They had turned a corner rather quickly and had almost cannoned into their quarry. He was standing staring up at a butcher’s shop. The shop itself was naturally closed, but it seemed to be something about the level of the first floor that was riveting Mr Clancy’s attention.
He said aloud, ‘Perfect. The very thing. What a piece of luck!’
He took out a little book and wrote something down very carefully. Then he started off again at a brisk pace, humming a little tune.
He was now heading definitely for Bloomsbury. Sometimes, when he turned his head, the two behind could see his lips moving.
‘There is something up,’ said Jane. ‘He’s in great distress of mind. He’s talking to himself and he doesn’t know it.’
As he waited to cross by some traffic lights, Norman and Jane drew abreast.
It was quite true; Mr Clancy was talking to himself. His face looked white and strained. Norman and Jane caught a few muttered words:
‘Why doesn’t she speak? Why? There must be a reason…’
The lights went green. As they reached the opposite pavement Mr Clancy said, ‘I see now. Of course. That’s why she’s got to be silenced!’
Jane pinched Norman ferociously.
Mr Clancy set off at a great pace now. The overcoat dragged hopelessly. With great strides the little author covered the ground, apparently oblivious of the two people on his tracks.
Finally, with disconcerting abruptness, he stopped at a house, opened the door with a key and went in.
Norman and Jane looked at each other.
‘It’s his own house,’ said Norman. ‘47 Cardington Square. That’s the address he gave at the inquest.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Jane, ‘perhaps he’ll come out
again by and by. And, anyway, we have heard something. Somebody—a woman—is going to be silenced, and some other woman won’t speak. Oh, dear, it sounds dreadfully like a detective story.’
A voice came out of the darkness. ‘Good evening,’ it said.
The owner of the voice stepped forward. A pair of magnificent moustaches showed in the lamplight.
‘Eh bien,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘A fine evening for the chase, is it not?’
Chapter 15
In Bloomsbury
Of the two startled young people, it was Norman Gale who recovered himself first.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘it’s Monsieur—Monsieur Poirot. Are you still trying to clear your character, M. Poirot?’
‘Ah, you remember our little conversation? And it is the poor Mr Clancy you suspect?’
‘So do you,’ said Jane acutely, ‘or you wouldn’t be here.’
He looked at her thoughtfully for a moment.
‘Have you ever thought about murder, Mademoiselle? Thought about it, I mean, in the abstract—cold-bloodedly and dispassionately?’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever thought about it at all until just lately,’ said Jane.
Hercule Poirot nodded.
‘Yes, you think about it now because a murder has touched you personally. But me, I have dealt with crime for many years now. I have my own way of regarding things. What should you say the most important thing was to bear in mind when you are trying to solve a murder?’