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Chapter XI. The Case for the Prosecution
“Itisthis,monami!ThatIcanbuildcardhousessevenstorieshigh,butIcannot”—thump—“find”—thump—“thatlastlinkofwhichIspoketoyou.”
Icouldnotquitetellwhattosay,soIheldmypeace,andhebeganslowlybuildingupthecardsagain,speakinginjerksashedidso.
“Itisdone—so!Byplacing—onecard—onanother—withmathematical—precision!”
Iwatchedthecardhouserisingunderhishands,storybystory.Heneverhesitatedorfaltered.Itwasreallyalmostlikeaconjuringtrick.
“Whatasteadyhandyou’vegot,”Iremarked.“IbelieveI’veonlyseenyourhandshakeonce.”
“OnanoccasionwhenIwasenraged,withoutdoubt,”observedPoirot,withgreatplacidity.
“Yesindeed!Youwereinatoweringrage.Doyouremember?Itwaswhenyoudiscoveredthatthelockofthedespatch-caseinMrs.Inglethorp’sbedroomhadbeenforced.Youstoodbythemantelpiece,twiddlingthethingsonitinyourusualfashion,andyourhandshooklikealeaf!Imustsay——”
ButIstoppedsuddenly.ForPoirot,utteringahoarseandinarticulatecry,againannihilatedhismasterpieceofcards,andputtinghishandsoverhiseyesswayedbackwardsandforwards,apparentlysufferingthekeenestagony.
“Goodheavens,Poirot!”Icried.“Whatisthematter?Areyoutakenill?”
“No,no,”hegasped.“Itis—itis—thatIhaveanidea!”
“Oh!”Iexclaimed,muchrelieved.“Oneofyour‘littleideas’?”
“Ah,mafoi,no!”repliedPoirotfrankly
