this theft is her doing—I mean, that she is responsible for it, whether or no she played an active part?”
Sir George stared.
“Of course not! There isn’t any doubt of that. Why, who else would have any interest in stealing those plans?”
“Ah!” said Hercule Poirot. He leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “And yet, Sir George, we agreed, not a quarter of an hour ago, that these papers represented very definitely money. Not perhaps, in quite so obvious a form as banknotes, or gold, or jewellery, but nevertheless they were potential money. If there were anyone here who was hard up—”
The other interrupted him with a snort.
“Who isn’t these days? I suppose I can say it without incriminating myself.”
He smiled and Poirot smiled politely back at him and murmured:
“Mais oui, you can say what you like, for you, Sir George, have the one unimpeachable alibi in this affair.”
“But I’m damned hard up myself!”
Poirot shook his head sadly.
“Yes, indeed, a man in your position has heavy living expenses. Then you have a young son at a most expensive age—”
Sir George groaned.
“Education’s bad enough, then debts on top of it. Mind you, this lad’s not a bad lad.”
Poirot listened sympathetically. He heard a lot of the Air Marshal’s accum
ulated grievances. The lack of grit and stamina in the younger generation, the fantastic way in which mothers spoilt their children and always took their side, the curse of gambling once it got hold of a woman, the folly of playing for higher stakes than you could afford. It was couched in general terms, Sir George did not allude directly to either his wife or his son, but his natural transparency made his generalizations very easy to see through.
He broke off suddenly.
“Sorry, mustn’t take up your time with something that’s right off the subject, especially at this hour of the night—or rather, morning.”
He stifled a yawn.