Marguerita Clayton. There was also a pocket-knife,
a gold pencil and a cumbersome wooden
tool.
It was on this latter that Poirot swooped. He
unscrewed it and several small blades fell out.
"You see, Hastings, a gimlet and all the rest of
it. Ah! it would be a matter of a very few minutes
to bore a few holes in the chest with this.'
"Those holes we saw?"
"Precisely."
"You mean it was Clayton who bored them
himself?''
"Mais, ouimrnais, oui! What did they suggest
to you, those holes? They were not to see through,
because they were at the back of the chest. What
were they for, then? Clearly for air? But you do
not make air holes for a dead body, so clearly they
were not made by the murderer. They suggest one
thing--and one thing only--that a man was going
to hide in that chest. And at once, on that hypoth
48
Agatha Christie
esis, things become ifitelligible. Mr. Clayton is
jealous of his wife and Rich. He plays the old, old
trick of pretending to go away. He watches Rich
go out, then he gains admission, is left alone to
write a note, quickly bores those holes and hides
inside the chest. His wife is coming there that
night. Possibly Rich will put the others off, possi-bly
she will remain after the others have gone, or