were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames , I tell you, I mean to know . And I shall know—in spite of you all.”
He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained good-humoured and imperturbable as usual.
“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.
“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come now, am I right?”
His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.
“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”
He gave the same short laugh again.
“ C’est dommage ,” he said, and went out.