Sad Cypress (Hercule Poirot 22)

Peter Lord said irritably:

“I don’t understand a word you are talking about.”

Poirot smiled. He said:

“This fish is deliciously fresh.”

Lord said impatiently:

“I dare say. I caught it myself before breakfast this morning. Look here, Poirot, am I to have any idea what you’re driving at? Why keep me in the dark?”

The other shook his head.

“Because as yet there is no light. I am always brought up short by the fact that there was no one who had any reason to kill Mary Gerrard—except Elinor Carlisle.”

Peter Lord said:

“You can’t be sure of that. She’d been abroad for some time, remember.”

“Yes, yes, I have made the inquiries.”

“You’ve been to Germany yourself?”

“Myself, no.” With a slight chuckle he added: “I have my spies!”

“Can you depend on other people?”

“Certainly. It is not for me to run here and there, doing amateurishly the things that for a small sum someone else can do with professional skill. I can assure you, mon cher, I have several irons on the fire. I have some useful assistants—one of them a former burglar.”

“What do you use him for?”

“The last thing I have used him for was a very thorough search of Mr. Welman’s flat.”

“What was he looking for?”

Poirot said:

“One always likes to know exactly what lies have been told one.”

“Did Welman tell you a lie?”

“Definitely.”

“Who else has lied to you?”

“Everybody, I think: Nurse O’Brien romantically; Nurse Hopkins stubbornly; Mrs. Bishop venomously. You yourself—”

“Good God!” Peter Lord interrupted him unceremoniously. “You don’t think I’ve lied to you, do you?”

“Not yet,” Poirot admitted.

Dr. Lord sank back in his chair. He said:

“You’re a disbelieving sort of fellow, Poirot.”

Then he said:

“If you’ve finished, shall we set off for Hunterbury? I’ve got some patients to see later, and then there’s the surgery.”