“Wait a second.” I finally laid down my crossword on the table beside me. “That was what you meant about the width of the doorway, wasn’t it? That laundry cart could easily have been pushed into room 402, so why not wheel it all the way in? Why drag the body instead, which would take more effort?”

Poirot nodded with satisfaction. “Indeed, mon ami. These are the questions I hoped you might ask yourself.”

“But . . . are you honestly saying that Rafal Bobak might have murdered Jennie Hobbs, thrown her body in with the laundry and pushed it out onto the street, right past us? He stopped to talk to us, for pity’s sake!”

“Indeed—even though he has nothing to say. What is it? You think I am uncharitable, thinking the bad thoughts about those who have been so helpful to us?”

“Well . . .”

“Giving everybody the benefit of the doubt is laudable, my friend, but it is no way to apprehend a murderer. While you are displeased with me, let me put one more thought into your head: Mr. Henry Negus. He had with him a very large suitcase, did he not? Large enough to contain the body of a slender woman.”

I covered my face with my hands. “I can’t bear much more of this,” I said. “Henry Negus? No. I’m sorry, but no. He was in Devon on the night of the murders. He struck me as absolutely trustworthy.”

“You mean that both he and his wife say that he was in Devon,” Poirot briskly corrected me. “To return to the matter of the trail of blood, suggesting that the body had been dragged to the door . . . Of course, an empty suitcase can be carried into the middle of a room, to where a dead body waits to be placed inside it. So, again, we must wonder: why pull Jennie Hobbs’s body in the direction of the door?”

“Please, Poirot. If we must have this conversation, let us have it some other time. Not now.”

He looked put out by my discomfort. “Very well,” he said brusquely. “Since you are in no mood to debate the possibilities, let me tell you what occurred here in London while you were in Great Holling. Perhaps you will feel more comfortable with facts.”

“A great deal more comfortable, yes,” I said.

After making minor adjustments to his mustache, Poirot lowered himself into an armchair and launched into an account of the conversations he’d had with Rafal Bobak, Samuel Kidd, Nancy Ducane and Louisa Wallace while I was in Great Holling. My mind was reeling by the time he had finished. I risked urging him on to further loquacity by saying, “Haven’t you left out some rather important things?”

“Such as what?”