Murder in the Mews. Agatha Christie

in the room where she was killed, and where a man sat smoking the same kind of cigarettes as you smoke.’

      The shot told. Eustace fell back into his chair. His eyes went from side to side. The collapse of the bully and the appearance of the craven was not a pretty sight.

      ‘You’ve got nothing on me.’ His voice was almost a whine. ‘You’re trying to frame me … But you can’t do it. I’ve got an alibi … I never came near the house again that night …’

      Poirot in his turn, spoke.

      ‘No, you did not come near the house again … You did not need to … For perhaps Mrs Allen was already dead when you left it.’

      ‘That’s impossible—impossible—She was just inside the door—she spoke to me—People must have heard her—seen her …’

      Poirot said softly:

      ‘They heard you speaking to her … and pretending to wait for her answer and then speaking again … It is an old trick that … People may have assumed she was there, but they did not see her, because they could not even say whether she was wearing evening dress or not—not even mention what colour she was wearing …’

      ‘My God—it isn’t true—it isn’t true—’

      He was shaking now—collapsed …

      Japp looked at him with disgust. He spoke crisply.

      ‘I’ll have to ask you, sir, to come with me.’

      ‘You’re arresting me?’

      ‘Detained for inquiry—we’ll put it that way.’

      The silence was broken with a long, shuddering sigh. The despairing voice of the erstwhile blustering Major Eustace said:

      ‘I’m sunk …’

      Hercule Poirot rubbed his hands together and smiled cheerfully. He seemed to be enjoying himself.