Lord Edgware Dies - Agatha Christie [77]
‘What nonsense!’
‘Yes, to most people, but to a certain type of mind. Oh! if I had only someone I could ask . . .’
We were passing a big cinema. People were streaming out of it discussing their own affairs, their servants, their friends of the opposite sex, and just occasionally, the picture they had just seen.
With a group of them we crossed the Euston Road.
‘I loved it,’ a girl was sighing. ‘I think Bryan Martin’s just wonderful. I never miss any picture he’s in. The way he rode down the cliff and got there in time with the papers.’
Her escort was less enthusiastic.
‘Idiotic story. If they’d just had the sense to ask Ellis right away. Which anyone worth sense would have done –’
The rest was lost. Reaching the pavement I turned back to see Poirot standing in the middle of the road with buses bearing down on him from either side. Instinctively I put my hands over my eyes. There was a jarring of brakes, and some rich bus driver language. In a dignified manner Poirot walked to the kerb. He looked like a man walking in his sleep.
‘Poirot,’ I said, ‘were you mad?’
‘No, mon ami. It was just that – something came to me. There, at that moment.’
‘A damned bad moment,’ I said. ‘And very nearly your last one.’
‘No matter. Ah, mon ami – I have been blind, deaf, insensible. Now I see the answers to all those questions – yes, all five of them. Yes – I see it all . . . So simple, so childishly simple . . .’
Chapter 28
Poirot Asks a Few Questions
We had a curious walk home.
Poirot was clearly following out some train of thought in his own mind. Occasionally he murmured a word under his breath. I heard one or two of them. Once he said, ‘Candles’, and another time he said something that sounded like ‘douzaine’. I suppose if I had been really bright I should have seen the line his thoughts were taking. It was really such a clear trail. However, at the time, it sounded to me mere gibberish.
No sooner were we at home than he flew to the telephone. He rang up the Savoy and asked to speak to Lady Edgware.
‘Not a hope, old boy,’ I said with some amusement.
Poirot, as I have often told him, is one of the worst-informed men in the world.
‘Don’t you know?’ I went on. ‘She’s in a new play. She’ll be at the theatre. It’s only half-past ten.’
Poirot paid no attention to me. He was speaking to the hotel clerk, who was evidently telling him exactly what I had just told him.
‘Ah! is that so? I should like then to speak to Lady Edgware’s maid.’
In a few minutes the connection was made.
‘Is that Lady Edgware’s maid? This is M. Poirot speaking. M. Hercule Poirot. You remember me, do you not?’
‘.........’
‘Três bien. Now, you understand, something of importance has arisen. I would like you to come and see me at once.’
‘.........’
‘But yes, very important. I will give you the address. Listen carefully.’
He repeated it twice, then hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.
‘What is the idea?’ I asked curiously. ‘Have you really got a piece of information?’
‘No, Hastings, it is she who will give me the information.’
‘What information?’
‘Information about a certain person.’
‘Jane Wilkinson?’
‘Oh! as to her, I have all the information I need. I know her back side before, as you say.’
‘Who, then?’
Poirot gave me one of his supremely irritating smiles and told me to wait and see.
He then busied himself in tidying up the room in a fussy manner.
Ten minutes later the maid arrived. She seemed a little nervous and uncertain. A small neat figure dressed in black, she peered about her doubtfully.
Poirot bustled forward.
‘Ah! you have come. That is most kind. Sit here, will you now, Mademoiselle – Ellis, I think?’
‘Yes, sir. Ellis.’
She sat down on the chair Poirot had drawn forward for her.
She sat with her hands folded on her lap looking from one