“So I was. That girl’s lying. She couldn’t have seen me. It’s a dirty plot. If it’s true, why didn’t she say so before?”
Hercule Poirot said quietly:
“She did mention it at the time to her friend and colleague the cook. They were worried and puzzled and didn’t know what to do. When a verdict of suicide was brought in they were much relieved and decided that it wasn’t necessary for them to say anything.”
“I don’t believe a word of it! They’re in it together, that’s all. A couple of dirty, lying little …”
He tailed off into furious profanity.
Hercule Poirot waited.
When Carter’s voice at last ceased, Poirot spoke again, still in the same calm, measured voice.
“Anger and foolish abuse will not help you. These girls are going to tell their story and it is going to be believed. Because, you see, they are telling the truth. The girl, Agnes Fletcher, did see you. You were there, on the stairs, at that time. You had not left the house. And you did go into Mr. Morley’s room.”
He paused and then asked quietly:
“What happened then?”
“It’s a lie, I tell you!”
Hercule Poirot felt very tired—very old. He did not like Frank Carter. He disliked him very much. In his opinion Frank Carter was a bully, a liar, a swindler—altogether the type of young man the world could well do without. He, Hercule Poirot, had only to stand back and let this young man persist in his lies and the world would be rid of one of its more unpleasant inhabitants….
Hercule Poirot said:
“I suggest you tell me the truth….”
He realized the issue very clearly. Frank Carter was stupid—but he wasn’t so stupid as not to see that to persist in his denial was his best and safest course. Let him once admit that he had gone into that room at twenty-six minutes past twelve and he was taking a step into grave danger. For after that, any story he told would have a good chance of being considered a lie.
Let him persist in his denial, then. If so, Hercule Poirot’s duty would be over. Frank Carter would in all probability be hanged for the murder of Henry Morley—and it might be, justly hanged.
Hercule Poirot had only to get up and go.
Frank Carter said again:
“It’s a lie!”
There was a pause. Hercule Poirot did not get up and go. He would have liked to do so—very much. Nevertheless, he remained.
He leaned forward. He said—and his voice held all the compelling power of his powerful personality—
“I am not lying to you. I ask you to believe me. If you did not kill Morley your only hope is to tell me the exact truth of what happened that morning.”
The mean, treacherous face looking at him wavered, became uncertain. Frank Carter pulled at his lip. His eyes went from side to side, terrified, frankly animal eyes.
It was touch and go now….
Then suddenly, overborne by the strength of the personality confronting him, Frank Carter surrendered.
He said hoarsely:
“All right then—I’ll tell you. God curse you if you let me down now! I did go in … I went up the stairs and waited till I could be sure of getting him alone. Waited there, up above Morley’s landing. Then a gent came out and went down—fat gent. I was just making up my mind to go—when another gent came out of Morley’s room and went down too. I knew I’d got to be quick. I went along and nipped into his room without knocking. I was all set to have it out with him. Mucking about, putting my girl against me—damn him—”
He stopped.
“Yes?” said Hercule Poirot: and his voice was still urgent—compelling—
Carter’s voice croaked uncertainly.