Big Four - Agatha Christie [54]
Poirot nodded gently. I noticed that his own hand was shaking a little as he stretched it out to his glass.
‘Then there is always handwriting as a means of establishing identity,’ he remarked. ‘Without doubt you have preserved a letter written by Mr Darrell?’
Flossie Monro shook her head regretfully.
‘He was never one for writing. Never wrote me a line in his life.’
‘That is a pity,’ said Poirot.
‘I tell you what, though,’ said Miss Monro suddenly. ‘I’ve got a photograph if that would be any good?’
‘You have a photograph?’
Poirot almost sprang from his seat with excitement.
‘It’s quite an old one—eight years old at least.’
‘Ça ne fait rien! No matter how old and faded! Ah, ma foi, but what stupendous luck! You will permit me to inspect that photograph, mademoiselle?’
‘Why, of course.’
‘Perhaps you will even permit me to have a copy made? It would not take long.’
‘Certainly if you like.’
Miss Monro rose.
‘Well, I must run away,’ she declared archly. ‘Very glad to have met you and your friend, Mr Poirot.’
‘And the photograph? When may I have it?’
‘I’ll look it out tonight. I think I know where to lay my hands upon it. And I’ll send it to you right away.’
‘A thousand thanks, mademoiselle. You are all that is of the most amiable. I hope that we shall soon be able to arrange another little lunch together.’
‘As soon as you like,’ said Miss Monro. ‘I’m willing.’
‘Let me see, I do not think that I have your address?’
With a grand air, Miss Monro drew a card from her handbag, and handed it to him. It was a somewhat dirty card, and the original address had been scratched out and another substituted in pencil.
Then, with a good many bows and gesticulations on Poirot’s part, we bade farewell to the lady and got away.
‘Do you really think this photograph so important?’ I asked Poirot.
‘Yes, mon ami. The camera does not lie. One can magnify a photograph, seize salient points that otherwise would remain unnoticed. And then there are a thousand details—such as the structure of the ears, which no one could ever describe to you in words. Oh, yes, it is a great chance, this, which has come our way! That is why I propose to take precautions.’
He went across to the telephone as he finished speaking, and gave a number which I knew to be that of a private detective agency which he sometimes employed. His instructions were clear and definite. Two men were to go to the address he gave, and, in general terms, were to watch over the safety of Miss Monro. They were to follow her wherever she went.
Poirot hung up the receiver and came back to me.
‘Do you really think that necessary, Poirot?’ I asked.
‘It may be. There is no doubt that we are watched, you and I, and since that is so, they will soon know with whom we were lunching today. And it is possible that Number Four will scent danger.’
About twenty minutes later the telephone bell rang. I answered it. A curt voice spoke into the phone.
‘Is that Mr Poirot? St James’s Hospital speaking. A young woman was brought in ten minutes ago. Street accident. Miss Flossie Monro. She is asking very urgently for Mr Poirot. But he must come at once. She can’t possibly last long.’
I repeated the words to Poirot. His face went white.
‘Quick, Hastings. We must go like the wind.’
A taxi took us to the hospital in less than ten minutes. We asked for Miss Monro, and were taken immediately to the Accident Ward. But a white-capped sister met us in the doorway.
Poirot read the news in her face.
‘It is over, eh?’
‘She died six minutes ago.’
Poirot stood as though stunned.
The nurse, mistaking his emotion, began speaking gently.
‘She did not suffer, and she was unconscious towards the last. She was run over by a motor, you know—and the driver of the car did not even stop. Wicked, isn’t it? I hope someone took the number.’
‘The stars fight against us,’ said Poirot, in a low voice.
‘You would like to see her?’
The nurse led the way, and we followed.
Poor Flossie Monro, with her rouge and her dyed hair. She lay there