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Chapter VII. Poirot Pays His Debts
“Mypoorwife,”hemurmured.“PoorEmily!Itisterrible.”
“Idonotthink,monsieur,”saidPoirotpointedly,“thatyouquiterealizehowterribleitmaybe—foryou.”AndasInglethorpdidnotappeartounderstand,headded:“Mr.Inglethorp,youarestandinginverygravedanger.”
Thetwodetectivesfidgeted.Isawtheofficialcaution“Anythingyousaywillbeusedinevidenceagainstyou,”actuallyhoveringonSummerhaye’slips.Poirotwenton.
“Doyouunderstandnow,monsieur?”
“No.Whatdoyoumean?”
“Imean,”saidPoirotdeliberately,“thatyouaresuspectedofpoisoningyourwife.”
Alittlegaspranroundthecircleatthisplainspeaking.
“Goodheavens!”criedInglethorp,startingup.“Whatamonstrousidea!I—poisonmydearestEmily!”
“Idonotthink”—Poirotwatchedhimnarrowly—“thatyouquiterealizetheunfavourablenatureofyourevidenceattheinquest.Mr.Inglethorp,knowingwhatIhavenowtoldyou,doyoustillrefusetosaywhereyouwereatsixo’clockonMondayafternoon?”
Withagroan,AlfredInglethorpsankdownagainandburiedhisfaceinhishands.Poirotapproachedandstoodoverhim.
“Speak!”hecriedmenacingly.
Withaneffort,Inglethorpraisedhisfacefromhishands.Then,slowlyanddeliberately,heshookhishead.
“Youwillnotspeak?”
“No.Idonotbelievethatanyonecouldbesomonstrousastoaccusemeofwhatyousay.”
Poirotnoddedthoughtfully,likeamanwhosemindismadeup.
“Soit!”hesaid.“ThenImustspeakforyou
