Five Little Pigs by Agatha Christie Page A

in any way. But that point wasn’t relevant because we never claimed that the coniine was in the beer bottle.”
    â€œHow did she manage to put it in the glass with those two looking on?”
    â€œWell, first of all, they weren’t looking on. That is to say, Mr. Crale was painting—looking at his canvas and at the sitter. And Miss Greer was posed, sitting with her back almost to where Mrs. Crale was standing, and her eyes looking over Mr. Crale’s shoulder.”
    Poirot nodded.
    â€œAs I say neither of the two was looking at Mrs. Crale. She had the stuff in one of those pipette things—one used to fill fountain pens with them. We found it crushed to splinters on the path up to the house.”
    Poirot murmured:
    â€œYou have an answer to everything.”
    â€œWell, come now, Mr. Poirot! Without prejudice. She threatens to kill him. She takes the stuff from the laboratory. The empty bottle is found in her room and nobody has handled it but her . She deliberately takes down iced beer to him—a funny thing, anyway, when you realize that they weren’t on speaking terms—”
    â€œA very curious thing. I had already remarked on it.”
    â€œYes. Bit of a give away. Why was she so amiable all of a sudden? He complains of the taste of the stuff—and coniine has a nasty taste. She arranges to find the body and she sends the other woman off to telephone. Why? So that she can wipe that bottle and glass and then press his fingers on it. After that she can pipe up and say that it was remorse and that he committed suicide. A likely story.”
    â€œIt was certainly not very well imagined.”
    â€œNo. If you ask me she didn’t take the trouble to think . She was so eaten up with hate and jealousy. All she thought of wasdoing him in. And then, when it’s over, when she sees him there dead—well, then, I should say, she suddenly comes to herself and realizes that what she’s done is murder—and that you get hanged for murder. And desperately she goes baldheaded for the only thing she can think of—which is suicide.”
    Poirot said:
    â€œIt is very sound what you say there—yes. Her mind might work that way.”
    â€œIn a way it was a premeditated crime and in a way it wasn’t,” said Hale. “I don’t believe she really thought it out, you know. Just went on with it blindly.”
    Poirot murmured:
    â€œI wonder….”
    Hale looked at him curiously. He said:
    â€œHave I convinced you, Mr. Poirot, that it was a straightforward case?”
    â€œAlmost. Not quite. There are one or two peculiar points…!”
    â€œCan you suggest an alternative solution—that will hold water?”
    Poirot said:
    â€œWhat were the movements of the other people on that morning?”
    â€œWe went into them, I can assure you. We checked up on everybody. Nobody had what you could call an alibi—you can’t have with poisoning. Why, there’s nothing to prevent a would-be murderer from handing his victim some poison in a capsule the day before, telling him it’s a specific cure for indigestion and he must take it before lunch—and then going away to the other end of England.”
    â€œBut you don’t think that happened in this case?”
    â€œMr. Crale didn’t suffer from indigestion. And in any case I can’t see that kind of thing happening. It’s true that Mr. Meredith Blake was given to recommending quack nostrums of his own concocting, but I don’t see Mr. Crale trying any of them. And if he did he’d probably talk and joke about it. Besides, why should Mr. Meredith Blake want to kill Mr. Crale? Everything goes to show that he was on very good terms with him. They all were. Mr. Philip Blake was his best friend. Miss Greer was in love with him. Miss Williams disapproved of him, I imagine, very strongly—but moral disapprobation doesn’t lead to poisoning. Little