Poirot cut short the recriminations. "There is another small matter. The dead lady was angry with one of the boys. Do you know which one it was and what it was about?"

Mahmoud's hands rose to heaven. "Should I know? But naturally not. Old lady did not complain to me."

"Could you find out?"

"No, my good gentleman, that would be impossible. None of the boys admit it for a moment. Old lady angry, you say? Then naturally boys would not tell. Abdul say it Mohammed, and Mohammed say it Aziz, and Aziz say it Aissa, and so on. They are all very stupid Bedouin—understand nothing." He took a breath and continued: "Now I, I have advantage of Mission education. I recite to you Keats—Shelley—ladadoveandasweedovedied—"

Poirot flinched. Though English was not his native tongue he knew it well enough to suffer from the strange enunciation of Mahmoud.

"Superb!" he said hastily. "Superb! Definitely I recommend you to all my friends." He contrived to escape from the dragoman's eloquence. Then he took his list to Colonel Carbury, whom he found in his office.

Carbury pushed his tie a little more askew and asked: "Got anything?"

Poirot sat down. "Shall I tell you a theory of mine?"

"If you like," said Colonel Carbury, and sighed. One and another he had heard a good many theories in the course of his existence.

"My theory is that criminology is the easiest science in the world! One has only to let the criminal talk—sooner or later he will tell you everything."

"I remember you said something of the kind before. Who's been telling you things?"

"Everybody."

Briefly, Poirot retailed the interviews he had had that morning.

"Hm," said Carbury. "Yes, you've got hold of a pointer or two, perhaps. Pity of it is, they all seem to point in opposite directions. Have we got a case, that's what I want to know?"

"No."

Carbury sighed again.

"I was afraid not."

"But before nightfall," said Poirot, "you shall have the truth!"

"Well, that's all you ever promised me," said Colonel Carbury. "And I rather doubted your getting that! Sure of it?"

"I am very sure."

"Must be nice to feel like that," commented the other. If there was a faint twinkle in his eye, Poirot appeared unaware of it. He produced his list.

"Neat," said Colonel Carbury approvingly.

He bent over it. After a minute or two he said: "Know what I think?"

"I should be delighted if you would tell me."

"Young Raymond Boynton's out of it."

"Ah! You think so?"

"Yes. Clear as a bell what he thought. We might have known he'd be out of it. Being, as in detective stories the most likely person. Since you practically overheard him saving he was going to bump off the old lady—we might have known that meant he was innocent!"

"You read the detective stories, yes?"

"Thousands of them," said Colonel Carbury. He added and his tone was that of a wistful schoolboy: "I suppose you couldn't do the things the detective does in books? Write a list of significant facts—things that don't seem to mean anything but are really frightfully important—that sort of thing?"