‘Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown.’
As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.
In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.
‘I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp.’
‘Why, if it isn’t Mr Poirot!’ cried the Inspector. He turned to the other man. ‘You’ve heard me speak of Mr Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together—the Abercrombie forgery case—you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, Moosier. Then, do you remember “Baron” Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him in Antwerp—thanks to Mr Poirot here.’
As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who in his turn introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.
‘I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen,’ remarked Poirot.
Japp closed one eye knowingly.
‘No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say.’
But Poirot answered gravely:
‘There I differ from you.’
‘Oh, come!’ said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time. ‘Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man’s caught red-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!’
But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.
‘Hold your fire, Summerhaye,’ he remarked jocularly.
‘Me and Moosier here have met before—and there’s no man’s judgement I’d sooner take than his. If I’m not greatly mistaken, he’s got something up his sleeve. Isn’t that so, Moosier?’
Poirot smiled.
‘I have drawn certain conclusions—yes.’
Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical, but Japp continued his scrutiny of Poirot.
‘It’s this way,’ he said, ‘so far, we’ve only seen the case from the outside. That’s where the Yard’s at a disadvantage in a case of this kind, where the murder’s only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lot depends on being on the spot first thing, and that’s where Mr Poirot’s had the start of us. We shouldn’t have been here as soon as this even, if it hadn’t been for the fact that there was a smart doctor on the spot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you’ve been on the spot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I’d laugh in his face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn’t bring it in Wilful Murder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn’t been for the Coroner—he seemed to be holding them back.’
‘Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his arrest in your pocket now,’ suggested Poirot.
A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down over Japp’s expressive countenance.
‘Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven’t,’ he remarked dryly.
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
‘I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not be arrested.’
‘I dare say,’ observed Summerhaye sarcastically.
Japp was regarding Poirot with comical perplexity.
‘Can’t you go a little further, Mr Poirot? A wink’s as good as a nod—from you. You’ve been on the spot —and the Yard doesn’t want to make any mistakes, you know.’
Poirot nodded gravely.
‘That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use your warrant: Arrest Mr Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos—the case against him will be dismissed at once!Comme c¸a!’ And he snapped his fingers expressively.
Japp’s face grew grave, though Summerhaye gave an incredulous snort.
As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only conclude that Poirot was mad.
Japp had taken out a handkerchief, and was gently dabbing his brow.
‘I daren’t do it, Mr Poirot. I’d take your word, but there’s others over me who’ll be asking what the devil I mean by it. Can’t you give me a little more to go on?’
Poirot reflected a moment.
‘It can be done,’ he said at last. ‘I admit I do not wish it. It forces my hand. I would have preferred to work in the dark just for the present, but what you say is very just—the word of a Belgian policeman, whose day is past, is not enough! And Alfred Inglethorp must not be arrested. That I have sworn, as my friend Hastings here knows. See, then, my good Japp, you go at once to Styles?’
‘Well, in about half an hour. We’re seeing the Coroner and the doctor first.’
‘Good. Call for me in passing—the last house in the village. I will go with you. At Styles, Mr Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses—as is probable—I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that the case against him could not possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?’
‘That’s a bargain,’ said Japp heartily. ‘And, on behalf of the Yard, I’m much obliged to you, though I’m bound to confess I can’t at present see the faintest possible loophole in the evidence, but you always were a marvel! So long, then, Moosier.’
The two detectives strode away, Summerhaye with an incredulous grin on his face.
‘Well, my friend,’ cried Poirot, before I could get in a word, ‘what do you think?Mon dieu! I had some warm moments in that court; I did not figure to myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to refuse to say anything at all. Decidedly, it was the policy of an imbecile.’
‘H’m! There are other explanations besides that of imbecility,’ I remarked. ‘For, if the case against him is true, how could he defend himself except by silence?’
‘Why, in a thousand ingenious ways,’ cried Poirot. ‘See; say that it is I who have committed this murder, I can think of seven most plausible stories! Far more convincing than Mr Inglethorp’s stony denials!’
I could not help laughing.
‘My dear Poirot, I am sure you are capable of thinking of seventy! But, seriously, in spite of what I heard you say to the detectives, you surely cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred Inglethorp’s innocence?’
‘Why not now as much as before? Nothing has changed.’
‘But the evidence is so conclusive.’
‘Yes, too conclusive.’
We turned in at the gate of Leastways Cottage, and proceeded up the now familiar stairs.
‘Yes, yes, too conclusive,’ continued Poirot, almost to himself. ‘Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory. It has to be examined—sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, my friend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured—so cleverly that it has defeated its own ends.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘Because, so long as the evidence against him was vague and intangible, it was very hard to disprove. But, in his anxiety, the criminal has drawn