too.'
'What did she say about Louise?' It was Poirot who asked, leaning forward sharply.
Miss Jacobs looked at him doubtfully.
'Nothing, really, just mentioned the name. 'Like Louise', she said, and then stopped. It was after she had said about its not being safe to hate people…'
'And then?'
'Then she told me, quite calmly, I had better ring up the police. Which I did. We just - sat there until they came… I did not think I ought to leave her. We did not say anything. She seemed absorbed in her thoughts, and I - well, frankly, I couldn't think of anything to say.'
'You could see, couldn't you, that she was mentally unstable?' said Andrew Restarick. 'You could see that she didn't know what she had done or why, poor child?' He spoke pleadingly - hopefully.
'If it is a sign of mental instability to appear perfectly cool and collected after committing a murder, then I will agree with you.' Miss Jacobs spoke in the voice of one who quite decidedly did not agree.
Stillingfleet said: 'Miss Jacobs, did she at any time admit that she had killed him?'
'Oh yes. I should have mentioned that before- It was the very first thing she did say. As though she was answering some question I had asked her. She said 'Yes, I've killed him.' And then went on about having washed her hands.' Restarick groaned and buried his face in his hands. Claudia put her hand on his arm.
Poirot said: 'Miss Jacobs, you say the girl put down the knife she was carrying on that table.
It was quite near you? You saw it clearly?
Did it appear to you that the knife also had been washed?' Miss Jacobs looked hesitantly at Chief Inspector Neele. It was clear that she felt that Poirot struck an alien and unofficial note in this presumably official enquiry.
'Perhaps you would be kind enough to answer that?' said Neele.
'No - I don't think the knife had been washed or wiped in any way. It was stained and discoloured with some thick sticky substance.'
'Ah,' Poirot leaned back in his chair.
'I should have thought you would have known all about the knife yourself,' said Miss Jacobs to Neele accusingly. 'Didn't your police examine it? It seems to me very lax if they didn't.'
'Oh yes, the police examined it,' said Neele. 'But we - er - always like to get corroboration.' She darted him a shrewd glance.
'What you really mean, I suppose, is that you like to find out how accurate the observation of your witnesses is. How much they make up, or how much they actually see, or think they have seen.' He smiled slightly as he said: 'I don't think we need have doubts about you. Miss Jacobs. You will make an excellent witness.'
'I shan't enjoy it. But it's the kind of thing one has to go through with, I suppose.'
'I'm afraid so. Thank you. Miss Jacobs.' He looked round. 'No one has any additional questions?' Poirot indicated that he had. Miss Jacobs paused near the doorway, displeased.
'Yes?' she said.
'About this mention of someone called Louise. Did you know who it was the girl meant?'
'How should I know?'
'Isn't it possible that she might have meant Mrs. Louise Charpentier. You knew Mrs. Charpentier, didn't you?'
'I did not.'
'You knew that she recently threw herself out of a window in this block of flats?'
'I knew that, of course. I didn't know her Christian name was Louise, and I was not personally acquainted with her.'
'Nor, perhaps, particularly wished to be?'
'I have not said so, since the woman is dead. But I will admit that that is quite true. She was a most undesirable tenant, and I and other residents have frequently complained to the management here.'
'Of what exactly?'
'To speak frankly, the woman drank.
Her flat was actually on the top floor above mine and there were continual disorderly parties, with broken glass, furniture knocked over, singing and shouting, a lot of- er - coming and going.'
'She was, perhaps, a lonely woman,' suggested Poirot.
'That was hardly the impression she conveyed,' said Miss Jacobs acidly. 'It was put forward at the inquest that she was depressed over the state of her health.
Entirely her own imagination. She seems to have had nothing the matter with her.' And having disposed of the late Mrs. Charpentier without sympathy. Miss Jacobs took her departure.
Poirot turned his attention to Andrew Restarick. He asked delicately: 'Am I correct in thinking, Mr. Restarick, that you were at one time well acquainted with Mrs. Charpentier?' Restarick did not answer for a moment or two. Then he sighed deeply and transferred his gaze to Poirot.
'Yes. At one time, many years ago, I knew her very well indeed… Not, I may say, under the name of Charpentier. She was Louise Birell when I knew her.'
'You were - er - in love with her!'
'Yes, I was in love with her… Head over ears in love with her! I left my wife on her account. We went to South Africa.
After barely a year the whole thing blew up.
She returned to England. I never heard from her again. I never even knew what had become of her.'
'What about your daughter? Did she, also, know Louise Birell?'
'Not to remember her, surely. A child of five years old!'
'But did she know her?' Poirot persisted.
'Yes,' said Restarick slowly. 'She knew Louise. That is to say, Louise came to our house. She used to play with the child.'
'So it is possible that the girl might remember her, even after a lapse of years?'
'I don't know. I simply don't know. I don't know what she looked like, how much Louise might have changed. I never saw her again, as I told you.' Poirot said gently, 'But you heard from her, didn't you, Mr. Restarick? I mean, you have heard from her since your return to England?' Again there came that pause, and the deep unhappy sigh: 'Yes - I heard from her…' said Restarick. And then, with sudden curiosity, he asked: 'How did you know that, M. Poirot?' From his pocket, Poirot drew a neatly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it to Restarick.
The latter looked at it with a faintly puzzled frown.
Dear Andy, I see from the papers you're home again.
We must meet and compare notes as to what we've both been doing all these years - It broke off here - and started again.
Andy- Guess who this is from! Louise.
Don't dare to say you've forgotten me! - Dear Andy, As you will see by this letterhead, I'm living in the same block of flats as your secretary. What a small world it is! We must meet. Could you come for a drink Monday or Tuesday next week?
Andy darling, I must see you again… Nobody has ever mattered to me but you - you haven't really forgotten me, either, have you?
'How did you get this?' asked Restarick of Poirot, tapping it curiously.
'From a friend of mine via a furniture van,' said Poirot, with a glance at Mrs. Oliver.
Restarick looked at her without favour.
'I couldn't help it,' said Mrs. Oliver, interpreting his look correctly. 'I suppose it was her furniture being moved out, and the men let go of a desk, and a drawer fell out and scattered a lot of things, and the wind blew this along the courtyard, so I picked it up and tried to give it back to them, but they were cross and didn't want it, so I just put it in my coat pocket without thinking. And I never even looked at it until this afternoon when I was taking things out of pockets before sending the coat to the cleaners. So it really wasn't my fault.' She paused, slightly out of breath.
'Did she get her letter to you written in the end?' Poirot asked.
'Yes - she did - one of the more formal versions! I didn't answer it. I thought it would be wiser not to do
