“And as to Hector Blunt—”
“I will tell you something as to the good Major Blunt,” interrupted Poirot. “It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. Eh bien —that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount of it was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think of that?”
I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak.
“It’s impossible,” I said at last. “A well-known man like Hector Blunt.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that I hardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility that you have not even considered.”
“What is that?”
“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter, blue envelope and all, after you left him.”
“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet—of course, it may be so. He might have changed his mind.”
We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.
I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one’s womenfolk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch—the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are productive of embarrassment.
But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity, she explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for doing so,