IV
Dressing¹ for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, Hercule Poirot frowned at his
reflection in the mirror.
He was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. For the case, as he
owned to himself, was so very clear. Frank Carter had indeed been caught red-handed.
It was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking² for, Frank Carter. Carter, he
thought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a “wrong ’un.” He was an unpleasant
young bully³ of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst,
however plain the evidence.
And Carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. This tale of having been approached by
agents of the “Secret Service”—and offered a plummy job. To take the post of gardener and report
on the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. It was a story that was disproved easily
enough—there was no foundation for it.
A particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, Poirot reflected, that a man like Carter would
invent.
And on Carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. He could offer no explanation, except
that somebody else must have shot off the revolver. He kept repeating that. It was a frame-up.
No, there was nothing to be said for Carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidence
that Howard Raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet had
just missed Alistair Blunt.
But presumably there wasn’t anything in that. Raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in Downing
Street. And his presence down here was fully⁵ accounted for—he had come down to be near his
girl. No, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story.
It had turned out, of course, very fortunately for Howard Raikes. When a man has just saved
you from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. The least you can do is to show friendliness⁶
and extend hospitality. Mrs. Olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there was
nothing to be done about it.
Jane’s

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