As Superintendent Battle's train rushed eastward through England, Anne Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirot's sitting-room.
Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the morning's post, but Rhoda's counsel had prevailed.
'Anne, you're a coward – yes, a coward. It's no good going on being an ostrich, burying your head in the sand. There's been a murder and you're one of the suspects – the least likely one perhaps -'
'That would be the worst,' said Anne with a touch of humor. 'It's always the least likely person who did it.'
'But you are one,' continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. 'And so it's no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and nothing to do with you.'
'It is nothing to do with me,' Anne persisted. 'I mean, I'm quite willing to answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot, he's an outsider.'
'And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He'll think you're bursting with guilt.'
'I'm certainly not bursting with guilt,' said Anne coldly.
'Darling, I know that. You couldn't murder anybody if you tried. But horrible suspicious foreigners don't know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house. Otherwise he'll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants.'
'We haven't got any servants.'
'We've got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on, Anne, let's go. It will be rather fun, really.'
'I don't see why he wants to see me.' Anne was obstinate.
'To put one over on the official police, of course,' said Rhoda impatiently. 'They always do – the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all boots and brainlessness.'
'Do you think this man Poirot is clever?'
'He doesn't look a Sherlock,' said Rhoda. 'I expect he has been quite good in his day. He's gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne, let's go and see the old boy. He may tell us dreadful things about the others.'
'All right,' said Anne and added, 'You do enjoy all this so, Rhoda.'
'I suppose because it isn't my funeral,' said Rhoda. 'You were a noodle, Anne, not just to have looked up at the right minute. If only you had, you could live like a duchess for the rest of your life on blackmail.'
So it came about that, at three o'clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirot's neat room and sipped blackberry sirop, which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse, from old-fashioned glasses.
'It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle,' Poirot was saying.
'I'm sure I shall be glad to help you in any way I can,' murmured Anne vaguely.
'It is a little matter of memory.'
'Memory?'
'Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Doctor Roberts, and to Major Despard. None of them, alas; have given me the response that I hoped for.'
Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.
'I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing-room of Mr. Shaitana.'
A weary shadow passed over Anne's face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?
Poirot noticed the expression.
'I know, mademoiselle, I know,' he said kindly. 'C'est penible, n'est ce pas! That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death.'
Rhoda's feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.
'Well,' said Anne.
'Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?'
Anne stared at him suspiciously. 'I don't understand?'
'But, yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?'
'Oh, I see.' Anne hesitated, frowning. 'It's difficult. I don't really think I remember. I couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were painted – some inconspicuous color. There were rugs on the floor. There was a piano.' She shook her head. 'I really couldn't tell you any more.'
'But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object, some ornament, some piece of bric-a-brac?'
'There was a case of Egyptian jewelry, I remember,' said Anne slowly. 'Over by the window.'
'Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger.'
Anne looked at him. 'I never heard which table that was on.'
Pas si bete, commented Poirot to himself. But then, no more is Hercule Poirot! If she knew me better she would realize I would never lay a piege as gross as that!
Aloud he said, 'A case of Egyptian jewelry, you say?'
Anne answered with some enthusiasm. 'Yes – some of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings. And scarabs – but I don't like them so much.'
'He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana,' murmured Poirot.
'Yes he must have been,' Anne agreed. 'The room was full of stuff. One couldn't begin to look at it all.'
'So that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your notice.'
Anne smiled a little as she said, 'Only a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed.'
'Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that.' Poirot was silent for a moment or two.
Anne said timidly, 'I'm afraid I haven't noticed – whatever it is you wanted me to notice.'
Poirot smiled kindly. 'It does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me, have you seen the good Major Despard lately?'
He saw the delicate pink color come up in the girl's face.
She replied, 'He said he would come and see us again quite soon.'
Rhoda said impetuously, 'He didn't do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that.'
Poirot twinkled at them.
'How fortunate – to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one's innocence.'
'Oh, dear,' thought Rhoda. 'He's going to be French, and it does embarrass me so.'
She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall. 'These are awfully good,' she said.
'They are not bad,' replied Poirot.
He hesitated, looking at Anne. 'Mademoiselle,' he said at last, 'I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great favor – oh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal matter.'
Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly embarrassed manner. 'It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for many nieces and grandnieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned.'
'Yes?' queried Anne kindly.
'Silk hose, now, are silk hose a welcome present to receive?'
'Yes, indeed. It's always nice to be given hose.'
'You relieve my mind. I will ask my favor. I have obtained some different colors. There are, I think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Could you be so amiable as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most desirable?'
'Certainly I will,' said Anne, laughing as she rose.
Poirot directed her toward a table in an alcove – a table whose contents were strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and neatness of Hercule Poirot. There were hose piled up in untidy heaps, some fur-lined gloves, calendars, and boxes of bonbons.
'I send oft my parcels very much а l'avance,' Poirot explained. 'See, mademoiselle, here are the hose. Select
