I just had to wind you up like a clockwork toy and off you went. You and your little newspaper. Spreading fear, confusion, hate. An emotional soup, pulsing. You really have been a most useful ally.
But my informer? The letters? The playing cards?
All sent from Monsieur Darrell.
So the fella who turned up with a knife in his back?
In reality a tramp dressed in a theatrical costume, the clues of the playing cards planted upon him.
Reality, Monsieur Poirot? Who is to say where fantasy ends and reality begins?
Well, let us speak of beginnings, monsieur! Act One of a drama so very strange. Albert Whalley. A boy, an orphan, poor and unloved, who was sent away to live with his uncle who was cold and aloof.
Albert Whalley is a name I haven't used in years.
Non, but an uncle who disapproved of your fantasies and your desire to tread the boards.
All those years of listening to that old fool. Going on about his precious Chinaman, Li Chang Yen. I began to see possibilities.
Oui. But then you had the task most difficult, non? To worm your way into the confidences of the members of the Peace Party.
Child's play. I forged my references and quietly took up my position as Dr Quentin. Paynter's condition, it's not really very difficult to research. I'm an actor, Monsieur Poirot, and a bloody good one.
Oh, yes, indeed, monsieur, your ability to blend in, to pass yourself off in all manner of disguises, which has proven so useful. You have the genius of the character actor. Savaranoff was killed to implicate Abe Ryland. Your uncle died to throw suspicion onto Li Chang Yen. And Stephen Paynter, who was innocent, murdered to incriminate Madame Olivier.
He was a weak fool. His weakness was his conscience. I merely persuaded him that it wasn't decent for them to continue their silly love affair.
That's all it was, then? Diana Paynter overheard him ending the affair? It had nothing to do with the Big Four?
Indeed so, mon ami.
But why? In God's name, what the hell was it all for?
For me. Wasn't it, Mr. Poirot?
Oui, mademoiselle. For the woman who spurned him all those years ago. For therein lies your tragedy, Monsieur Darrell. The very gift that could have turned you into the actor supreme makes you forgettable. The man who blends in. The man whose name nobody ever can quite remember. The man who disappears. Albert Whalley, Claud Darrell, Dr Quentin, Number Four. Whatever you choose to call yourself, monsieur, you adore the flourish that is theatrical.
You've got a nerve.
Comment?
All this. You'd already worked out where I was. You could have sent the police to arrest me at any time. But instead you wanted your grand finale, show everyone just how clever you've been. Oh, we're more alike than you think, Poirot.
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