第 22 页

"I see. Tell me, Mademoiselle, you are fond of your cousin?"

"Of Ronald? Of course. He - I haven't seen much of him the last two years - but before that he used to live in the house. I - I always thought he was wonderful. Always joking and thinking of mad things to do. Oh! in that gloomy house of ours it made all the difference."

Poirot nodded sympathetically, but he went on to make a remark that shocked me in its crudity.

"You do not want to see him - hanged, then?"

"No, no." The girl shivered violently. "Not that. Oh! if only it were her - my stepmother. It must be her. The Duchess says it must."

"Ah!" said Poirot. "If only Captain Marsh had stayed in the taxi - eh?"

"Yes - at least, what do you mean?" Her brow wrinkled. "I don't understand."

"If he had not followed that man into the house. Did you hear anyone come in, by the way?"

"No, I didn't hear anything."

"What did you do when you came into the house?"

"I ran straight upstairs - to fetch the pearls, you know."

"Of course. It took you some time to fetch them."

"Yes. I couldn't find the key of my jewel-case all at once.

"So often is that the case. The more in haste, the less the speed. It was some time before you came down, and then - you found your cousin in the hall?"

"Yes, coming from the library." She swallowed.

"I comprehend. It gave you quite the turn."

"Yes, it did." She looked grateful for his sympathetic tone. "It startled me, you see."

"Quite, quite."

"Ronnie just said: 'Hello, Dina, got them?' from behind me - and it made me jump."

"Yes," said Poirot gently. "As I said before it is a pity he did not stay outside. Then the taxi-driver would have been able to swear he never entered the house."

She nodded. Her teas began to fall, splashing unheeded on her lap. She got up. Poirot took her hand.

"You want me to save him for you - is that it?"

"Yes, yes - oh! please, yes. You don't know..."

She stood there striving to control herself, clenching her hands.

"Life has not been easy for you, Mademoiselle," said Poirot gently. "I appreciate that. No, it has not been easy. Hastings, will you get Mademoiselle a taxi?"

I went down with the girl and saw her into the taxi. She had composed herself by now and thanked me very prettily.

I found Poirot walking up and down the room, his brows knitted in thought. He looked unhappy. I was glad when the telephone bell rang to distract him.

"Who is that? Oh! It is Japp. Bonjour, mon ami."

"What's he got to say?" I asked, drawing nearer the telephone.

Finally, after various ejaculations, Poirot spoke.

"Yes, and who called for it? Do they know?"

Whatever the answer, it was not what he expected. His face dropped ludicrously.

"Are you sure?"

"No, is is a little upsetting, that is all."

"Yes, I must rearrange my ideas."

"Comment?"

"All the same, I was right about it. Yes, a detail, as you say."

"No, I am still of the same opinion. I would pray of you to make still further inquiries of the restaurants in the neighbourhood of Regent Gate and Euston, Tottenham Court Road and perhaps Oxford Street."

"Yes, a woman and a man. And also in the neighbourhood of the Strand just before midnight. Comment?"

"But, yes, I know that Captain Marsh was with the Dortheimers. But there are other people in the world besides Captain Marsh."

"To say I have the head of the pig is not pretty. Tout de mкme, oblige me in this matter, I pray of you."

He replaced the receiver.

"Well?" I asked impatiently.

"Is it well? I wonder. Hastings, that gold box was bought in Paris. It was ordered by letter and comes from a well-known Paris shop which specialises in such things. The letter was supposedly from a Lady Ackerly - Constance Ackerly, the letter was signed. Naturally there is no such person. The letter was received two days before the murder. It ordered the initials of (presumably) the writer in rubies and the inscription inside. It was a rush order - to be called for the following day. That is, the day before the murder."

"And it was called for?"

"Yes, it was called for and paid for in notes."

"Who called for it?" I asked excitedly. I felt we were getting near to the truth.

"A woman called for it, Hastings."

"A woman?" I said, surprised.

"Mais oui. A woman - short, middle-aged and wearing pince-nez."

We looked at each other, completely baffled.

Chapter 25

A LUNCHEON PARTY

It was, I think, on the day after that that we went to the Widburns' luncheon party at Claridge's.

Neither Poirot nor I were particularly anxious to go. It was, as a matter of fact, about the sixth invitation we had received. Mrs. Widburn was a persistent woman and she liked celebrities. Undaunted by refusals, she finally offered such a choice of dates that capitulation was inevitable. Under those circumstances the sooner we went and got it over the better.

Poirot had been very uncommunicative ever since the news from Paris. To my remarks on the subject he returned always the same answer.

"There is something here I do not comprehend."

And once or twice he murmured to himself.

"Pince-nez. Pince-nez in Paris. Pince-nez in Carlotta Adams' bag."

I really felt glad of the luncheon party as a means of distraction. Young Donald Ross was there and came up and greeted me cheerily. There were more men than women and he was put next to me at table. Jane Wilkinson sat almost opposite us, and next to her, between her and Mrs. Widburn, sat the young Duke of Merton.

I fancied - of course it may have been only my fancy - that he looked slightly ill at ease. The company in which he found himself was, so I should imagine, little to his liking. He was a strictly conservative and somewhat reactionary young man - the kind of character that seemed to have stepped out of the Middle Ages by some regrettable mistake. His infatuation for the extremely modern Jane Wilkinson was one of those anachronistic jokes that Nature so loves to play.

Seeing Jane's beauty and appreciating the charm that her exquisitely husky voice lent to the most trite utterances, I could hardly wonder at his capitulation. But one can get used to perfect beauty and an intoxicating voice! It crossed my mind that perhaps even now a ray of common-sense was dissipating the mists of intoxicated love. It was a chance remark a rather humiliating gaffe on Jane's part that gave me that impression.

Somebody - I forget who - had uttered the phrase "judgment of Paris," and straight away Jane's delightful voice was uplifted.

"Paris?" she said. "Why, Paris doesn't cut any ice nowadays. It's London and New York that count."

As sometimes happens, the words fell in a momentary lull of conversation. It was an awkward moment. On my right I heard Donald Ross draw in his breath sharply Mrs. Widburn began to talk violently about Russian Opera. Everyone hastily said something to somebody else. Jane alone looked serene along the table without the least consciousness of having said anything wrong.

It was then I noticed the Duke. His lips were drawn tight, he was flushed, and it seemed to me as though he drew slightly away as if he had had a foretaste of the fact that for a man of his position Jane Wilkinson might lead to some awkward contretemps.

As so often happens I made the first remark that came into my head to my left-hand neighbour a stout titled lady who arranged Children's Matinйes. I remember that the remark in question was: "Who's that extraordinary woman in purple at the other end of the table?" It was of course her sister. Having stammered apologies, I turned and chatted to Ross, who answered in monosyllables.

It was then, rebuffed on both sides that I noticed Bryan Martin. He must have come late for I had not seen him before.

He was a little way further down the table on my side and was leaning forward and chatting with great animation to a pretty blonde woman.

It was some time since I had seen him at close quarters, and I noticed at once the great improvement in his looks. The haggard look had almost disappeared. He looked younger and in every way more fit. He was chaffing his vis-а-vis and seemed in first-rate spirits.

I did not have time to observe him further, for at that moment my left neighbour forgave me and graciously permitted me to listen to a harangue on the beauties of a Children's Matinйe which she was organising.

Poirot had to leave early as he had an appointment. He was investigating the strange disappearance of an Ambassador's boots and had an interview at half-past two. He charged me to make his adieus to Mrs. Widburn. While I was waiting to do so - not an easy matter, for she was at the time surrounded by departing friends all breathing out "Darlings", somebody touched me on the shoulder. It was young Ross.

"Isn't M. Poirot here? I wanted to speak to him."

I explained that Poirot had just departed.

Ross seemed taken aback. Looking more closely at him, I noticed that something seemed to have upset him. He looked white and strained and had an uncertain look in his eyes.

"Did you want to see him particularly?" I asked.

He answered slowly:

"I - don't know."

It was such a queer answer that I stared at him in surprise.

"It sounds odd, I know. The truth is that something has happened. Something that I can't make out. I - I'd like M. Poirot's opinion. Because, you see, I don't know what to do - I don't want to bother you, but -"

He looked so puzzled and unhappy that I hastened to reassure him.

"Poirot has gone to keep an appointment, I said. But I know that he will be back at five o'clock. Why not ring him up then, or come and see us?"

"Thanks. Do you know, I think I will. Five o'clock?"

"Better ring up first," I said, and make sure before coming."

"All right. I will. Thanks, Hastings. You see, I think it might be very important."

I nodded and turned again to where Mrs Widburn was saying trivial words and gibing limp handshakes.

My duty done, I was turning away when a hand was slipped through my arm.

"Don't cut me," said a merry voice.

It was Jenny Driver looking extremely chic, by the way.

"Hello," I said. "Where have you sprung from?"

"I was lunching at the next table to you."

"I didn't see you. How is business?"

"Booming, thank you."

"The soup plates going well?"

"Soup plates, as you so rudely call them, are going very well. When everybody has got thoroughly laden up with them, there's going to be dirty work done. Something like a blister with a feather attached is going to be worn bang in the middle of the forehead."

"Unscrupulous," I said.

"Not at all. Somebody must come to the rescue of the ostriches. They're all on the dole."

She laughed and moved away.

"Good-bye. I'm taking an afternoon off from business. Going for a spin in the country."

"And very nice too," I said approvingly. "It's stifling in London today."

I myself walked leisurely through the Park. I reached home about four o'clock. Poirot had not yet come in. It was twenty minutes to five when he returned. He was twinkling and clearly in a good humour.

"I see, Holmes," I remarked, "that you have tracked the Ambassadorial boots."

"It was a case of cocaine smuggling. Very ingenious. For the last hour I have been in a ladies' Beauty Parlour. There was a girl there with auburn hair who would have captured your susceptible heart at once."

Poirot always has the impression that I am particularly susceptible to auburn hair. I do not bother to argue about it.

The telephone rang.

"That's probably Donald Ross," I said as I went across to the instrument.

"Donald Ross?"

"Yes. The young man we met at Chiswick. He wants to see you about something."

I took down the receiver.

"Hello. Captain Hastings speaking,"

It was Ross.

"Oh! is that you, Hastings? Has M. Poirot come in?"

"Yes, he's here now. Do you want to speak to him or are you coming round?"

"It's nothing much. I can tell him just as well over the telephone."

"Right. Hold on."

Poirot came forward and took the receiver. I was so close that I could hear, faintly, Ross's voice.

"Is that M. Poirot?" The voice sounded eager - excited.

"Yes, it is I."

"Look here, I don't want to bother you, but there's something that seems to me a bit odd. It's in connection with Lord Edgware's death."

I saw Poirot's figure go taut.

"Continue, continue."

"It may seem just nonsense to you -"

"No, no. Tell me, all the same."

"It was Paris set me off. You see -" Very faintly I heard a bell trilling.

"Half a second," said Ross.

There was the sound of the receiver being laid down.

We waited. Poirot at the mouthpiece. I was standing beside him.

I say - we waited...

Two minutes passed - three minutes four minutes - five minutes.

Poirot shifted his feet uneasily. He glanced up at the clock.

Then he moved the hook up and down and spoke to the Exchange. He turned to me.

"The receiver is still off at the other end, but there is no reply. They cannot get an answer. Quick, Hastings, look up Ross's address in the telephone book. We must go there at once."

Chapter 26

PARIS?

A few minutes later we were jumping into a taxi.

Poirot's face was very grave.

"I am afraid, Hastings," he said. "I am afraid."

"You don't mean -" I said and stopped.

"We are up against somebody who has already struck twice - that person will not hesitate to strike again. He is twisting and turning like a rat, fighting for his life. Ross is a danger. Then Ross will be eliminated."