"Ah!" said Mr. Joseph Aarons, appreciatively.
He took a long draught from his tankard, set it down with a sigh, wiped
the froth from his lips, and beamed across the table at his host,
Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
"Give me," said Mr. Aarons, "a good Porterhouse steak and a tankard of
something worth drinking, and any one can have your French fallals and
whatnots, your ordoovres and your omelettes and your little bits of
quail. Give me," he reiterated, "a Porterhouse steak."
Poirot, who had just complied with this request, smiled sympathetically.
"Not that there is much wrong with a steak and kidney pudding,"
continued Mr. Aarons. "Apple tart? Yes, I will take apple tart, thank
you, Miss, and a jug of cream."
The meal proceeded. Finally, with a long sigh, Mr. Aarons laid down his
spoon and fork preparatory to toying with some cheese before turning
his mind to other matters.
"There was a little matter of business I think you said, Monsieur
Poirot," he remarked. "Anything I can do to help you I am sure I shall
be most happy."
"That is very kind of you," said Poirot. "I said to myself, 'If you
want to know anything about the dramatic profession there is one person
who knows all that is to be known and that is my old friend, Mr. Joseph
Aarons.'"
"And you don't say far wrong," said Mr. Aarons complacently; "whether
it is past, present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to come to."
"_Précisément._ Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know
about a young woman called Kidd."
"Kidd? Kitty Kidd?"
"Kitty Kidd."
"Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator, song and a dance--That one?"
"That is the one."
"_Very_ smart, she was. Made a good income. Never out of an engagement.
Male impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of fact, you could not
touch her as a character actress."
"So I have heard," said Poirot; "but she has not been appearing lately,
has she?"
"No. Dropped right out of things. Went over to France and took up with
some swell nobleman there. She quitted the stage then for good and all,
I guess."
"How long ago was that?"
"Let me see. Three years ago. And she has been a loss--let me tell you
that."
"She was clever?"
"Clever as a cartload of monkeys."
"You don't know the name of the man she became friends with in Paris?"
"He was a swell, I know that. A Count--or was it a Marquis? Now I come
to think of it, I believe it was a Marquis."
"And you know nothing about her since?"
"Nothing. Never even run across her accidentally like. I bet she is
tooling it round some of these foreign resorts. Being a Marquise to the
life. You couldn't put one over on Kitty. She would give as good as she
got any day."
"I see," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"I am sorry I can't tell you more, Monsieur Poirot," said the other. "I
would like to be of use to you if I could. You did me a good turn once."
"Ah, but we are quits on that; you, too, did me a good turn."
"One good turn deserves another. Ha, ha!" said Mr. Aarons.
"Your profession must be a very interesting one," said Poirot.
"So-so," said Mr. Aarons non-committally. "Taking the rough with
the smooth, it is all right. I don't do so badly at it, all things
considered, but you have to keep your eyes skinned. Never know what the
public will jump for next."
"Dancing has come very much to the fore in the last few years,"
murmured Poirot reflectively.
"_I_ never saw anything in this Russian ballet, but people like it. Too
highbrow for me."
"I met one dancer out on the Riviera--Mademoiselle Mirelle."
"Mirelle? She is hot stuff, by all accounts. There is always money
going to back her--though, so far as that goes, the girl can dance; I
have seen her, and I know what I am talking about. I never had much to
do with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to deal with. Tempers
and tantrums all the time."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully; "yes, so I should imagine."
"Temperament!" said Mr. Aarons, "temperament! That is what they call
it themselves. My missus was a dancer before she married me, but I
am thankful to say she never had any temperament. You don't want
temperament in the home, Monsieur Poirot."
"I agree with you, my friend; it is out of place there."
"A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook," said Mr.
Aarons.
"Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?" asked Poirot.
"About two and a half years, that is all," said Mr. Aarons. "Some
French Duke started her. I hear now that she has taken up with the
ex-Prime Minister of Greece. These are the chaps who manage to put
money away quietly."
"That is news to me," said Poirot.
"Oh, she's not one to let the grass grow under her feet. They say that
young Kettering murdered his wife on her account. I don't know, I am
sure. Anyway, he is in prison, and she had to look round for herself,
and pretty smart she has been about it. They say she is wearing a ruby
the size of a pigeon's egg--not that I have ever seen a pigeon's egg
myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction."
"A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!" said Poirot. His eyes were green
and cat-like. "How interesting!"
"I had it from a friend of mine," said Mr. Aarons. "But, for all
I know, it may be coloured glass. They are all the same, these
women--they never stop telling tall stories about their jewels. Mirelle
goes about bragging that it has got a curse on it. 'Heart of Fire,' I
think she calls it."
"But if I remember rightly," said Poirot, "the ruby that is named
'Heart of Fire' is the centre stone in a necklace."
"There you are! Didn't I tell you there is no end to the lies women
will tell about their jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a
platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said before, ten to one it is
a bit of coloured glass."
"No," said Poirot gently; "no--somehow I do not think it is coloured
glass."