“The chef turned back to the housekeeper. “Why is there doubt about the relations between Monsieur and Madame Rutledge?”The sheets,” she said succinctly.Jake nearly choked on his pastry. “You have the housemaids spying on them?” he asked around a mouthful of custard and cream.Not at all,” the housekeeper said defensively. “It’s only that we have vigilant maids who tell me everything. And even if they didn’t, one hardly needs great powers of observation to see that they do not behave like a married couple.”The chef looked deeply concerned. “You think there’s a problem with his carrot?”Watercress, carrot—is everything food to you?” Jake demanded.The chef shrugged. “Oui.”Well,” Jake said testily, “there is a string of Rutledge’s past mistresses who would undoubtedly testify there is nothing wrong with his carrot.”Alors, he is a virile man . . . she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?”

“Alors, he is a virile man, she is a beautiful woman . . . why are they not making salad together?”

“Well, yeah. You said you wanted Italian. See. Chef Boyardee. He makes one the best stuff. (Tabitha)”

“Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said."It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that."Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully. "She must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is not my desire to speak technically-that is only confusing; but I can assure you that two of the blows were delivered with such forces as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle.""It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Poirot."It was most unscientific," returned Dr. Constantine."The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut his eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again.""C'est une femme," said the chef de train again. "Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength." He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal experience of his own.”

“Why didn't you just let me run home?" she asked."I wanted you here," he said simply."But why?" she persisted.He shrugged. "I don't know.Punishment, perhaps, for spying on me.""I wasn't-" Sophie's denial was automatic, but she cut herself off halfway through, because of course she'd been spying on him."Smart girl," he murmured.She scowled at him. She would have liked to have said something utterly droll and witty, but she had a feeling that anything emerging from her mouth just then would have been quite the opposite,so she held her tongue. Better to be a silent fool than a talkative one."It's very bad to spy on one's host," he said, planting his hands on his hips and somehow managing to look both authoritative and relaxed at the same time."It as an accident," she grumbled."Oh,I believe you there," he said. "But even if you didn't intend to spy on me, the fact remains that when the opportunity arose, you took it.""Do you blame me?"He grinned. "Not at all.I would have done precisely the same thing."Her mouth fell open."Oh,don't pretend to be offended," he said."I'm not pretending."He leaned a bit closer. "To tell the truth, I'm quite flattered.""It was academic curiosity," she ground out, "I assure you."His smile grew sly. "So you're telling me that you would have spied upon any naked man you'd come across?""Of course not!""As I said," he drawled, leaning back against a tree, "I'm flattered.”

“Did Anton try the carrots?”“I believe so. Flavio seems happier, at least on that count, and I have noticed now that Anton shudders whenever he sees anything vaguely resembling a carrot. Which I think is rather sad, as they are a beautiful root vegetable.”“Yes,” said Joe seductively, remembering the huge carrots back on the kitchen table.”