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fellow, Henry." Just that.'
The conversation then reverted to Mrs Hill's own special grievances, and the unfeeling
attitude of the late Mr Gascoigne's solicitor.
With some difficulty Hercule Poirot took his leave without breaking off the conversation
too abruptly.
And so, just after the dinner hour, he came to Elmcrest, Dorset Road, Wimbledon, the
residence of Dr George Lorrimer.
The doctor was in. Hercule Poirot was shown into the surgery and there presently Dr
George Lorrimer came to him, obviously just risen from the dinner table.
'I'm not a patient, Doctor,' said Hercule Poirot. 'And my coming here is, perhaps,
somewhat of an impertinence - but I'm an old man and I believe in plain and direct
dealing. I do not care for lawyers and their long-winded roundabout methods.'
He had certainly aroused Lorrimer's interest. The doctor was a clean-shaven man of
middle height. His hair was brown, but his eyelashes were almost white which gave his
eyes a pale, boiled appearance. His manner was brisk and not without humour.
'Lawyers?' he said, raising his eyebrows. 'Hate the fellows! You rouse my curiosity, my
dear sir. Pray sit down.'
Poirot did so and then produced one of his professional cards which he handed to the
doctor.
George Lorrimer's white eyelashes blinked.
Poirot leaned forward confidentially. 'A good many of my clients are women,' he said.
'Naturally,' said Dr George Lorrimer, with a slight twinkle.
'As you say, naturally,' agreed Poirot. 'Women distrust the official police. They prefer
private investigations. They do not want to have their troubles made public. An elderly
woman came to consult me a few days ago. She was unhappy about a husband she'd
quarrelled with many years before. This husband of hers was your uncle, the late Mr
Gascoigne.'
George Lorrimer's face went purple.
'My uncle? Nonsense! His wife died many years ago.'
'Not your uncle, Mr Anthony Gascoigne. Your uncle, Mr Henry Gascoigne.'
'Uncle Henry? But he wasn't married!'
'Oh yes, he was,' said Hercule Poirot, lying unblushingly. 'Not a doubt of it. The lady
even brought along her marriage certificate.'
'It's a lie!' cried George Lorrimer. His face was now as purple as a plum. 'I don't believe
it. You're an impudent liar.'
'It is too bad, is it not?' said Poirot. 'You have committed murder for nothing.'
'Murder?' Lorrimer's voice quavered. His pale eyes bulged with terror.
'By the way,' said Poirot, 'I see you have been eating blackberry tart again. An unwise
habit. Blackberries are said to be full of vitamins, but they may be deadly in other ways.
On this occasion I rather fancy they have helped to put a rope round a man's neck - your
neck, Dr Lorrimer.'
'You see, mon ami, where you went wrong was over your fundamental assumption.'
Hercule Poirot, beaming placidly across the table at his friend, waved an expository hand.
'A man under severe mental stress doesn't choose that time to do something that he's
never done before. His reflexes just follow the track of least resistance. A man who is
upset about something might conceivably come down to dinner dressed in his pyjamas -
but they will be his own pyjamas - not somebody else's.
'A man who dislikes thick soup, suet pudding and blackberries suddenly orders all three
one evening. You say, because he is thinking of something else. But I say that a man who
has got something on his mind will order automatically the dish he has ordered most
often before.
'Eh bien, then, what other explanation could there be? I simply could not think of a
reasonable explanation. And I was worried! The incident was all wrong. It did not fit! I
have an orderly mind and I like things to fit. Mr Gascoigne's dinner order worried me.
'Then you told me that the man had disappeared. He had missed a Tuesday and a
Thursday the first time for years. I liked that even less. A queer hypothesis sprang up in
my mind. If I were right about it the man was dead. I made inquiries. The man was dead.
And he was very neatly and tidily dead. In other words the bad fish was covered up with
the sauce!
'He had been seen in the King's Road at seven o'clock. He had had dinner here at seven-
thirty - two hours before he died. It all fitted in - the evidence of the stomach contents, the
evidence of the letter. Much too much sauce! You couldn't see the fish at all!
'Devoted nephew wrote the letter, devoted nephew had beautiful alibi for time of death.
Death very simple - a fall down the stairs. Simple accident? Simple murder? Everyone
says the former.
'Devoted nephew only surviving relative. Devoted nephew will inherit - but is there
anything to inherit? Uncle notoriously poor.
'But there is a brother. And brother in his time had had married a rich wife. And brother
lives in a big rich house on Kingston Hill, so it would seem that rich wife must have left
him all her money. You see the sequence - rich wife leaves money to Anthony, Anthony
leaves money to Henry, Henry's money goes to George - a complete chain.'
'All very pretty in theory,' said Bonnington. 'But what did you do?'
'Once you know - you can usually get hold of what you want. Henry had died two hours
after a meal - that is all the inquest really bothered about. But supposing the meal was not
dinner, but lunch. Put yourself in George's place. George wants money - badly. Anthony
Gascoigne is dying - but his death is no good to George. His money goes to Henry, and
Henry Gascoigne may live for years. So Henry must die too - and the sooner the better -
but his death must take place after Anthony's, and at the same time George must have an
alibi. Henry's habit of dining regularly at a restaurant on two evenings of the week
suggest an alibi to George. Being a cautious fellow, he tries his plan out first. He
impersonates his uncle on Monday evening at the restaurant in question. It goes without a
hitch. Everyone there accepts him as his uncle. He is satisfied. He has only to wait till
Uncle Anthony shows definite signs of pegging out. The time comes. He writes a letter to
his uncle on the afternoon of the second November but dates it the third. He comes up to
town on the afternoon of the third, calls on his uncle, and carries his scheme into action.
A sharp shove and down the stairs goes Uncle Henry. George hunts about for the letter he
has written, and shoves it in the pocket of his uncle's dressing-gown. At seven-thirty he is
at the Gallant Endeavour, beard, bushy eyebrows all complete. Undoubtedly Mr Henry
Gascoigne is alive at seven-thirty. Then a rapid metamorphosis in a lavatory and back full
speed in his car to Wimbledon and an evening of bridge. The perfect alibi.'
Mr Bonnington looked at him.
'But the postmark on the letter?'
'Oh, that was very simple. The postmark was smudgy. Why? It had been altered with
lamp black from second November to third November. You would not notice it unless
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