Oliver. “I’ve no real qualifications for that. I mean, that’s come up, I suppose, fairly reasonably in the–well, in the elephants that I’ve talked to.” “No. I think the best thing for you to do would be to, shall we say, take on the subject of the wigs.” “Wigs?” “There had been a note made in the careful police report at the time of the suppliers of the wigs, who were a very expensive firm of hairdressers and wigmakers in London, in Bond Street. Later, that particular shop closed and the business was transferred somewhere else. Two of the original partners continued to run it and I understand it has now been given up, but I have here an address of one of the principal fitters and hairdressers, and I thought perhaps that it would come more easily if inquiries were made by a woman.” “Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver, “me?” “Yes, you.” “All right. What do you want me to do?” “Pay a visit to Cheltenham to an address I shall give you and there you will find a Madame Rosentelle. A woman no longer young but who was a very fashionable maker of ladies’ hair adornments of all kinds, and who was married, I understand, to another in the same profession, a hairdresser who specialized in surmounting the problems of gentlemen’s baldness. Toupees and other things.” “Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Oliver, “the jobs you do give me to do. Do you think they’ll remember anything about it?” “Elephants remember,” said Hercule Poirot.
“Oh, and who are you going to ask questions of? This doctor you talked about?” “For one, yes.” “And what do you think he’ll remember?” “Not very much,” said Poirot, “but it seems to me possible that he might have heard about a certain accident. It must have been an interesting case, you know. There must be records of the case history.” “You mean of the twin sister?” “Yes. There were two accidents as far as I can hear connected with her. One when she was a young mother living in the country, at Hatters Green I think the address was, and again later when she was in India. Each time an accident which resulted in the death of a child. I might learn something about–” “You mean that as they were twin sisters, that Molly–my Molly, I mean–might also have had mental disability of some kind? I don’t believe it for a minute. She wasn’t like that. She was affectionate, loving, very good-looking, emotional and–oh, she was a terribly nice person.” “Yes. Yes, so it would seem. And a happy person on the whole, would you say?” “Yes. She was a happy person. A very happy person. Oh, I know I never saw anything of her later in life, of course; she was living abroad. But it always seemed to me on the very rare occasions when I got a letter or went to see her that she was a happy person.” “And the twin sister you did not really know?” “No. Well, I think she was… well, quite frankly she was in an institution of some kind, I think, on the rare occasions that I saw Molly. She wasn’t at Molly’s wedding, not as a bridesmaid even.” “That is odd in itself.” “I still don’t see what you’re going to find out from that.” “Just information,” said Poirot.
CHAPTER XIV Dr. Willoughby
Hercule Poirot got out of the taxi, paid the fare and a tip, verified the fact that the address he had come to was the address corresponding to that written down in his little notebook, took carefully a letter from his pocket addressed to Dr. Willoughby, mounted the steps to the house and pressed the bell. The door was opened by a manservant. On reception of Poirot’s name he was told that Dr. Willoughby was expecting him.
He was shown into a small, comfortable room with bookshelves up the side of it. There were two armchairs drawn to the fire and a tray with glasses on it and two decanters. Dr.
Willoughby rose to greet him. He was a man between fifty and sixty with a lean, thin body, a high forehead, dark-haired and with very piercing gray eyes. He shook hands and motioned him to a seat. Poirot produced the letter from his pocket.