“I have a certificate of the marriage—at a registry office near Oxford—of Martin Alistair Blunt and Gerda Grant. Frank Carter saw two men leave Morley’s surgery just after twenty-five past twelve. The first was a fat man—Amberiotis. The second was, of course, you. Frank Carter did not recognize you. He only saw you from above.”
“How fair of you to mention that!”
“He went into the surgery and found Morley’s body. The hands were cold and there was dried blood round the wound. That meant that Morley had been dead some time. Therefore the dentist who attended to Amberiotis could not have been Morley and must have been Morley’s murderer.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes. Helen Montressor was arrested this afternoon.”
Alistair Blunt gave one sharp movement. Then he sat very still. He said:
“That—rather tears it.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Yes. The real Helen Montressor, your distant cousin, died in Canada seven years ago. You suppressed that fact, and took advantage of it.”
A smile came to Alistair Blunt’s lips. He spoke naturally and with a kind of boyish enjoyment.
“Gerda got a kick out of it all, you know. I’d like to make you understand. You’re such a clever fellow. I married her without letting my people know. She was acting in repertory at the time. My people were the straitlaced kind, and I was going into the firm. We agreed to keep it dark. She went on acting. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale was in the company too. She knew about us. Then she went abroad with a touring company. Gerda heard of her once or twice from India. Then she stopped writing. Mabelle got mixed up with some Hindu. She was always a stupid, credulous girl.
“I wish I could make you understand about my meeting with Rebecca and my marriage. Gerda understood. The only way I can put it is that it was like Royalty. I had the chance of marrying a Queen and playing the part of Prince Consort or even King. I looked on my marriage to Gerda as morganatic. I loved her. I didn’t want to get rid of her. And the whole thing worked splendidly. I liked Rebecca immensely. She was a woman with a first-class financial brain and mine was just as good. We were good at team work. It was supremely exciting. She was an excellent companion and I think I made her happy. I was genuinely sorry when she died. The queer thing was that Gerda and I grew to enjoy the secret thrill of our meetings. We had all sorts of ingenious devices. She was an actress by nature. She had a repertoire of seven or eight characters—Mrs. Albert Chapman was only one of them. She was an American widow in Paris. I met her there when I went over on business. And she used to go to Norway with painting things as an artist. I went there for the fishing. And then, later, I passed her off as my cousin. Helen Montressor. It was great fun for us both, and it kept romance alive, I suppose. We could have married officially after Rebecca died—but we didn’t want to. Gerda would have found it hard to live my official life and, of course, something from the past might have been raked up, but I think the real reason we went on more or less the same was that we enjoyed the secrecy of it. We should have found open domesticity dull.”
Blunt paused. He said, and his voice changed and hardened:
“And then that damned fool of a woman messed up everything. Recognizing me—after all those years! And she told Amberiotis. You see—you must see—that something had to be done! It wasn’t only myself—not only the selfish point of view. If I was ruined and disgraced—the country, my country was hit as well. For I’ve done something for England, M. Poirot. I’ve held it firm and kept it solvent. It’s free from Dictators—from Fascism and from Communism. I don’t really care for money as money. I do like power—I like to rule—but I don’t want to tyrannize. We are democratic in England—truly democratic. We can grumble and say what we think and laugh at our politicians. We’re free. I care for all that—it’s been my lifework. But if I went—well, you know what would probably happen. I’m needed, M. Poirot. And a damned double-crossing, blackmailing rogue of a Greek was going to destroy my life work. Something had to be done. Gerda saw it, too. We were sorry about the Sainsbury Seale woman—but it was no good. We’d got to silence her. She couldn’t be trusted to hold her tongue. Gerda went to see her, asked her to tea, told her to ask for Mrs. Chapman, said she was staying in Mr. Chapman’s flat. Mabelle Sainsbury Seale came, quite unsuspecting. She never knew anything—the medinal was in the tea—it’s quite painless. You just sleep and don’t wake up. The face business was done afterwards—rather sickening, but we felt it was necessary. Mrs. Chapman was to exit for good. I had given my ‘cousin’ Helen a cottage to live in. We decided that after a while we would get married. But first we had to get Amberiotis out of the way. It worked beautifully. He hadn’t a suspicion that I wasn’t a real dentist. I did my stuff with the hand pricks rather well. I didn’t risk the drill. Of course, after the injection he couldn’t feel what I was doing. Probably just as well!”
Poirot asked:
“The pistols?”
“Actually they belonged to a secretary I once had in America. He bought them abroad somewhere. When he left he forgot to take them.”
There was a pause. Then Alistair Blunt asked:
“Is there anything else you want to know?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“What about Morley?”
Alistair Blunt said simply:
“I was sorry about Morley.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“Yes, I see….”
There was a long pause, then Blunt said:
“Well, M. Poirot, what about it?”
Poirot said:
“Helen Montressor is arrested already.”
“And now it’s my turn?”