“Yes,” I said hesitatingly. “I believe I do.”
Poirot leaned across the table. His eyes bored into mine.
“Yes—you have changed. You are no longer amused, superior—indulging me in my academic pleasures. But what is it that has convinced you? It is not my excellent reasoning—non, ce n’est pas ça! But something—something quite independent—has produced an effect on you. Tell me, my friend, what is it that has suddenly induced you to take this matter seriously?”
“I think,” I said slowly, “it was Mrs. Tanios. She looked—she looked—afraid.…”
“Afraid of me?”
“No—no, not of you. It was something else. She spoke so quietly and sensibly to begin with—a natural resentment at the terms of the will, perhaps, but otherwise she seemed so resigned and willing to leave things as they are. It seemed the natural attitude of a well-bred but rather apathetic woman. And then that sudden change—the eagerness with which she came over to Dr. Tanios’ point of view. The way she came out into the hall after us—the—almost furtive way—”
Poirot nodded encouragingly.
“And another little thing which you may not have noticed—”
“I notice everything!”
“I mean the point about her husband’s visit to Littlegreen House on that last Sunday. I could swear she knew nothing of it—that it was the most complete surprise to her—and yet she took her cue so quickly—agreed that he had told her about it and that she had forgotten. I—I didn’t like it, Poirot.”
“You are quite right, Hastings—it was significant that.”
“It left an ugly impression of—of fear on me.”
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
“You felt the same?” I asked.
“Yes—that impression was definitely in the air.” He paused and then went on. “And yet you liked Tanios, did you not? You found him an agreeable man, openhearted, good-natured, genial. Attractive in spite of your insular prejudice against the Argentines, the Portuguese and the Greeks—a thoroughly congenial personality?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “I did.”
In the silence that ensued, I watched Poirot. Presently I said:
“What are you thinking of, Poirot?”
“I am reflecting on various people, handsome young Norman Gale, bluff, hearty Evelyn Howard, the pleasant Dr. Sheppard, the quiet, reliable Knighton.”
For a moment I did not understand these references to people who had figured in past cases.
“What of them?” I asked.
“They were all delightful personalities….”
“My goodness, Poirot, do you really think that Tanios—”
“No, no. Do not jump to conclusions, Hastings. I am only pointing out that one’s own personal reactions to people are singularly unsafe guides. One must go not by one’s feelings but by facts.”
“H’m,” I said. “Facts are not our strong suit. No, no, Poirot, don’t go over it all again!”
“I will be brief, my friend, do not fear. To begin with, we have quite certainly a case of attempted murder. You admit that, do you not?”
“Yes,” I said slowly. “I do.”
I had, up to now, been a little sceptical over Poirot’s (as I thought) somewhat fanciful reconstruction of the events on the night of Easter Tuesday. I was forced to admit, however, that his deductions were perfectly logical.
“Très bien. Now one cannot have attempted murder without a murderer. One of the people present on that evening was a murderer—in intention if not in fact.”
“Granted.”