He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.
"How marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything—but everything! How do they say—Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my friend Hastings."
He flung down the leg of mutton onto its dish again and left the larder. Then he looked through the window.
"Here comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I want to see here." He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, "What is the day of the week, mon ami?"
"Monday," I said, rather astonished. "What—?"
"Ah! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a Monday is a mistake."
Passing back to the living-room, he tapped the glass on the wall and glanced at the thermometer.
"Set fair, and seventy degrees Fahrenheit. An orthodox English summer's day."
Ingles was still examining various pieces of Chinese pottery.
"You do not take much interest in this inquiry, monsieur?" said Poirot.