‘When did the milk come? The milk she drank last night?’
‘It was the new milk she had, sir. The afternoon delivery. The boy leaves it outside the door at four o’clock. But, oh! sir, I’m sure there wasn’t nothing wrong with the milk. I had it myself for tea this morning. And the doctor he said positive as she’d taken the nasty stuff herself.’
‘It is possible that I am wrong,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, it is possible that I am entirely wrong. I will see the doctor. But you see, Miss Adams had enemies. Things are very different in America-’
He hesitated, but the good Alice leapt at the bait.
‘Oh! I know, sir. I’ve read about Chicago and them gunmen and all that. It must be a wicked country and what the police can be about, I can’t think. Not like our policemen.’
Poirot left it thankfully at that, realizing that Alice Bennett’s insular proclivities would save him the trouble of explanations.
His eye fell on a small suitcase-more of an attache case, that was lying on a chair.
‘Did Miss Adams take that with her when she went out last night?’
‘In the morning she took it, sir. She didn’t have it when she came back at tea-time, but she brought it back last thing.’
‘Ah! You permit that I open it?’
Alice Bennett would have permitted anything. Like most canny and suspicious women, once she had overcome her distrust she was child’s play to manipulate. She would have assented to anything Poirot suggested.
The case was not locked, Poirot opened it. I came forward and looked over his shoulder.
‘You see, Hastings, you see?’ he murmured excitedly.
The contents were certainly suggestive.
There was a box of make-up materials, two objects which I recognized as elevators to place in shoes and raise the height an inch or so, there was a pair of grey gloves and, folded in tissue paper, an exquisitely-made wig of golden hair, the exact shade of gold of Jane Wilkinson’s and dressed like hers with a centre parting and curls in the back of the neck.
‘Do you doubt now, Hastings?’ asked Poirot.
I believe I had up to that moment. But now I doubted no longer.
Poirot closed the case again and turned to the maid.
‘You do not know with whom Miss Adams dined yesterday evening?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Do you know with whom she had lunch or tea?’
‘I know nothing about tea, sir. I believe she lunched with Miss Driver.’
‘Miss Driver?’
‘Yes, her great friend. She has a hat shop in Moffat Street, just off Bond Street. Genevieve it’s called.’
Poirot noted the address in his notebook just below that of the doctor.
‘One thing more, Madame. Can you remember anything-anything at all-that Mademoiselle Adams said or did after she came in at six o’clock that strikes you as at all unusual or significant?’
The maid thought for a moment or two.
‘I really can’t say that I do, sir,’ she said at last. ‘I asked her if she would have tea and she said she’d had some.’
‘Oh! she said she had had it,’ interrupted Poirot. ‘Pardon. Continue.’
‘And after that she was writing letters till just on the time she went out.’
‘Letters, eh? You do not know to whom?’
‘Yes, sir. It was just one letter-to her sister in Washington. She wrote to her sister twice a week regular. She took the letter out with her to post because of catching the mail. But she forgot it.’
‘Then it is here still?’
‘No, sir. I posted it. She remembered last night just as she was getting into bed. And I said I’d run out with it. By putting an extra stamp on it and putting it in the late fee box it would be all right.’
‘Ah!-and is that far?’
‘No, sir, the post office is just around the corner.’
‘Did you shut the door of the flat behind you?’
Bennett stared.
‘No, sir. I just left it to-as I always do when I go out to post.’
Poirot seemed about to speak-then checked himself.
‘Would you like to look at her, sir?’ asked the maid tearfully. ‘Looks beautiful she does.’
We followed her into the bedroom.
Carlotta Adams looked strangely peaceful and much younger than she had appeared that night at the Savoy. She looked like a tired child asleep.
There was a strange expression on Poirot’s face as he stood looking down on her. I saw him make the sign of the Cross.
‘J’ai fait un serment, Hastings,’ he said as we went down the stairs.
I did not ask him what his vow was. I could guess.
A minute or two later he said:
‘There is one thing off my mind at least. I could not have saved her. By the time I heard of Lord Edgware’s death she was already dead. That comforts me. Yes, that comforts me very much.’
Chapter 10. Jenny Driver
Our next proceeding was to call upon the doctor whose address the maid had given us.
He turned out to be a fussy elderly man somewhat vague in manner. He knew Poirot by repute and expressed a lively pleasure at meeting him in the flesh.
‘And what can I do for you, M. Poirot?’ he asked after this opening preamble.
‘You were called this morning, M.le docteur, to the bedside of a Miss Carlotta Adams.’
‘Ah! yes, poor girl. Clever actress too. I’ve been twice to her show. A thousand pities it’s ended this way. Why these girls must have drugs I can’t think.’
‘You think she was addicted to drugs, then?’
‘Well, professionally, I should hardly have said so. At all events she didn’t take them hypodermically. No marks of the needle. Evidently always took it by the mouth. Maid said she slept well naturally, but then maids never know. I don’t suppose she took veronal every night, but she’d evidently taken it for some time.’
‘What makes you think so?’
‘This, dash it-where did I put the thing?’
He was peering into a small case.
‘Ah! here it is.’
He drew out a small black morocco handbag.
‘There’s got to be an inquest, of course. I brought this away so that the maid shouldn’t meddle with it.’
Opening the pochette he took out a small gold box. On it were the initials C.A. in rubies. It was a valuable and expensive trinket. The doctor opened it. It was nearly full of a white powder.
‘Veronal,’ he explained briefly. ‘Now look what’s written inside.’
On the inside of the lid of the box was engraved:
C.A. from D. Paris, Nov. 10th. Sweet Dreams.
‘November 10th,’ said Poirot thoughtfully.
‘Exactly, and we’re now in June. That seems to show that she’s been in the habit of taking the stuff for at least six months, and as the year isn’t given, it might be eighteen months or two years and a half-or any time.’
‘Paris. D,’ said Poirot, frowning.
