‘Please.’ The inspector’s tone was now pleading. He had had no idea before what the writers of detective stories were like. He knew that Mrs Oliver had written forty-odd books. It seemed to him astonishing at the moment that she had not written a hundred and forty. He rapped out a peremptory inquiry. ‘What is all this about a man at breakfast who came in a launch?’

‘He didn’t come in the launch at breakfast time,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘it was a yacht. At least, I don’t mean that exactly. It was a letter.’

‘Well, what was it?’ demanded Bland. ‘A yacht or a letter?’

‘It was a letter,’ said Mrs Oliver, ‘to Lady Stubbs. From a cousin in a yacht. And she was frightened,’ she ended.

‘Frightened? What of ?’

‘Of him, I suppose,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Anybody could see it. She was terrified of him and she didn’t want him to come, and I think that’s why she’s hiding now.’

‘Hiding?’ said the inspector.

‘Well, she isn’t about anywhere,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Everyone’s been looking for her. And I think she’s hiding because she’s afraid of him and doesn’t want to meet him.’

‘Who is this man?’ demanded the inspector.

‘You’d better ask M. Poirot,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Because he spoke to him and I haven’t. His name’s Estaban – no, it isn’t, that was in my plot. De Sousa, that’s what his name is, Etienne de Sousa.’

But another name had caught the inspector’s attention.

‘Who did you say?’ he asked. ‘Mr Poirot?’

‘Yes. Hercule Poirot. He was with me when we found the body.’

‘Hercule Poirot…I wonder now. Can it be the same man? A Belgian, a small man with a very big moustache?’

‘An enormous moustache,’ agreed Mrs Oliver. ‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘It’s a good many years since I met him. I was a young sergeant at the time.’

‘You met him on a murder case?’

‘Yes, I did. What’s he doing down here?’

‘He was to give away the prizes,’ said Mrs Oliver.

There was a momentary hesitation before she gave this answer, but it went unperceived by the inspector.

‘And he was with you when you discovered the body,’ said Bland. ‘H’m, I’d like to talk to him.’

‘Shall I get him for you?’ Mrs Oliver gathered up her purple draperies hopefully.

‘There’s nothing more that you can add, madam? Nothing more that you think could help us in any way?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘I don’t know anything. As I say, I could imagine reasons –’

The inspector cut her short. He had no wish to hear any more of Mrs Oliver’s imagined solutions. They were far too confusing.