‘Finding the murderer,’ said Jane.
Norman Gale said, ‘Justice.’
Poirot shook his head. ‘There are more important things than finding the murderer. And justice is a fine word, but it is sometimes difficult to say exactly what one means by it. In my opinion the important thing is to clear the innocent.’
‘Oh, naturally,’ said Jane. ‘That goes without saying. If anyone is falsely accused—’
‘Not even that. There may be no accusation. But until one person is proved guilty beyond any possible doubt, everyone else who is associated with the crime is liable to suffer in varying degrees.’
Norman Gale said with emphasis, ‘How true that is.’
Jane said, ‘Don’t we know it!’
Poirot looked from one to the other.
‘I see. Already you have been finding that out for yourselves.’
He became suddenly brisk.
‘Come now, I have affairs to see to. Since our aims are the same, we three, let us combine together. I am about to call upon our ingenious friend, Mr Clancy. I would suggest that Mademoiselle accompanies me—in the guise of my secretary. Here, Mademoiselle, is a notebook and a pencil for the shorthand.’
‘I can’t write shorthand,’ gasped Jane.
‘But naturally not. But you have the quick wits—the intelligence—you can make plausible signs in pencil in the book, can you not? Good. As for Mr Gale, I suggest that he meets us in, say, an hour’s time. Shall we say upstairs at Monseigneur’s? Bon! We will compare notes then.’
And forthwith he advanced to the bell and pressed it.
Slightly dazed, Jane followed him, clutching the notebook.
Gale opened his mouth as though to protest, then seemed to think better of it.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘In an hour, at Monseigneur’s.’
The door was opened by a rather forbidding-looking elderly woman attired in severe black.
Poirot said, ‘Mr Clancy?’
She drew back and Poirot and Jane entered.
‘What name, sir?’
‘Mr Hercule Poirot.’
The severe woman led them upstairs and into a room on the first floor.
‘Mr Air Kule Prott,’ she announced.
Poirot realized at once the force of Mr Clancy’s announcement at Croydon to the effect that he was not a tidy man. The room, a long one, with three windows along its length and shelves and bookcases on the other walls, was in a state of chaos. There were papers strewn about, cardboard files, bananas, bottles of beer, open books, sofa cushions, a trombone, miscellaneous china, etchings, and a bewildering assortment of fountain-pens.
In the middle of this confusion Mr Clancy was struggling with a camera and a roll of film.
‘Dear me,’ said Mr Clancy, looking up as the visitors were announced. He put the camera down and the roll of film promptly fell on the floor and unwound itself. He came forward with outstretched hand. ‘Very glad to see you, I’m sure.’
‘You remember me, I hope?’ said Poirot. ‘This is my secretary, Miss Grey.’
‘How d’you do, Miss Grey.’ He shook her by the hand and then turned back to Poirot. ‘Yes, of course I remember you—at least—now, where was it exactly? Was it at the Skull and Crossbones Club?’
‘We were fellow passengers on an aeroplane from Paris on a certain fatal occasion.’