‘Then there is the question of our foreign policy,’ he went on. ‘Things, I am led to understand, are rather—delicate just at present. When it comes to large interests in oil, mineral deposits, all that sort of thing, we have to deal with whatever government’s in power. We don’t want any awkward questions to arise. You can’t keep murder out of the Press, and murder hasn’t been kept out of the Press. But there’s been no mention of anything like jewels in connection with it. For the present, at any rate, there needn’t be.’

‘I agree,’ said Poirot. ‘One must always consider international complications.’

‘Exactly,’ said the Chief Constable. ‘I think I’m right in saying that the late ruler of Ramat was regarded as a friend of this country, and that the powers that be would like his wishes in respect of any property of his that might be in this country to be carried out. What that amounts to, I gather, nobody knows at present. If the new Government of Ramat is claiming certain property which they allege belongs to them, it will be much better if we know nothing about such property being in this country. A plain refusal would be tactless.’

‘One does not give plain refusals in diplomacy,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘One says instead that such a matter shall receive the utmost attention but that at the moment nothing definite is known about any little—nest egg, say—that the late ruler of Ramat may have possessed. It may be still in Ramat, it may be in the keeping of a faithful friend of the late Prince Ali Yusuf, it may have been taken out of the country by half a dozen people, it may be hidden somewhere in the city of Ramat itself.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘One simply does not know.’

The Chief Constable heaved a sigh. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘That’s just what I mean.’ He went on, ‘M. Poirot, you have friends in very high quarters in this country. They put much trust in you. Unofficially they would like to leave a certain article in your hands if you do not object.’

‘I do not object,’ said Poirot. ‘Let us leave it at that. We have more serious things to consider, have we not?’ He looked round at them. ‘Or perhaps you do not think so? But after all, what is three quarters of a million or some such sum in comparison with human life?’

‘You’re right, M. Poirot,’ said the Chief Constable.

‘You’re right every time,’ said Inspector Kelsey. ‘What we want is a murderer. We shall be glad to have your opinion, M. Poirot,’ he added, ‘because it’s largely a question of guess and guess again and your guess is as good as the next man’s and sometimes better. The whole thing’s like a snarl of tangled wool.’

‘That is excellently put,’ said Poirot, ‘one has to take up that snarl of wool and pull out the one colour that we seek, the colour of a murderer. Is that right?’