“Monsieur Poirot?”
My little friend tapped himself gently on the chest.
“Be seated, signor. You received my note. I am determined to get to the bottom of this mystery. In some small measure you can aid me. Let us commence. You—in company with a friend—visited the late Count Foscatini on the morning of Tuesday the 9th——”
The Italian made an angry gesture.
“I did nothing of the sort. I have sworn in court——”
“Précisément—and I have a little idea that you have sworn falsely.”
“You threaten me? Bah! I have nothing to fear from you. I have been acquitted.”
“Exactly; and as I am not an imbecile, it is not with the gallows I threaten you—but with publicity. Publicity! I see that you do not like the word. I had an idea that you would not. My little ideas, you know, they are very valuable to me. Come, signor, your only chance is to be frank with me. I do not ask to know whose indiscretions brought you to England. I know this much, you came for the especial purpose of seeing Count Foscatini.”
“He was not a count,” growled the Italian.
“I have already noted the fact that his name does not appear in the Almanach de Gotha. Never mind, the title of count is often useful in the profession of blackmailing.”