‘In any case, whatever the truth is about the diamonds, her being mixed up in the murder is out of the question. The butler saw her in the drawing-room at the actual time of the crime. You remember that, Poirot?’
Poirot said:
‘I had not forgotten that.’
The chief constable turned to his subordinate.
‘We’d better get on. What have you to report? Anything fresh?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve got hold of some new information. To start with—Horbury. There’s a reason why he might be scared of the police.’
‘Robbery? Eh?’
‘No, sir. Extorting money under threats. Modified blackmail. The case couldn’t be proved so he got off, but I rather fancy he’s got away with a thing or two in that line. Having a guilty conscience, he probably thought we were on to something of that kind when Tressilian mentioned a police officer last night and it made him get the wind up.’
The chief constable said:
‘H’m! So much for Horbury. What else?’
The superintendent coughed.
‘Er—Mrs George Lee, sir. We’ve got a line on her before her marriage. Was living with a Commander Jones. Passed as his daughter—but she wasn’t his daughter…I think from what we’ve been told, that old Mr Lee summed her up pretty correctly—he was smart where women were concerned, knew a bad lot when he saw one—and was just amusing himself by taking a shot in the dark. And he got her on the raw!’
Colonel Johnson said thoughtfully:
‘That gives her another possible motive—apart from the money angle. She may have thought he knew something definite and was going to give her away to her husband. That telephone story of hers is pretty fishy. She didn’t telephone.’
Sugden suggested:
‘Why not have them in together, sir, and get at that telephone business straight? See what we get.’
Colonel Johnson said:
‘Good idea.’
He rang the bell. Tressilian answered it.
‘Ask Mr and Mrs George Lee to come here.’
‘Very good, sir.’
As the old man turned away, Poirot said:
‘The date on that wall calendar, has it remained like it is since the murder?’
Tressilian turned back.
‘Which calendar, sir?’
‘The one on the wall over there.’
The three men were sitting once more in Alfred Lee’s small sitting-room. The calendar in question was a large one with tear-off leaves, a bold date on each leaf.
Tressilian peered across the room, then shuffled slowly across till he was a foot or two away.
He said:
‘Excuse me, sir, it has been torn off. It’s the twenty-sixth today.’