LITMIR.BIZ

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surveyed it carefully.

      ‘Mais oui,’ he said. ‘This has undoubtedly been cut.’

      The two women waited expectantly. He said:

      ‘I will keep this.’

      Solemnly he put it in his pocket. The two women breathed a sigh of relief. He had clearly done what was expected of him.

      III

      It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to leave nothing untested.

      Though on the face of it it seemed unlikely that Miss Carnaby was anything but the foolish and rather muddle-headed woman that she appeared to be, Poirot nevertheless managed to interview a somewhat forbidding lady who was the niece of the late Lady Hartingfield.

      ‘Amy Carnaby?’ said Miss Maltravers. ‘Of course, remember her perfectly. She was a good soul and suited Aunt Julia down to the ground. Devoted to dogs and excellent at reading aloud. Tactful, too, never contradicted an invalid. What’s happened to her? Not in distress of any kind, I hope. I gave her a reference about a year ago to some woman–name began with H –’

      Poirot explained hastily that Miss Carnaby was still in her post. There had been, he said, a little trouble over a lost dog.

      ‘Amy Carnaby is devoted to dogs. My aunt had a Pekinese. She left it to Miss Carnaby when she died and Miss Carnaby was devoted to it. I believe she was quite heartbroken when it died. Oh yes, she’s a good soul. Not, of course, precisely intellectual.’

      Hercule Poirot agreed that Miss Carnaby could not, perhaps, be described as intellectual.

      His next proceeding was to discover the Park Keeper to whom Miss Carnaby had spoken on the fateful afternoon. This he did without much difficulty. The man remembered the incident in question.

      ‘Middle-aged lady, rather stout–in a regular state she was–lost her Pekinese dog. I knew her well by sight–brings the dog along most afternoons. I saw her come in with it. She was in a rare taking when she lost it. Came running to me to know if I’d seen any one with a Pekinese dog! Well, I ask you! I can tell you, the Gardens is full of dogs–every kind–terriers, Pekes, German sausage-dogs–even them Borzois–all kinds we have. Not likely as I’d notice one Peke more than another.’

      Hercule Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.

      He went to 38 Bloomsbury Road Square.

      Nos. 38, 39 and 40 were incorporated together as the Balaclava Private Hotel. Poirot walked up the steps and pushed open the door. He was greeted inside by gloom and a smell of cooking cabbage with a reminiscence of breakfast kippers. On his left was a mahogany table with a sad-looking chrysanthemum plant on it. Above the table was a big baize-covered rack into which letters were stuck. Poirot stared at the board thoughtfully for some minutes. He pushed open a door on his right. It led into a kind of lounge with small tables and some so-called easy-chairs covered with a depressing pattern of cretonne. Three old ladies and one fierce-looking old gentleman raised their heads and gazed at the intruder with deadly venom. Hercule Poirot blushed and withdrew.

      He walked farther along the passage and came to a staircase. On his right a passage branched at right angles to what was evidently the dining-room.

      A little way along this passage was a door marked ‘Office.’

      On this Poirot tapped. Receiving no response, he opened the door and looked in. There was a large desk in the room covered with papers but there was no one to be seen. He withdrew, closing the door again. He penetrated to the dining-room.

      A sad-looking girl in a dirty apron was shuffling about with a basket of knives and forks with which she was laying the tables.

      Hercule Poirot said apologetically:

      ‘Excuse me, but could I see the Manageress?’

      The girl looked at him with lack-lustre eyes.

      She said:

      ‘I don’t know, I’m sure.’

      Hercule Poirot said:

      ‘There is no one in the office.’

      ‘Well, I don’t know where she’d be, I’m sure.’

      ‘Perhaps,’ Hercule Poirot said, patient and persistent, ‘you could find out?’

      The girl sighed. Dreary as her day’s round was, it had now been made additionally so by this new burden laid upon her. She said sadly:

      ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

      Poirot thanked her and removed himself once more to the hall, not daring to face the malevolent glare of the occupants of the lounge. He was staring up at the baize-covered letter rack when a rustle and a strong smell of Devonshire violets proclaimed the arrival of the Manageress.

      Mrs Harte was full of graciousness. She exclaimed:

      ‘So sorry I was not in my office. You were requiring rooms?’

      Hercule Poirot murmured:

      ‘Not precisely. I was wondering if a friend of mine had been staying here lately. A Captain Curtis.’

      ‘Curtis,’ exclaimed Mrs Harte. ‘Captain Curtis? Now where have I heard that name?’

      Poirot did not help her. She shook her head vexedly.

      He said:

      ‘You have not, then, had a Captain Curtis staying here?’

      ‘Well, not lately, certainly. And yet, you know, the name is certainly familiar to me. Can you describe your friend at all?’

      ‘That,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘would be difficult.’ He went on: ‘I suppose it sometimes happens that letters arrive for people when in actual fact no one of that name is staying here?’

      ‘That does happen, of course.’

      ‘What do you do with such letters?’

      ‘Well, we keep them for a time. You see, it probably means that the person in question will arrive shortly. Of course, if letters or parcels are a long time here unclaimed, they are returned to the post office.’

      Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

      He said:

      ‘I comprehend.’ He added: ‘It is like this, you see. I wrote a letter to my friend here.’

      Mrs Harte’s face cleared.

      ‘That explains it. I must have noticed the name on an envelope. But really we have so many ex-Army gentlemen staying here or passing through–Let me see now.’

      She peered up at the board.

      Hercule Poirot said:

      ‘It is not there now.’

      ‘It must have been returned to the postman, I suppose. I am so sorry. Nothing important, I hope?’

      ‘No, no, it was of no importance.’

      As he moved towards the door, Mrs Harte, enveloped in her pungent odour of violets, pursued him.

      ‘If your friend should come–’

      ‘It is most unlikely. I must have made a mistake…’

      ‘Our terms,’ said Mrs Harte, ‘are very moderate. Coffee after dinner is included. I would like you to see one or two of our bed-sitting-rooms…’

      With difficulty Hercule Poirot escaped.

      IV

      The drawing-room of Mrs Samuelson was larger, more lavishly furnished, and enjoyed an even more stifling amount of central heating than that of Lady Hoggin. Hercule Poirot picked his way giddily amongst gilded console tables and large groups of statuary.

      Mrs Samuelson was taller than Lady Hoggin and her hair was dyed with peroxide. Her Pekinese was called Nanki Poo. His bulging eyes surveyed Hercule Poirot

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