‘The case stands—where, in your opinion?’
Sugden took out his note-book.
‘Let’s get down to facts. To begin with, there are the people who couldn’t have done it. Let’s get them out of the way first—’
‘They are—?’
‘Alfred and Harry Lee. They’ve got a definite alibi. Also Mrs Alfred Lee, since Tressilian saw her in the drawing-room only about a minute before the row started upstairs. Those three are clear. Now for the others. Here’s a list. I’ve put it this way for clearness.’
He handed the book to Poirot.
At the time of the crime
George Lee ?
Mrs George Lee ?
David Lee playing piano in music-room
(confirmed by his wife)
Mrs David Lee in music-room (confirmed by husband)
Miss Estravados in her bedroom (no confirmation)
Stephen Farr in ballroom playing gramophone
(confirmed by three of staff
who could hear the music in
servants’ hall).
Poirot said, handing back the list:
‘And therefore?’
‘And therefore,’ said Sugden, ‘George Lee could have killed the old man. Mrs George Lee could have killed him. Pilar Estravados could have killed him; and either Mr or Mrs David Lee could have killed him, but not both.’
‘You do not, then, accept that alibi?’
Superintendent Sugden shook his head emphatically.
‘Not on your life! Husband and wife—devoted to each other! They may be in it together, or if one of them did it, the other is ready to swear to an alibi. I look at it this way: Someone was in the music-room playing the piano. It may have been David Lee. It probably was, since he was an acknowledged musician, but there’s nothing to say his wife was there too except her word and his. In the same way, it may have been Hilda who was playing that piano while David Lee crept upstairs and killed his father! No, it’s an absolutely different case from the two brothers in the dining-room. Alfred Lee and Harry Lee don’t love each other. Neither of them would perjure himself for the other’s sake.’
‘What about Stephen Farr?’
‘He’s a possible suspect because that gramophone alibi is a bit thin. On the other hand, it’s the sort of alibi that’s really sounder than a good cast-iron dyed-in-the-wool alibi which, ten to one, has been faked up beforehand!’
Poirot bowed his head thoughtfully.
‘I know what you mean. It is the alibi of a man who did not know that he would be called upon to provide such a thing.’
‘Exactly! And anyway, somehow, I don’t believe a stranger was mixed up in this thing.’
Poirot said quickly:
‘I agree with you. It is here a family affair. It is a poison that works in the blood—it is intimate—it is deep-seated. There is here, I think, hate and knowledge…’