III
Frank Carter, haggard, white- faced, still feebly inclined to bluster¹, looked on his unexpected
visitor with unconcealed disfavour. He said rudely:
“So it’s you, you ruddy little foreigner? What do you want?”
“I want to see you and talk to you.”
“Well, you see me all right. But I won’t talk. Not without my lawyer. That’s right, isn’t it? You
can’t go against that. I’ve got the right to have my solicitor² present before I say a word.”
“Certainly you have. You can send for him if you like—but I should prefer that you did not.”
“I daresay. Think you’re going to trap me into making some damaging admissions, eh?”
“We are quite alone, remember.”
“That’s a bit unusual, isn’t it? Got your police pals³ listening in, no doubt.”
“You are wrong. This is a private interview between you and me.”
Frank Carter laughed. He looked cunning and unpleasant. He said:
“Come off it! You don’t take me in with that old gag.”
“Do you remember a girl called Agnes Fletcher?”
“Never heard of her.”
“I think you will remember her, though you may never have taken much notice of her. She was
house-parlourmaid at 58, Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Well, what of it?”
Hercule Poirot said slowly:
“On the morning of the day that Mr. Morley was shot, this girl Agnes happened to look over the
banisters from the top floor. She saw you on the stairs—waiting and listening. Presently she saw
you go along to Mr. Morley’s room. The time was then twenty-six minutes or thereabouts past
twelve.”
Frank Carter trembled violently. Sweat came out on his brow. His eyes, more furtive⁴ than ever,
went wildly from side to side. He shouted angrily:
“It’s a lie! It’s a damned lie! You’ve paid her—the police have paid her—to say she saw me.”
“At that time,” said Hercule Poirot, “by your own account, you had left the house and were
walking in the Marylebone Road.”
“So I was. That girl’s lying. She couldn’t have seen me. It’s a dirty plot. If it’s true, why didn’t

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