"Yes, yes. M. Poirot's rooms. Yes, Captain Hastings speaking. Oh, it's
you, Mr. McNeil! (McNeil and Hodgson were Poirot's solicitors.) I'll
tell him. Yes, we'll come round at once."
I replaced the receiver and turned to Poirot, my eyes dancing with
excitement.
"I say, Poirot, there's a woman there. Friend of Claud Darrell's. Miss
Flossie Monro. McNeil wants you to come round."
"At the instant!" cried Poirot, disappearing into his bedroom, and
reappearing with a hat.
A taxi soon took us to our destination, and we were ushered into Mr.
McNeil's private office. Sitting in the arm-chair facing the solicitor
was a somewhat lurid looking lady no longer in her first youth. Her
hair was of an impossible yellow, and was prolific in curls over each
ear, her eyelids were heavily blackened, and she had by no means
forgotten the rouge and the lip salve.
"Ah, here is M. Poirot!" said Mr. McNeil. "M. Poirot, this is
Miss--er---Monro, who has very kindly called to give us some
information."
"Ah, but that is most kind!" cried Poirot.
He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by
the hand.
"Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office," he
added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.
This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and
simpered.
"Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!" she exclaimed. "I know what you Frenchmen
are like."
"Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that
I am a Frenchman--I am a Belgian, you see."
"I've been to Ostend myself," said Miss Monro.
The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.
"And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud Darrell?" continued
Poirot.
"I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time," explained the lady. "And
I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and my
time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about
poor old Claudie--lawyers, too--maybe it's a fortune looking for the
rightful heir, I'd better go round at once."
Mr. McNeil rose.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation
with Miss Monro?"
"You are too amiable. But stay--a little idea presents itself to me.
The hour of the _déjeuner_ approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps
honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?"
Miss Monro's eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly
low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London's
most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most
delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
"And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?"
Miss Monro said nothing--or everything.
The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady's glass with
thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid on to the topic nearest his
heart.
"The poor Mr. Darrell. What a pity he is not with us."
"Yes, indeed," sighed Miss Monro. "Poor boy, I do wonder what's become
of him."
"It is a long time since you have seen him, yes?"
"Oh, simply ages--not since the war. He was a funny boy, Claudie,
very close about things, never told you a word about himself. But, of
course, that all fits in if he's a missing heir. Is it a title, Mr.
Poirot?"
"Alas, a mere heritage," said Poirot unblushingly. "But you see, it may
be a question of identification. That is why it is necessary for us to
find some one who knew him very well indeed. You knew him very well,
did you not, mademoiselle."
"I don't mind telling you, Mr. Poirot. You're a gentleman. You know
how to order a lunch for a lady--which is more than some of these
young whippersnappers do nowadays. Downright mean, I call it. As I
was saying, you being a Frenchman won't be shocked. Ah, you Frenchmen!
Naughty, naughty!" She wagged her finger at him in an excess of
archness. "Well, there it was, me and Claudie, two young things--what
else could you expect? And I've still a kindly feeling for him. Though,
mind you, he didn't treat me well--no, he didn't--he didn't treat me
well at all. Not as a lady should be treated. They're all the same when
it comes to a question of money."
"No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up
her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?"
"He wasn't anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro
dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up.
Spruce looking. Eyes a sort of blue-gray. And more or less fair-haired,
I suppose. But oh, what an artist! _I_ never saw any one to touch
him in the profession! He'd have made his name before now if it hadn't
been for jealousy. Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy--you wouldn't believe it,
you really wouldn't, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy.
Why, I remember once at Manchester--"
We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated
story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy.
Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell.
"It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell
us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell. Women are such wonderful
observers--they see everything, they notice the little detail that
escapes the mere man. I have seen a woman identify one man out of a
dozen others--and why, do you think? She had observed that he had a
trick of stroking his nose when he was agitated. Now would a man ever
have thought of noticing a thing like that?"
"Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things. I
remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his
bread at table. He'd get a little piece between his fingers and then
dab it round to pick up crumbs. I've seen him do it a hundred times.
Why, I'd know him anywhere by that one trick of his."
"Is not that just what I say? The marvellous observation of a woman.
And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his,
mademoiselle?"
"No, I didn't, Mr. Poirot. You know what men are! They don't like you
to notice things especially if it should seem you were telling them off
about it. I never said a word--but many's the time I smiled to myself.
Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even."
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 to-night. I think I know where to lay my hand 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 hand-bag, 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 to-day. 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 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."