Was he in the habit of meeting your daughter most evenings after her work?
Not every evening. Once or twice a week would be nearer.
Do you know if she was going to meet him yesterday?
She didnt say. Betty never said much about what she was doing or where she was going. But she was a good girl, Betty was. Oh, I cant believe
Mrs Barnard started sobbing again.
Pull yourself together, old lady. Try to hold up, Mother, urged her husband. Weve got to get to the bottom of this[142].
Im sure Donald would neverwould never sobbed Mrs Barnard.
Now just you pull yourself together, repeated Mr Barnard.
I wish to God I could give you some helpbut the plain fact is I know nothingnothing at all that can help you to find the dastardly scoundrel who did this. Betty was just a merry, happy girlwith a decent young fellow that she waswell, wed have called it walking out with in my young days. Why anyone should want to murder her simply beats meit doesnt make sense.
Youre very near the truth there, Mr Barnard, said Crome. I tell you what Id like to dohave a look over Miss Barnards room. There may be somethinglettersor a diary.
Look over it and welcome, said Mr Barnard, rising. He led the way. Crome followed him, then Poirot, then Kelsey, and I brought up the rear[143].
I stopped for a minute to retie my shoelaces, and as I did so a taxi drew up outside and a girl jumped out of it. She paid the driver and hurried up the path to the house, carrying a small suitcase. As she entered the door she saw me and stopped dead.
There was something so arresting in her pose that it intrigued me.
Who are you? she said.
I came down a few steps. I felt embarrassed as to how exactly to reply. Should I give my name? Or mention that I had come here with the police? The girl, however, gave me no time to make a decision.
Oh, well, she said, I can guess.
She pulled off the little white woollen cap she was wearing and threw it on the ground. I could see her better now as she turned a little so that the light fell on her.
My first impression was of the Dutch dolls[144] that my sisters used to play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheek-bones were high and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. She was not good-lookingplain ratherbut there was an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite impossible to overlook.
My first impression was of the Dutch dolls[144] that my sisters used to play with in my childhood. Her hair was black and cut in a straight bob and a bang across the forehead. Her cheek-bones were high and her whole figure had a queer modern angularity that was not, somehow, unattractive. She was not good-lookingplain ratherbut there was an intensity about her, a forcefulness that made her a person quite impossible to overlook.
You are Miss Barnard? I asked.
I am Megan Barnard. You belong to the police, I suppose?
Well, I said. Not exactly
She interrupted me.
I dont think Ive got anything to say to you. My sister was a nice bright girl with no men friends. Good morning.
She gave me a short laugh as she spoke and regarded me challengingly.
Thats the correct phrase, I believe? she said.
Im not a reporter, if thats what youre getting at.
Well, what are you? She looked around. Wheres mum and dad?
Your father is showing the police your sisters bedroom. Your mothers in there. Shes very upset.
The girl seemed to make a decision.
Come in here, she said.
She pulled open a door and passed through. I followed her and found myself in a small, neat kitchen.
I was about to shut the door behind mebut found an unexpected resistance. The next moment Poirot had slipped quietly into the room and shut the door behind him.
Mademoiselle Barnard? he said with a quick bow.
This is M. Hercule Poirot, I said.
Megan Barnard gave him a quick, appraising glance.
Ive heard of you, she said. Youre the fashionable private sleuth, arent you?
Not a pretty descriptionbut it suffices, said Poirot.
The girl sat down on the edge of the kitchen table. She felt in her bag for a cigarette. She placed it between her lips, lighted it, and then said in between two puffs of smoke:
Somehow, I dont see what M. Hercule Poirot is doing in our humble little crime.
Mademoiselle, said Poirot. What you do not see and what I do not see would probably fill a volume. But all that is of no practical importance. What is of practical importance is something that will not be easy to find.
Whats that?
Death, mademoiselle, unfortunately creates a prejudice. A prejudice in favour of the deceased. I heard what you said just now to my friend Hastings. A nice bright girl with no men friends. You said that in mockery of the newspapers. And it is very truewhen a young girl is dead, that is the kind of thing that is said. She was bright. She was happy. She was sweet-tempered. She had not a care in the world. She had no undesirable acquaintances. There is a great charity always to the dead. Do you know what I should like this minute? I should like to find someone who knew Elizabeth Barnard and who does not know she is dead! Then, perhaps, I should hear what is useful to methe truth.