“You know, M. Poirot, I’ve been watching you this last day or two. I just wanted to watch you detecting if you know what I mean—not that it doesn’t sound rather heartless put like that, as though it were all a game—and a poor creature killed. Oh dear, every time I think of it I get the shivers! I told Mr. Gardener this morning I’d just got to get away from here, and now the inquest’s over he thinks we’ll be able to leave tomorrow, and that’s a blessing, I’m sure. But about detecting, I would so like to know your methods—you know, I’d feel privileged if you’d just explain it to me.”

Hercule Poirot said:

“It is a little like your puzzle, Madame. One assembles the pieces. It is like a mosaic—many colours and patterns—and every strange-shaped little piece must be fitted into its own place.”

“Now isn’t that interesting? Why, I’m sure you explain it just too beautifully.”

Poirot went on:

“And sometimes it is like that piece of your puzzle just now. One arranges very methodically the pieces of the puzzle—one sorts the colours—and then perhaps a piece of one colour that should fit in with—say, the fur rug, fits in instead in a black cat’s tail.”

“Why, if that doesn’t sound too fascinating! And are there a great many pieces, M. Poirot?”

“Yes, Madame. Almost everyone here in this hotel has given me a piece for my puzzle. You amongst them.”

“Me?” Mrs. Gardener’s tone was shrill.

“Yes, a remark of yours, Madame, was exceedingly helpful. I might say it was illuminating.”

“Well, if that isn’t too lovely! Can’t you tell me some more, M. Poirot?”

“Ah! Madame, I reserve the explanations for the last chapter.”

Mrs. Gardener murmured:

“If that isn’t just too bad!”

V

Hercule Poirot tapped gently on the door of Captain Marshall’s room. Inside there was the sound of a typewriter.

A curt “Come in” came from the room and Poirot entered.

Captain Marshall’s back was turned to him. He was sitting typing at the table between the windows. He did not turn his head but his eyes met Poirot’s in the mirror that hung on the wall directly in front of him. He said irritably:

“Well, M. Poirot, what is it?”

Poirot said quickly:

“A thousand apologies for intruding. You are busy?”

Marshall said shortly: “I am rather.”

Poirot said:

“It is one little question that I would like to ask you.”

Marshall said:

“My God, I’m sick of answering questions. I’ve answered the police questions. I don’t feel called upon to answer yours.”

Poirot said:

“Mine is a very simple one. Only this. On the morning of your wife’s death, did you have a bath after you finished typing and before you went out to play tennis?”