“Yes. When the person appears, when they cross your path, you will not make it obvious that you have been waiting for them. Rather, you will pretend simply to have been standing there, or passing by, perhaps looking at your pocket watch or rubbing your eye.”
“Rubbing my eye? Why would I do that? Poirot, I don’t want to set off on some hare-brained long-distance mission. I would then, I suppose, have to come back here, and... Have you forgotten that we are supposed to be leaving for London tomorrow? Christmas at Whitehaven Mansions, remember?”
“Do not cavil, Catchpool. Place all of your trust in your friend Hercule. As for the dust in the eye, I have suffered many times in my life from this temporary affliction. It causes great discomfort. But choose something else if you wish—I am happy to leave the irrelevant details of the operation to you. The objective is to look as if you have not contrived to meet your quarry. Your manner must be casual and carefree,comprends-tu? Then, once you have looked pleasantly surprised by this chance encounter and once greetings have been exchanged, you are to say these exact words: ‘I have been meaning to ask you for a while if you would be willing to tell me about the terrible accident.’ Repeat it, please.”
Had he lost all wit and reason?
“Poirot, I will feel like a fool. May I at least know why I will be asking, and what in heaven’s name I am talking about?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Then you will have to do it yourself.”
“Not possible,mon ami. I will soon be busy with Vivienne Laurier, and it is better that Hercule Poirot stays still, exerting only the little grey cells and not the rest of the body. Now, repeat your line, please. You must know it by heart.”
I sighed. “Say it again, then.”
He did so.
I parroted it back to him: “I have been meaning to ask you for a while if you would be willing to tell me about the terrible accident.”
“Again!”
He made me say it five times. “Excellent. Now it is etched on your memory.”
“Probably forever,” I muttered. I felt travel-weary already and I had not yet moved an inch.
“One of two things will happen when you say those words,” said Poirot. “Your quarry will either start to tell you about a terrible accident, or else they will say, ‘What terrible accident?’ If that is their response, you are to say, ‘The one that happened many years ago. You know which accident I mean.’ Then you will observe whether they know or do not know what you are talking about. If they appear to be as baffled as you are now, here is what you will saynext: ‘I am sorry. I did not mean to say “accident.” I meant to say “crime.” Tell me about the terrible crime that happened many years ago.’”
A shiver ran all the way from the top of my neck to the bottom of my spine. I knew there was little point in asking “What terrible crime?”
“To whom would you have me say all this?” I said instead. “And where are you sending me to lie in wait for them, whoever they are?”
He gave me two clear answers: first the person, then the location. It was the very last name I expected to hear, and as for the place where I was to lie in wait... I do not mind admitting that I was so surprised, my eyes nearly popped out of my head.
Chapter 31
Courtyards Revisited
I was not present for Poirot’s conversation with Vivienne Laurier in the library, so I can only recreate the scene from the fulsome report he gave me several days later.
He began with a simple question: “Who killed Stanley Niven, madame?”
“I... Why are you asking me this?” Vivienne said sharply. Her bearing, manner and appearance had not noticeably changed since her husband’s murder, Poirot observed. She seemed every inch the grieving widow, with an invisible but tangible pall of despair draped about her person—exactly as she had been on the day we arrived in her home.
“I have not the slightest idea,” she said.
“That is a lie, is it not? I believe you know who killed Monsieur Niven, and why. As soon as you were informed of the murder, you feared—and not without good reason—that the same person would murder your husband. Now that your worst fear has come to pass,” Poirot smiled ather and said as gently as he could, “will you not tell me the truth, madame?”
“I have. I do not know who killed Arnold, or Mr. Niven.”
“So you wish to protect the guilty party, even now. Tell me, then, instead, about the argument that took place in the hospital room reserved for your husband on Ward 6 of St. Walstan’s Hospital on 8 September.”
“The... the argument?”
“About the courtyard.”
“Why?” she said. “How can a silly argument possibly matter now?”
