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no doubts, the young, no fear, no pride.”
    Poirot said thoughtfully:
    â€œSo to you Elsa Greer spoke in the words of Juliet?”
    â€œYes. She was a spoiled child of fortune—young, lovely, rich.She found her mate and claimed him—no young Romeo, a married, middle-aged painter. Elsa Greer had no code to restrain her, she had the code of modernity. ‘ Take what you want—we shall only live once! ’”
    He sighed, leaned back, and again tapped gently on the arm of his chair.
    â€œA predatory Juliet. Young, ruthless, but horribly vulnerable! Staking everything on the one audacious throw. And seemingly she won…and then—at the last moment—death steps in—and the living, ardent, joyous Elsa died also. There was left only a vindictive, cold, hard woman, hating with all her soul the woman whose hand had done this thing.”
    His voice changed:
    â€œDear, dear. Pray forgive this little lapse into melodrama. A crude young woman—with a crude outlook on life. Not, I think, an interesting character. Rose white youth, passionate, pale, etc. Take that away and what remains? Only a somewhat mediocre young woman seeking for another life-sized hero to put on an empty pedestal.”
    Poirot said:
    â€œIf Amyas Crale had not been a famous painter—”
    Mr. Jonathan agreed quickly. He said:
    â€œQuite—quite. You have taken the point admirably. The Elsas of this world are hero worshippers. A man must have done something, must be somebody…Caroline Crale, now, could have recognized quality in a bank clerk or an insurance agent! Caroline loved Amyas Crale the man, not Amyas Crale the painter. Caroline Crale was not crude—Elsa Greer was.”
    He added:
    â€œBut she was young and beautiful and to my mind infinitely pathetic.”
    Hercule Poirot went to bed thoughtful. He was fascinated by the problem of personality.
    To Edmunds, the clerk, Elsa Greer was a hussy, no more, no less.
    To old Mr. Jonathan she was the eternal Juliet.
    And Caroline Crale?
    Each person had seen her differently. Montague Depleach had despised her as a defeatist—a quitter. To young Fogg she had represented Romance. Edmunds saw her simply as a “lady.” Mr. Jonathan had called her a stormy, turbulent creature.
    How would he, Hercule Poirot, have seen her?
    On the answer to that question depended, he felt, the success of his quest.
    So far, not one of the people he had seen had doubted that whatever else she was, Caroline Crale was also a murderess.

Five
T HE P OLICE S UPERINTENDENT
    E x-Superintendent Hale pulled thoughtfully at his pipe.
    He said:
    â€œThis is a funny fancy of yours, Mr. Poirot.”
    â€œIt is, perhaps, a little unusual,” Poirot agreed cautiously.
    â€œYou see,” said Hale, “it’s all such a long time ago.”
    Hercule Poirot foresaw that he was going to get a little tired of that particular phrase. He said mildly:
    â€œThat adds to the difficulty, of course.”
    â€œRaking up the past,” mused the other. “If there were an object in it, now….”
    â€œThere is an object.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œOne can enjoy the pursuit of truth for its own sake. I do. And you must not forget the young lady.”
    Hale nodded.
    â€œYes, I see her side of it. But—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Poirot—you’re an ingenious man. You could cook her up a tale.”
    Poirot replied:
    â€œYou do not know the young lady.”
    â€œOh, come now—a man of your experience!”
    Poirot drew himself up.
    â€œI may be, mon cher, an artistic and competent liar—you seem to think so. But it is not my idea of ethical conduct. I have my standards.”
    â€œSorry, Mr. Poirot. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But it would be all in a good cause, so to speak.”
    â€œOh I wonder, would it really?”
    Hale said slowly:
    â€œIt’s tough luck on a happy innocent girl