“Give me,” said Mr. Aarons, “a good Porterhouse steak and a tankard of something worth drinking, and anyone can have your French fallals and whatnots, your ordoovres and your omelettes and your little bits of quail. Give me,” he reiterated, “a Porterhouse steak.”
Poirot, who had just complied with this request, smiled sympathetically.
“Not that there is much wrong with a steak and kidney pudding,” continued Mr. Aarons. “Apple tart? Yes, I will take apple tart, thank you, Miss, and a jug of cream.”
The meal proceeded. Finally, with a long sigh, Mr. Aarons laid down his spoon and fork preparatory to toying with some cheese before turning his mind to other matters.
“There was a little matter of business I think you said, Monsieur Poirot,” he remarked. “Anything I can do to help you I am sure I shall be most happy.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Poirot. “I said to myself, ‘If you want to know anything about the dramatic profession there is one person who knows all that is to be known and that is my old friend, Mr. Joseph Aarons.’ ”
“And you don’t say far wrong,” said Mr. Aarons complacently; “whether it is past, present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to come to.”
“Précisément. Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know about a young woman called Kidd.”
“Kidd? Kitty Kidd?”
“Kitty Kidd.”
“Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator, song and a dance—That one?”
“That is the one.”
“Very smart, she was. Made a good income. Never out of an engagement. Male impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of fact, you could not touch her as a character actress.”
“So I have heard,” said Poirot; “but she has not been appearing lately, has she?”
“No. Dropped right out of things. Went over to France and took up with some swell nobleman there. She quitted the stage then for good and all, I guess.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Let me see. Three years ago. And she has been a loss—let me tell you that.”
“She was clever?”
“Clever as a cartload of monkeys.”
“You don’t know the name of the man she became friends with in Paris?”
“He was a swell, I know that. A Count—or was it a Marquis? Now I come to think of it, I believe it was a Marquis.”
“And you know nothing about her since?”
“Nothing. Never even run across her accidentally like. I bet she is tooling it round some of these foreign resorts. Being a Marquise to the life. You couldn’t put one over on Kitty. She would give as good as she got any day.”
“I see,” said Poirot thoughtfully.
“I am sorry I can’t tell you more, Monsieur Poirot,” said the other. “I would like to be of use to you if I could. You did me a good turn once.”
“Ah, but we are quits on that; you, too, did me a good turn.”
“One good turn deserves another. Ha, ha!” said Mr. Aarons.
“Your profession must be a very interesting one,” said Poirot.
“So-so,” said Mr. Aarons non-committally. “Taking the rough with the smooth, it is all right. I don’t do so badly at it, all things considered, but you have to keep your eyes skinned. Never know what the public will jump for next.”
“Dancing has come very much to the fore in the last few years,” murmured Poirot reflectively.
“I never saw anything in this Russian ballet, but people like it. Too highbrow for me.”
“I met one dancer out on the Riviera—Mademoiselle Mirelle.”
“Mirelle? She is hot stuff, by all accounts. There is always money going to back her—though, so far as that goes, the girl can dance; I have seen her, and I know what I am talking about. I never had much to do with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to deal with. Tempers and tantrums all the time.”
“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully; “yes, so I should imagine.”
“Temperament!” said Mr. Aarons, “temperament! That is what they call it themselves. My missus was a dancer before she married me, but I am thankful to say she never had any temperament. You don’t want temperament in the home, Monsieur Poirot.”
“I agree with you, my friend; it is out of place there.”
“A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook,” said Mr. Aarons.
“Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?” asked Poirot.
“About two and a half years, that is all,” said Mr. Aarons. “Some French duke started her. I hear now that she has taken up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece. These are the chaps who manage to put money away quietly.”
“That is news to me,” said Poirot.
“Oh, she’s not one to let the grass grow under her feet. They say that young Kettering murdered his wife on her account. I don’t know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in prison, and she had to look round for herself, and pretty smart she has been about it. They say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg—not that I have ever seen a pigeon’s egg myself, but that is what they always call it in works of fiction.”
“A ruby the size of a pigeon’s egg!” said Poirot. His eyes were green and catlike. “How interesting!”
“I had it from a friend of mine,” said Mr. Aarons. “But for all I know, it may be coloured glass. They are all the same, these women—they never stop telling tall stories about their jewels. Mirelle goes about bragging that it has got a curse on it. ‘Heart of Fire,’ I think she calls it.”
“But if I remember rightly,” said Poirot, “the ruby that is named ‘Heart of Fire’ is the centre stone in a necklace.”
“There you are! Didn’t I tell you there is no end to the lies women will tell about their jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said before, ten to one it is a bit of coloured glass.”
“No,” said Poirot gently; “no—somehow I do not think it
