And Mrs, Burton-Cox?” “Has not been happy in her investments, it is understood.
She has sufficient to live on but not much more.” “Has the boy Desmond made a will?” asked Poirot.
“That,” said Mr. Goby, “I fear I do not know as yet. But I have certain means of finding out. If I do, I will acquaint you with the fact without loss of time.” Mr. Goby took his leave, absent-mindedly, bowing a farewell to the electric fire.
About an hour and a half later the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot, with a sheet of paper in front of him, was making notes. Now and then he frowned, twirled his moustaches, crossed something out and rewrote it and then proceeded onward. When the telephone rang, he picked up the receiver and listened.
“Thank you,” he said; “that was quick work. Yes… yes, I’m grateful. I really do not know sometimes how you manage these things… Yes, that sets out the position clearly. It makes sense of something that did not make sense before..
Yes… I gather… yes, I’m listening… you are pretty sure that that is the case. He knows he is adopted… but he never has been told who his real mother was… yes. Yes, I see…
Very well. You will clear up the other point, too? Thank you.” He replaced the receiver and started once more writing down words. In half an hour the telephone rang once more.
Once again he picked up the phone.
“I’m back from Cheltenham,” said a voice which Poirot bad no difficulty in recognizing.
“Ah, chore madame, you have returned? You have seen Mrs.
Rosentelle?” “Yes. She is nice. Very nice. And you were quite right, you know. She is another elephant.” “Meaning, chere madame’?” “I mean that she remembered Molly Ravenscroft.” “And she remembered her wigs?” “Yes.” Briefly she outlined what the retired hairdresser had told her about the wigs.
“Yes,” said Poirot, “that agrees. That is exactly what Superintendent Garroway mentioned to me. The four wigs that the police found. Curls, an evening type of headdress, and two other plainer ones. Four.” “So I really only told you what you knew already?” “No, you told me something more than that. She said–that is what you told me just now, is it not?–that Lady Ravenscroft wanted two extra wigs to add to the two that she already had and that this was about three weeks to six weeks before the suicide tragedy occurred. Yes, that is interesting, is it not?” “It’s very natural,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I mean, you know that people, women, I mean, may do awful damage to things.
To false hair and things of that kind. If it can’t be redressed and cleaned, if it’s got burnt or got stuff spilt on it you can’t get out, or it’s been dyed and dyed all wrong–something like that–well then, of course you have to get two new wigs or switches or whatever they are. I don’t see what makes you excited about that.” “Not exactly excited,” said Poirot, “no. It is a point, but the more interesting point is what you have just added. It was a French lady, was it not, who brought the wigs to be copied or matched?” “Yes. I gathered some kind of companion or something.
Lady Ravenscroft had been or was in hospital or in a nursing home somewhere and she was not in good health and she could not come herself to make a choice or anything of that kind.” “I see.” “And so her French companion came.” “Do you know the name of that companion, by any chance?” “No. I don’t think Mrs. Rosentelle mentioned it. In fact I don’t think she knew. The appointment was made by Lady Ravenscroft and the French girl or woman just brought the wigs along for size and matching and all the rest of it, I suppose.” “Well,” said Poirot, “that helps me towards the further step that I am about to take.” “What have you learned?” said Mrs. Oliver. “Have you done anything?” “You are always so skeptical,” said Poirot. “You always consider that I do nothing, that I sit in a chair and repose myself.” “Well, I think you sit in a chair and think,” admitted Mrs.