“Yes, but Jane was always rather a hard-boiled young woman.”
“It’s just a fashion, Alistair, these things are in the air!”
Alistair Blunt said:
“Yes, they’re in the air all right.”
He looked a little worried.
Mrs. Olivera rose and Poirot opened the door for her. She swept out frowning to herself.
Alistair Blunt said suddenly:
“I don’t like it, you know! Everybody’s talking this sort of stuff! And it doesn’t mean anything! It’s all hot air! I find myself up against it the whole time—a new heaven and a new earth. What does it mean? They can’t tell you themselves! They’re just drunk on words.”
He smiled suddenly, rather ruefully.
“I’m one of the last of the Old Guard, you know.”
Poirot said curiously:
“If you were—removed, what would happen?”
“Removed! What a way of putting it!” His face grew suddenly grave. “I’ll tell you. A lot of damned fools would try a lot of very costly experiments. And that would be the end of stability—of common sense, of solvency. In fact, of this England of ours as we know it …”
Poirot nodded his head. He was essentially in sympathy with the banker. He, too, approved of solvency. And he began to realize with a new meaning just exactly what Alistair Blunt stood for. Mr. Barnes had told him, but he had hardly taken it in then. Quite suddenly, he was afraid….
II
“I’ve finished my letters,” said Blunt, appearing later in the morning. “Now, M. Poirot, I’m going to show you my garden.”
The two men went out together and Blunt talked eagerly of his hobby.
The rock garden, with its rare alpine plants, was his greatest joy and they spent some time there while Blunt pointed out certain minute and rare species.
Hercule Poirot, his feet encased in his best patent leather shoes, listened patiently, shifting his weight tenderly from one foot to the other and wincing slightly as the heat of the sun caused the illusion that his feet were gigantic puddings!
His host strolled on, pointing out various plants in the wide border. Bees were humming and from near at hand came the monotonous clicking of a pair of shears trimming a laurel hedge.
It was all very drowsy and peaceful.
Blunt paused at the end of the border, looking back. The clip of the shears was quite close by, though the clipper was concealed from view.
“Look at the vista down from here, Poirot. The Sweet Williams are particularly fine this year. I don’t know when I’ve seen them so good—and those are Russell lupins. Marvellous colours.”
Crack! The shot broke the peace of the morning. Something sang angrily through the air. Alistair Blunt turned bewildered to where a faint thread of smoke was rising from the middle of the laurels.
There was a sudden outcry of angry voices, the laurels heaved as two men struggled together. A high-pitched American voice sang out resolutely:
“I’ve got you, you damned scoundrel! Drop that gun!”
Two men struggled out into the open. The young gardener who had dug so industriously that morning was writhing in the powerful grip of a man nearly a head taller.
Poirot recognized the latter at once. He had already guessed from the voice.
Frank Carter snarled:
“Let go of me! It wasn’t me, I tell you! I never did.”