The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [7]
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 lacklustre 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