LITMIR.BIZ

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have me. And that’s no matter what kind of a jam she’s in! If you’ll only try and find her for me, sir?’

      Hercule Poirot smiled. He said, murmuring to himself:

      ‘“Hair like wings of gold.” Yes, I think this is the third Labour of Hercules…If I remember rightly, that happened in Arcady…’

      II

      Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper on which Ted Williamson had laboriously inscribed a name and address.

      Miss Valetta, 17 Upper Renfrew Lane, N15.

      He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he fancied not. But it was the only help Ted could give him.

      No. 17 Upper Renfrew Lane was a dingy but respectable street. A stout woman with bleary eyes opened the door to Poirot’s knock.

      ‘Miss Valetta?’

      ‘Gone away a long time ago, she has.’

      Poirot advanced a step into the doorway just as the door was about to close.

      ‘You can give me, perhaps, her address?’

      ‘Couldn’t say, I’m sure. She didn’t leave one.’

      ‘When did she go away?’

      ‘Last summer it was.’

      ‘Can you tell me exactly when?’

      A gentle clicking noise came from Poirot’s right hand where two half-crowns jostled each other in friendly fashion.

      The bleary-eyed woman softened in an almost magical manner. She became graciousness itself.

      ‘Well, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir. Let me see now. August, no, before that–July–yes, July it must have been. About the first week in July. Went off in a hurry, she did. Back to Italy, I believe.’

      ‘She was an Italian, then?’

      ‘That’s right, sir.’

      ‘And she was at one time lady’s maid to a Russian dancer, was she not?’

      ‘That’s right. Madame Semoulina or some such name. Danced at the Thespian in this Bally everyone’s so wild about. One of the stars, she was.’

      Poirot said:

      ‘Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?’

      The woman hesitated a moment before saying:

      ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure.’

      ‘She was dismissed, was she not?’

      ‘Well–I believe there was a bit of a dust up! But mind you, Miss Valetta didn’t let on much about it. She wasn’t one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had–real Eyetalian–her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!’

      ‘And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta’s present address?’

      The half-crowns clinked again encouragingly.

      The answer rang true enough.

      ‘I wish I did, sir. I’d be only too glad to tell you. But there–she went off in a hurry and there it is!’

      Poirot said to himself thoughtfully:

      ‘Yes, there it is…’

      III

      Ambrose Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.

      ‘Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he’s a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear–he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear–too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela–you must have seen that? My décor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine “La Biche au Bois”? She danced it with Michael Novgin. He’s so marvellous, isn’t he?’

      ‘And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?’

      ‘Yes, she used to week-end with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives.’

      ‘Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?’

      ‘But, my dear, she isn’t here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something–not that I believed it myself–you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian–her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke–the usual thing! It goes down so much better.’ Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. ‘Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you’ve got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express it by–’

      He continued happily.

      IV

      The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.

      The ‘dark horse’, as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.

      He said:

      ‘Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er–we haven’t met before, I think?’

      ‘No, we have not met.’

      ‘Well, what is it? I confess, I’m quite curious.’

      ‘Oh, it is very simple–a mere matter of information.’

      The other gave an uneasy laugh.

      ‘Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn’t know you were interested in finance.’

      ‘It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady.’

      ‘Oh, a woman.’ Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.

      Poirot said:

      ‘You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?’

      Sanderfield laughed.

      ‘Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she’s left London.’

      ‘Why did she leave London?’

      ‘My dear fellow, I don’t know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know–very Russian in her moods. I’m sorry that I can’t help you but I haven’t the least idea where she is now. I haven’t kept up with her at all.’

      There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.

      Poirot said:

      ‘But is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace.’

      ‘Isn’t it?’

      ‘No, it is a question of her maid.’

      ‘Her maid?’ Sanderfield stared at him.

      Poirot said:

      ‘Do you–perhaps–remember her maid?’

      All Sanderfield’s uneasiness had returned. He said awkwardly:

      ‘Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course…Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn’t put any faith in a word that girl says. She’s the kind of girl who’s a born liar.’

      Poirot murmured:

      ‘So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?’

      Sanderfield said hastily:

      ‘Just

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