‘Sure, Dina? How do you do, M. Poirot? Are your grey cells functioning over our particular family mystery?’

I cast my mind back trying to remember. That round, pleasant, vacuous face, the eyes with slight pouches underneath them, the little moustache marooned like an island in the middle of the expanse of face.

Of course! It was Carlotta Adams’ escort on the night of the supper party in Jane Wilkinson’s suite.

Captain Ronald Marsh. Now Lord Edgware.

The new Lord Edgware’s eye was a quick one. He noticed the slight start I gave.

‘Ah! you’ve got it,’ he said amiably. ‘Aunt Jane’s little supper party. Just a shade bottled, wasn’t I? But I fancied it passed quite unperceived.’

Poirot was saying goodbye to Geraldine Marsh and Miss Carroll.

‘I’ll come down with you,’ said Ronald genially.

He led the way down the stairs, talking as he went.

‘Rum thing – life. Kicked out one day, lord of the manor the next. My late unlamented uncle kicked me out, you know, three years ago. But I expect you know all about that, M. Poirot?’

‘I had heard the fact mentioned – yes,’ replied Poirot composedly.

‘Naturally. A thing of that kind is sure to be dug up. The earnest sleuth can’t afford to miss it.’ 

He grinned.

Then he threw open the dining-room door.

‘Have a spot before you go.’

Poirot refused. So did I. But the young man mixed himself a drink and continued to talk.

‘Here’s to murder,’ he said cheerfully. ‘In the space of one short night I am converted from the creditor’s despair to the tradesman’s hope. Yesterday ruin stared me in the face, today all is affluence. God bless Aunt Jane.’

He drained his glass. Then, with a slight change of manner, he spoke to Poirot.

‘Seriously, though, M. Poirot, what are you doing here? Four days ago Aunt Jane was dramatically declaiming, “Who will rid me of this insolent tyrant?” and lo and behold she is ridded! Not by your agency, I hope? The perfect crime, by Hercule Poirot, ex-sleuth hound.’

Poirot smiled.

‘I am here this afternoon in answer to a note from Miss Geraldine Marsh.’

‘A discreet answer, eh? No, M. Poirot, what are you really doing here? For some reason or other you are interesting yourself in my uncle’s death.’

‘I am always interested in murder, Lord Edgware.’

‘But you don’t commit it. Very cautious. You should teach Aunt Jane caution. Caution and a shade more camouflage. You’ll excuse me calling her Aunt Jane. It amuses me. Did you see her blank face when I did it the other night? Hadn’t the foggiest notion who I was.’

‘En verite?’

‘No. I was kicked out of here three months before she came along.’

The fatuous expression of good nature on his face failed for a moment. Then he went on lightly:

‘Beautiful woman. But no subtlety. Methods are rather crude, eh?’

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

‘It is possible.’

Ronald looked at him curiously.

‘I believe you think she didn’t do it. So she’s got round you too, has she?’

‘I have a great admiration for beauty,’ said Poirot evenly. ‘But also for – evidence.’

He brought the last word out very quietly.

‘Evidence?’ said the other sharply.

‘Perhaps you do not know, Lord Edgware, that Lady Edgware was at a party at Chiswick last night at the time she was supposed to have been seen here.’

Ronald swore.

‘So she went after all! How like a woman! At six o’clock she was throwing her weight about, declaring that nothing on earth would make her go, and I suppose about ten minutes after she’d changed her mind! When planning a murder never depend upon a woman doing what she says she’ll do. That’s how the best-laid plans of murder gang agley. No, M. Poirot, I’m not incriminating myself. Oh, yes, don’t think I can’t read what’s passing through your mind. Who is the Natural Suspect? The well-known Wicked Ne’er-do-Weel Nephew.’

He leaned back in his chair chuckling.

‘I’m saving your little grey cells for you, M. Poirot. No need for you to hunt round for someone who saw me in the offing when Aunt Jane was declaring she never, never, never would go out that night, etc. I was there. So you ask yourself did the wicked nephew in very truth come here last night disguised in a fair wig and a Paris hat?’

Seemingly enjoying the situation, he surveyed us both. Poirot, his head a little on one side, was regarding him with close attention. I felt rather uncomfortable.

‘I had a motive – oh! yes, motive admitted. And I’m going to give you a present of a very valuable and significant piece of information. I called to see my uncle yesterday morning. Why? To ask for money. Yes, lick your lips over that. To ASK FOR MONEY. And I went away without getting any. And that same evening – that very same evening – Lord Edgware dies. Good title that, by the way. Lord Edgware Dies. Look well on a bookstall.’

He paused. Still Poirot said nothing. 

‘I’m really flattered by your attention, M. Poirot. Captain Hastings looks as though he had seen a ghost – or were going to see one any minute. Don’t get so strung up, my dear fellow. Wait for the anti-climax. Well, where were we? Oh! yes, case against the Wicked Nephew. Guilt is to be thrown on the hated Aunt by Marriage. Nephew, celebrated at one time for acting female parts, does his supreme histrionic effort. In a girlish voice he announces himself as Lady Edgware and sidles past the butler with mincing steps. No suspicions are aroused. “Jane,” cries my fond uncle. “George,” I squeak. I fling my arms about his neck and neatly insert the penknife. The next details are purely medical and can be omitted. Exit the spurious lady. And so to bed at the end of a good day’s work.’

He laughed, and rising, poured himself out another whisky and soda. He returned slowly to his chair.

‘Works out well, doesn’t it? But you see, here comes the crux of the matter. The disappointment! The annoying sensation of having been led up the garden. For now, M. Poirot, we come to the alibi!’

He finished off his glass.

‘I always find alibis very enjoyable,’ he remarked. ‘Whenever I happen to be reading a detective story I sit up and take notice when the alibi comes along. This is a remarkably good alibi. Three strong, and Jewish at that. In plainer language, Mr, Mrs and Miss Dortheimer. Extremely rich and extremely musical. They have a box in Covent Garden. Into that box they invite young men with prospects. I, M. Poirot, am a young man with prospects – as good a one, shall we say, as they can hope to get. Do I like the opera? Frankly, no. But I enjoy the excellent dinner in Grosvenor Square first, and I also enjoy an excellent supper somewhere else afterwards, even if I do have to dance with Rachel Dortheimer and have a stiff arm for two days afterwards. So you see, M. Poirot, there you are. When uncle’s lifeblood is flowing, I am whispering cheerful nothings into the diamond encrusted ears of the fair (I beg her pardon, dark) Rachel in a box at Covent Garden. Her long Jewish nose is quivering with emotion. And so you see, M. Poirot, why I can afford to be so frank.’

He leaned back in his chair.

‘I hope I have not bored you. Any question to ask?’

‘I can assure you that I have not been bored,’ said Poirot. ‘Since you are so kind, there is one little question that I would like to ask.’

‘Delighted.’

‘How long, Lord Edgware, have you known Miss Carlotta Adams?’

Whatever the young man had expected, it certainly had not been this. He sat up sharply with an entirely new expression on his face. 

‘Why on earth do you want to know that? What’s that got to do with what we’ve been talking about?’

‘I was curious, that was all. For the other, you have explained so fully everything there is to explain that there is no need for me to ask questions.’