‘After he had confessed his guilt to me, I knew more strongly than ever that my own theory was right.’

‘Your theory,’ said Franklin Clarke, ‘is absurd!’

Poirot shook his head.

‘No, Mr Clarke. You were safe enough so long as no one suspected you. Once you were suspected proofs were easy to obtain.’

‘Proofs?’

‘Yes. I found the stick that you used in the Andover and Churston murders in a cupboard at Combeside. An ordinary stick with a thick knob handle. A section of wood had been removed and melted lead poured in. Your photograph was picked out from half a dozen others by two people who saw you leaving the cinema when you were supposed to be on the race-course at Doncaster. You were identified at Bexhill the other day by Milly Higley and a girl from the Scarlet Runner Roadhouse, where you took Betty Barnard to dine on the fatal evening. And finally—most damning of all—you overlooked a most elementary precaution. You left a fingerprint on Cust’s typewriter—the typewriter that, if you are innocent, you could never have handled.’

Clarke sat quite still for a minute, then he said:

‘Rouge, impair, manque!—you win, M. Poirot! But it was worth trying!’

With an incredibly rapid motion he whipped out a small automatic from his pocket and held it to his head.

I gave a cry and involuntarily flinched as I waited for the report.

But no report came—the hammer clicked harmlessly.

Clarke stared at it in astonishment and uttered an oath.

‘No, Mr Clarke,’ said Poirot. ‘You may have noticed I had a new manservant today—a friend of mine—an expert sneak thief. He removed your pistol from your pocket, unloaded it, and returned it, all without you being aware of the fact.’

‘You unutterable little jackanapes of a foreigner!’ cried Clarke, purple with rage.

‘Yes, yes, that is how you feel. No, Mr Clarke, no easy death for you. You told Mr Cust that you had had near escapes from drowning. You know what that means—that you were born for another fate.’

‘You—’

Words failed him. His face was livid. His fists clenched menacingly.

Two detectives from Scotland Yard emerged from the next room. One of them was Crome. He advanced and uttered his time-honoured formula: ‘I warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence.’

‘He has said quite enough,’ said Poirot, and he added to Clarke: ‘You are very full of an insular superiority, but for myself I consider your crime not an English crime at all—not above-board—not sporting—’

Chapter 35

Finale

I am sorry to relate that as the door closed behind Franklin Clarke I laughed hysterically.

Poirot looked at me in mild surprise.

‘It’s because you told him his crime was not sporting,’ I gasped.

‘It was quite true. It was abominable—not so much the murder of his brother—but the cruelty that condemned an unfortunate man to a living death. To catch a fox and put him in a box and never let him go! That is not le sport!’