‘Well, frankly, I don’t. As I look at it an archaeologist is a poor kind of fish. Always burrowing in the ground and talking through his hat about what happened thousands of years ago—and how do they know, I should like to know? Who’s to contradict them? They say some rotten string of beads is five thousand three hundred and twenty-two years old, and who’s to say it isn’t? Well, there they are—liars, perhaps—though they seem to believe it themselves—but harmless. I had an old chap in here the other day who’d had a scarab pinched—terrible state he was in—nice old boy, but helpless as a baby in arms. No, between you and me, I don’t think for a minute that pair of French archaeologists did it.’
‘Who do you think did it?’
‘Well—there’s Clancy, of course. He’s in a queer way. Goes about muttering to himself. He’s got something on his mind.’
‘The plot of a new book, perhaps.’
‘It may be that—and it may be something else; but, try as I may, I can’t get a line on motive. I still think CL 52 in the black book is Lady Horbury; but I can’t get anything out of her. She’s pretty hard-boiled, I can tell you.’
Poirot smiled to himself. Japp went on:
‘The stewards—well, I can’t find a thing to connect them with Giselle.’
‘Dr Bryant?’
‘I think I’m on to something there. Rumours about him and a patient. Pretty woman—nasty husband—takes drugs or something. If he’s not careful he’ll be struck off the medical council. That fits in with RT 362 well enough, and I don’t mind telling you that I’ve got a pretty shrewd idea where he could have got the snake venom from. I went to see him and he gave himself away rather badly over that. Still, so far it is all surmise—no facts. Facts aren’t any too easy to get at in this case. Ryder seems all square and above board—says he went to raise a loan in Paris and couldn’t get it—gave names and addresses—all checked up. I’ve found out that the firm was nearly in Queer Street about a week or two ago, but they seem to be just pulling through. There you are again—unsatisfactory. The whole thing is a muddle.’
‘There is no such thing as muddle—obscurity, yes—but muddle can exist only in a disorderly brain.’
‘Use any word you choose. The result’s the same. Fournier’s stumped, too. I suppose you’ve got it all taped out, but you’d rather not tell!’
‘You mock yourself at me. I have not got it all taped out. I proceed a step at a time, with order and method, but there is still far to go.’
‘I can’t help feeling glad to hear that. Let’s hear about these orderly steps.’
Poirot smiled.
‘I make a little table—so.’ He took a paper from his pocket. ‘My idea is this: A murder is an action performed to bring about a certain result.’
‘Say that again slowly.’
‘It is not difficult.’
‘Probably not—but you make it sound so.’
‘No, no, it is very simple. Say you want money—you get it when an aunt dies. Bien—you perform an action—this is to kill the aunt—and get the result—inherit the money.’
‘I wish I had some aunts like that,’ sighed Japp. ‘Go ahead, I see your idea. You mean there’s got to be a motive.’
‘I prefer my own way of putting it. An action is performed—the action being murder—what now are the results of that action? By studying the different results we should get the answer to our conundrum. The results of a single action may be very varied—that particular action affects a lot of different people. Eh bien, I study today—three weeks after the crime—the result in eleven different cases.’
He spread out the paper.
Japp leaned forward with some interest and read over Poirot’s shoulder:
Miss Grey. Result—temporary improvement. Increased salary.
Mr Gale. Result—bad. Loss of practice.
Lady Horbury. Result good, if she’s CL 52.
Miss Kerr. Result—bad, since Giselle’s death makes it more unlikely Lord Horbury will get the evidence to divorce his wife.
‘H’m.’ Japp interrupted his scrutiny. ‘So you think she’s keen on his lordship? You are a one for nosing out love affairs.’
Poirot smiled. Japp bent over the chart once more.
Mr Clancy. Result—good—expects to make money by book dealing with the murder.