“A predatory Juliet. Young, ruthless, but horribly vulnerable! Staking everything on the one audacious throw. And seemingly she won…and then—at the last moment—death steps in—and the living, ardent, joyous Elsa died also. There was left only a vindictive, cold, hard woman, hating with all her soul the woman whose hand had done this thing.”
His voice changed:
“Dear, dear. Pray forgive this little lapse into melodrama. A crude young woman—with a crude outlook on life. Not, I think, an interesting character. Rose white youth, passionate, pale, etc. Take that away and what remains? Only a somewhat mediocre young woman seeking for another life-sized hero to put on an empty pedestal.”
Poirot said:
“If Amyas Crale had not been a famous painter—”
Mr. Jonathan agreed quickly. He said:
“Quite—quite. You have taken the point admirably. The Elsas of this world are hero worshippers. A man must have done something, must be somebody…Caroline Crale, now, could have recognized quality in a bank clerk or an insurance agent! Caroline loved Amyas Crale the man, not Amyas Crale the painter. Caroline Crale was not crude—Elsa Greer was.”
He added:
“But she was young and beautiful and to my mind infinitely pathetic.”
Hercule Poirot went to bed thoughtful. He was fascinated by the problem of personality.
To Edmunds, the clerk, Elsa Greer was a hussy, no more, no less.
To old Mr. Jonathan she was the eternal Juliet.
And Caroline Crale?
Each person had seen her differently. Montague Depleach had despised her as a defeatist—a quitter. To young Fogg she had represented Romance. Edmunds saw her simply as a “lady.” Mr. Jonathan had called her a stormy, turbulent creature.
How would he, Hercule Poirot, have seen her?
On the answer to that question depended, he felt, the success of his quest.
So far, not one of the people he had seen had doubted that whatever else she was, Caroline Crale was also a murderess.
Five
THE POLICE SUPERINTENDENT
Ex-Superintendent Hale pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.
He said:
“This is a funny fancy of yours, Mr. Poirot.”
“It is, perhaps, a little unusual,” Poirot agreed cautiously.
“You see,” said Hale, “it’s all such a long time ago.”
Hercule Poirot foresaw that he was going to get a little tired of that particular phrase. He said mildly:
“That adds to the difficulty, of course.”
“Raking up the past,” mused the other. “If there were an object in it, now….”
“There is an object.”
“What is it?”
“One can enjoy the pursuit of truth for its own sake. I do. And you must not forget the young lady.”