At least they should sort them in dozens at the shop!'
'Never mind the eggs,' said Japp impatiently. 'Let 'em lay 'em square if they like. Tell us where our customer went to when he left The Cedars – that is, if you know!'
'Eh bien, he went to his hiding-place. Ah, this Monsieur Davenheim, there may be some malformation in his grey cells, but they are of the first quality!'
'Do you know where he is hiding?'
'Certainly! It is most ingenious.'
'For the Lord's sake, tell us, then!'
Poirot gently collected every fragment of shell from his plate, placed them in the egg-cup, and reversed the empty egg-shell on top of them. This little operation concluded, he smiled at the neat effect, and then beamed affectionately on us both.
'Come, my friends, you are men of intelligence. Ask yourselves the question which I asked myself. 'If I were this man, where should I hide?' Hastings, what do you say?'
'Well,' I said, 'I'm rather inclined to think I'd not do a bolt at all. I'd stay in London – in the heart of things, travel by tubes and buses; ten to one I'd never be recognised. There's safety in a crowd.'
Poirot turned inquiringly to Japp.
'I don't agree. Get clear away at once – that's the only chance. I would have had plenty of time to prepare things beforehand. I'd have a yacht waiting, with steam up, and I'd be off to one of the most out-of-the-way corners of the world before the hue and cry began!'
We both looked at Poirot. 'What do you say, monsieur?'
For a moment he remained silent. Then a very curious smile flitted across his face.
'My friends, if I were hiding from the police, do you know where I should hide? In a prison!'
'What!'
'You are seeking Monsieur Davenheim in order to put him in prison, so you never dream of looking to see if he may not be already there!'
'What do you mean?'
'You tell me Madame Davenheim is not a very intelligent woman. Nevertheless I think that if you took her to Bow Street and confronted her with the man Billy Kellett, she would recognise him! In spite of the fact that he has shaved his beard and moustache and those bushy eyebrows, and has cropped his hair close. A woman nearly always knows her husband, though the rest of the world may be deceived!'
'Billy Kellett? But he's known to the police!'
'Did I not tell you Davenheim was a clever man? He prepared his alibi long beforehand. He was not in Buenos Aires last autumn – he was creating the character of Billy Kellett, 'doing three months,' so that the police should have no suspicions when the time came. He was playing, remember, for a large fortune, as well as liberty. It was worth while doing the thing thoroughly. Only -'
'Yes?'
'Eh bien, afterwards he had to wear a false beard and wig, had to make up as himself again, and to sleep with a false beard is not easy – it invites detection! He cannot risk continuing to share the chamber of madame his wife. You found out for me that for the last six months, or ever since his supposed return from Buenos Aires, he and Mrs Davenheim occupied separate rooms. Then I was sure! Everything fitted in. The gardener who fancied he saw his master going round to the side of the house was quite right. He went to the boathouse, donned his 'tramp' clothes, which you may be sure had been safely hidden from the eyes of his valet, dropped the others in the lake, and proceeded to carry out his plan by pawning the ring in an obvious manner, and then assaulting a policeman, getting himself safely into the haven of Bow Street, where nobody would ever dream of looking for him!'
'It's impossible,' murmured Japp.
'Ask Madame,' said my friend, smiling.
The next day a registered letter lay beside Poirot's plate. He opened it, and a five-pound note fluttered out.
My friend's brow puckered.
'Ah, sacre! But what shall I do with it? I have much remorse! Ce pauvre Japp! Ah, an idea! We will have a little dinner, we three! That consoles me. It was really too easy. I am ashamed. I, who would not rob a child – mille tonnerres! Mon ami, what have you, that you laugh so heartily?'
THE ADVENTURE OF THE ITALIAN NOBLEMAN
Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of a rather informal nature. Amongst these was to be numbered Dr Hawker, a near neighbour of ours, and a member of the medical profession. It was the genial doctor's habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and have a chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was an ardent admirer. The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last degree, admired the talents so far removed from his own.
On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half-past eight and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. It must have been about a quarter of an hour later when the door of our sitting-room flew open, and a distracted female precipitated herself into the room.
'Oh, doctor, you're wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed.'
I recognised in our new visitor Dr Hawker's housekeeper, Miss Rider. The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on incoherence.
'What terrible voice? Who is it, and what's the trouble?'
'It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it – and a voice spoke. 'Help,' it said. 'Doctor – help. They've killed me!' Then it sort of trailed away. 'Who's speaking?' I said. 'Who's speaking?' Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, 'Foscatine' – something like that – 'Regent's Court.''
The doctor uttered an exclamation.
'Court Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent's Court. I must go at once. What can have happened?'
'A patient of yours?' asked Poirot.
'I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless -'
He hesitated.
'I perceive the thought in your mind,' said Poirot, smiling. 'I shall be delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi.'
Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly pressed for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon bowling along in the direction of Regent's Park. Regent's Court was a new block of flats, situated just off St John's Wood Road. They had only recently been built, and contained the latest service devices.
There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift-bell impatiently, and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply.
'Flat 11. Count Foscatini. There's been an accident there, I understand.'
The man stared at him.
'First I've heard of it. Mr Graves – that's Count Foscatini's man – went out about half an hour ago, and he said nothing.'
'Is the Count alone in the flat?'
'No, sir, he's got two gentlemen dining with him.'
'What are they like?' I asked eagerly.
We were in the lift now, ascending rapidly to the second floor, on which Flat 11 was situated.
'I didn't see them myself, sir, but I understand that they were foreign gentlemen.'
He pulled back the iron door, and we stepped out on the landing. No.11 was opposite to us. The doctor rang the bell. There was no reply, and we could hear no sound from within. The doctor rang again and again; we could
