This employment requires precision of the
fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the
brain. And never have I needed that more than now!"
"What is the trouble?" I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully
built up edifice.
"It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories
high, but I cannot"--thump--"find"--thump--"that last link of
which I spoke to you."
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he
began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he
did so.
"It is done--so! By placing--one card--on another--with
mathematical--precision!"
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story.
He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a
conjuring trick.
"What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've
only seen your hand shake once."
"On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed
Poirot, with great placidity.
"Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage.
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