“Ah, but that is most kind!” cried Poirot.
He came forward with great empressement, and shook the lady warmly by the hand.
“Mademoiselle blooms like a flower in this dry-as-dust old office,” he added, careless of the feelings of Mr. McNeil.
This outrageous flattery was not without effect. Miss Monro blushed and simpered.
“Oh, go on now, Mr. Poirot!” she exclaimed. “I know what you Frenchmen are like.”
“Mademoiselle, we are not mute like Englishmen before beauty. Not that I am a Frenchman—I am a Belgian, you see.”
“I’ve been to Ostend myself,” said Miss Monro.
The whole affair, as Poirot would have said, was marching splendidly.
“And so you can tell us something about Mr. Claud Darrell?” continued Poirot.
“I knew Mr. Darrell very well at one time,” explained the lady. “And I saw your advertisement, being out of a shop for the moment, and, my time being my own, I said to myself: There, they want to know about poor old Claudie—lawyers, too—maybe it’s a fortune looking for the rightful heir. I’d better go round at once.”
Mr. McNeil rose.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot, shall I leave you for a little conversation with Miss Monro?”
“You are too amiable. But stay—a little idea presents itself to me. The hour of the déjeuner approaches. Mademoiselle will perhaps honour me by coming out to luncheon with me?”
Miss Monro’s eyes glistened. It struck me that she was in exceedingly low water, and that the chance of a square meal was not to be despised.
A few minutes later saw us all in a taxi, bound for one of London’s most expensive restaurants. Once arrived there, Poirot ordered a most delectable lunch, and then turned to his guest.
“And for wine, mademoiselle? What do you say to champagne?”
Miss Monro said nothing—or everything.
The meal started pleasantly. Poirot replenished the lady’s glass with thoughtful assiduity, and gradually slid onto 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.”
“Is it 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 someone 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-grey. And more or less fair-haired, I suppose. But oh, what an artist! I never saw anyone 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 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?”
“You have
