"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 some one 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
very peacefully, with a little smile on her lips.
"Yes," murmured Poirot. "The stars fight against us--but is it the
stars?" He lifted his head as though struck by a sudden idea. "Is it
the stars, Hastings? If it is not--if it is not.... Oh, I swear to you,
my friend, standing here by this poor woman's body, that I will have no
mercy when the time comes!"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
But Poirot had turned to the nurse and was eagerly demanding
information. A list of the articles found in her hand-bag was finally
obtained. Poirot gave a suppressed cry as he read it over.
"You see, Hastings, you see?"
"See what?"
"There is no mention of a latch-key. But she must have had a latch-key
with her. No, she was run down in cold blood, and the first person who
bent over her took the key from her bag. But we may yet be in time. He
may not have been able to find at once what he sought."
Another taxi took us to the address Flossie Monro had given us, a
squalid block of Mansions in an unsavoury neighbourhood. It was some
time before we could gain admission to Miss Monro's flat, but we had at
least the satisfaction of knowing that no one could leave it whilst we
were on guard outside.
Eventually we got in. It was plain that some one had been before us.
The contents of drawers and cupboards were strewn all over the floor.
Locks had been forced, and small tables had even been overthrown, so
violent had been the searcher's haste.
Poirot began to hunt through the débris. Suddenly he stood erect with
a cry, holding out something. It was an old fashioned photograph
frame--empty.
He turned it slowly over. Affixed to the back was a small round
label--a price label.
"It cost four shillings," I commented.
"_Mon Dieu!_ Hastings, use your eyes. That is a new clean label.
It was stuck there by the man who took out the photograph, the man who
was here before us, but knew that we should come, and so left this for
us--Claud Darrell--alias Number Four!"