Oliver slowly. “Did you notice? Quite different. Not — not scatty any longer.” Poirot nodded.
“Not Ophelia — Iphigeneia.” A sound of added commotion outside in the flat diverted the attention of both of them.
“Do you think — ” Mrs. Oliver stopped.
Poirot had gone to the window and was looking down to the courtyard far below.
An ambulance was drawn up there.
“Are they going to take It away?” asked Mrs. Oliver in a shaky voice. And then added in a sudden rush of pity: “Poor Peacock.” “He was hardly a likeable character,” said Poirot coldly.
“He was very decorative… And so young,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“That is sufficient for les femmes.” Poirot was opening the bedroom door a careful crack, as he peered out.
“Excuse me,” he said, “if I leave you for a moment.” “Where are you going?” demanded Mrs. Oliver suspiciously.
“I understood that that was not a question considered delicate in this country,” said Poirot reproachfully.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” “And that’s not the way to the loo,” she breathed sotto voce after him, as she too applied an eye to the crack of the door.
She went back to the window to observe what was going on below.
“Mr. Restarick has just driven up in a taxi,” she observed when Poirot slipped back quietly into the room a few minutes later, “and Claudia has come with him.
Did you manage to get into Norma’s room, or wherever you really wanted to go?” “Normals room is in the occupation of the police.” “How annoying for you. What are you carrying in that kind of black folder thing you’ve got in your hand?” Poirot in his turn asked a question.
“What have you got in that canvas bag with Persian horses on it?” “My shopping bag? Only a couple of Avocado pears, as it happens.” “Then if I may, I will entrust this folder to you. Do not be rough with it, or squeeze it, I beg.” “What is it?” “Something that I hoped to find — and that I have found– Ah, things begin to pass themselves — ” He referred to increased sounds of activities.
Poirot’s words struck Mrs. Oliver as being much more exactly descriptive than English words would have been. Restarick, his voice loud and angry. Claudia coming in to telephone. A glimpse of a police stenographer on an excursion to the flat next door to take statements from Frances Cary and a mythical person called Miss Jacobs. A coming and going of ordered business, and a final departure of two men with cameras.
Then unexpectedly the sudden incursion into Claudia’s bedroom of a tall looselyjointed young man with red hair.
Without taking any notice of Mrs.
Oliver, he spoke to Poirot.
“What’s she done? Murder? Who is it?
The boy friend?” “Yes.” “She admits it?” “It would seem so.” “Not good enough. Did she say so in definite words?” “I have not heard her do so. I have had no chance of asking her anything myself.” A policeman looked in.
“Dr. Stillingfleet?” he asked. “The police surgeon would like a word with you.” Dr. Stillingfleet nodded and followed him out of the room.
“So that’s Dr. Stillingfleet,” said Mrs.
Oliver. She considered for a moment or two. “Quite something, isn’t he?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHIEF INSPECTOR NEELE drew a sheet of paper towards him, jotted one or two notes on it; and looked round at the other five people in the room. His voice was crisp and formal.
“Miss Jacobs?” he said. He looked towards the policeman who stood by the door. “Sergeant Conolly, I know, has taken her statement. But, I’d like to ask her a few questions myself.” Miss Jacobs was ushered into the room a few minutes later. Neele rose courteously to greet her.
“I am Chief Inspector Neele,” he said, shaking hands with her. “I am sorry to trouble you for a second time. But this time it is quite informal I just want to get a clearer picture of exactly what you saw and heard. I’m afraid it may be painful — ” “Painful, no,” said Miss Jacobs, accepting the chair he offered her. “It was a shock, of course. But no emotions were involved.” She added: “You seem to have tidied up things.” He presumed she was referring to the removal of the body.