The Big Four - Christie Agatha - Страница 29
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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! / 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 ir 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?"
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."
I repeated the words to Poirot. His face went white.
"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!"
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