"I can't tell you how much I appreciate your invitation."
Mr Entwhistle pressed his host's hand warmly.
Hercule Poirot gestured hospitably to a chair by the fire.
Mr Entwhistle sighed as he sat down.
On one side of the room a table was laid for two.
"I returned from the country this morning," he said.
"And you have a matter on which you wish to consult me?"
"Yes. It's a long rambling story, I'm afraid."
"Then we will not have it until after we have dined. Georges?"
The efficient George materialised with some Paté de Foie Gras accompanied by hot toast in a napkin.
"We will have our Paté by the fire," said Poirot. "Afterwards we will move to the table."
It was an hour and a half later that Mr Entwhistle stretched himself comfortably out in his chair and sighed a contented sigh.
"You certainly know how to do yourself well, Poirot. Trust a Frenchman."
"I am a Belgian. But the rest of your remark applies. At my age the
chief pleasure, almost the only pleasure that still remains, is the
pleasure of the table. Mercifully I have an excellent stomach."
"Ah," murmured Mr Entwhistle.
They had dined off Sole Veronique, followed by Escalope de Veau Milanaise, proceeding to Poire Flambée with ice-cream.
They had drunk a Pouilly Fuisse followed by a Corton, and a very
good port now reposed at Mr Entwhistle's elbow. Poirot, who did not care
for port, was sipping Crème de Cacao.
"I don't know," murmured Mr Entwhistle reminiscently, "how you
manage to get hold of an escalope like that! It melted in the mouth!"
"I have a friend who is a Continental butcher. For him I solve a
small domestic problem. He is appreciative - and ever since then he is
most sympathetic to me in the matter of the stomach."
"A domestic problem." Mr Entwhistle sighed. "I wish you had not reminded me... This is such a perfect moment..."
"Prolong it, my friend. We will have presently the demi tasse and
the fine brandy, and then, when digestion is peacefully under way, then
you shall tell why you need my advice."
The clock struck the half hour after nine before Mr Entwhistle
stirred in his chair. The psychological moment had come. He no longer
felt reluctant to bring forth his perplexities - he was eager to do so.
"I don't know," he said," whether I'm making the most colossal fool
of myself. In any case I don't see that there's anything that can
possibly be done. But I'd like to put the facts before you, and I'd like
to know what you think."
He paused for a moment or two, then in his dry meticulous way, he
told his story. His trained legal brain enabled him to put the facts
clearly, to leave nothing out, and to add nothing extraneous. It was a
clear succinct account, and as such appreciated by the little elderly
man with the egg-shaped head who sat listening to him.
When he had finished there was a pause. Mr Entwhistle was prepared
to answer questions, but for some few moments no question came. Hercule
Poirot was reviewing the evidence.
He said at last:
"It seems very clear. You have in your mind the suspicion that your
friend, Richard Abernethie, may have been murdered? That suspicion, or
assumption, rests on the basis of one thing only - the words spoken by
Cora Lansquenet at Richard Abernethie's funeral. Take those away
-and there is nothing left. The fact that she herself was murdered
the day afterwards may be the purest coincidence. It is true that
Richard Abernethie died suddenly, but he was attended by a reputable
doctor who knew him well, and that doctor had no suspicions and gave a
death certificate. Was Richard buried or cremated?"
"Cremated - according to his own request."
"Yes, that is the law. And it means that a second doctor signed the
certificate - but there would be no difficulty about that. So we come
back to the essential point, what Cora Lansquenet said. You were there
and you heard her. She said: 'But he was murdered, wasn't he?'"
"Yes."
"And the real point is - that you believe she was speaking the truth."
The lawyer hesitated for a moment, then he said: "Yes, I do."
"Why?"
"Why?" Entwhistle repeated the word, slightly puzzled.
"But yes, why? Is it because, already, deep down, you had an uneasiness about the manner of Richard's death?"
The lawyer shook his head. "No, no, not in the least."
"Then it is because of her - of Cora herself. You knew her well?"
"I had not seen her for - oh - over twenty years."
"Would you have known her if you had met her in the street?"
Mr Entwhistle reflected.
"I might have passed her by in the street without recognising her.
She was a thin slip of a girl when I saw her last and she had turned
into a stout, shabby, middle-aged woman. But I think that the moment I
spoke to her face to face I should have recognised her. She wore her
hair in the same way, a bang cut straight across the forehead and she
had a trick of peering up at you through her fringe like a rather shy
animal, and she had a very characteristic, abrupt way of talking, and a
way of putting her head on one side and then coming out with something
quite outrageous. She had character, you see, and character is always
highly individual."
"She was, in fact, the same Cora you had known years ago. And she
still said outrageous things! The things, the outrageous things, she had
said in the past - were they usually - justified?"
"That was always the awkward thing about Cora. When truth would have been better left unspoken, she spoke it."
"And that characteristic remained unchanged. Richard Abernethie was murdered - so Cora at once mentioned the fact."
Mr Entwhistle stirred.
"You think he was murdered?"
