IX
Poirot walked home through the deserted¹ streets in a thoughtful frame of mind.
When he got in, he rang up Japp.
“Forgive my troubling you, my friend, but did you ever do anything in the matter of tracing that
telegram that was sent to Gladys Nevill?”
“Still harping² on the subject? Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. There was a telegram and—rather
clever—the aunt lives at Richbourne in Somerset. The telegram was handed in at Richbarn—you
know, the London suburb.”
Hercule Poirot said appreciatively:
“That was clever — yes, that was clever. If the recipient³ happened to glance at where the
telegram was handed in, the word would look sufficiently⁴ like Richbourne to carry conviction.”
He paused.
“Do you know what I think, Japp?”
“Well?”
“There are signs of brains in this business.”
“Hercule Poirot wants it to be murder, so it’s got to be murder.”
“How do you explain that telegram?”
“Coincidence. Someone was hoaxing⁵ the girl.”
“Why should they?”
“Oh, my goodness, Poirot, why do people do things? Practical jokes, hoaxes⁶. Misplaced sense
of humour, that’s all.”
“And somebody felt like being funny just on the day that Morley was going to make a mistake
over an injection.”
“There may have been a certain amount of cause and effect. Because Miss Nevill was away,
Morley was more rushed than usual and consequently was more likely to make a mistake.”
“I am still not satisfied.”
“I daresay—but don’t you see where your view is leading you? If anybody got la Nevill out of
the way, it was probably Morley himself. Making his killing⁷ of Amberiotis deliberate and not an
accident.”

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