“Indeed, indeed. But, monsieur, I am curious about why you did not speak up in the dining room. When I asked, ‘Who here took Richard Negus a glass of sherry?,’ what was it that caused you to remain silent?”

The poor clerk had started to tremble. “I swear on my dear late mother’s grave, Mr. Poirot, I’ve now told you every particular of my encounter with Mr. Negus yesterday evening. Every last particular. You couldn’t have a more complete knowledge of what transpired—of that you may rest assured.”

Poirot opened his mouth to ask another question, but I leaped in before him and said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Brignell. Please don’t worry about not having told us sooner. I understand how hard it is to stand up and speak in front of a crowd. I don’t much like it myself.”

Once dismissed, Brignell hurried to the door like a fox fleeing from hounds.

“I believe him,” I said when he had gone. “He’s told us everything he knows.”

“About his meeting with Richard Negus beside the hotel lift, yes. The detail he conceals relates to himself. Why did he not speak up in the dining room about the sherry? I asked him that question twice, and still he did not answer. Instead, he elaborated upon his remorse, which was sincere. He would not lie, but he cannot bring himself to speak the truth. Ah, how he withholds! It is a form of lying—a very effective one, for there is no spoken lie to be contested.”

Poirot chuckled suddenly. “And, you, Catchpool, you seek to protect him from Hercule Poirot, who would press him again and again, eh, for the information?”

“He looked as if he had reached his limit. And, frankly, if he is keeping quiet about anything, it’s something that he thinks is of no consequence to us and yet it’s a cause of great embarrassment to him. He’s a fretful, conscientious sort. His sense of duty would oblige him to tell us if he thought it mattered.”

“And because you sent him away, I did not have the chance to explain to him that the information he withholds might be vital.” Having raised his voice, Poirot glared at me, to make sure I noted his annoyance. “Even I, Hercule Poirot, do not yet know what matters and what is irrelevant. This is why I must know everything.” He stood up. “And now, I will return to Pleasant’s,” he said abruptly. “The coffee there is far better than Signor Lazzari’s.”

“But Richard Negus’s brother Henry is on his way,” I protested. “I thought you would want to speak to him.”

“I need a change of scenery, Catchpool. I must revitalize my little gray cells. They will begin to stagnate if I do not take them elsewhere.”