I’d been somewhere and done something.” “Hush!” He hissed it quickly as the waitress approached their table. “You’ll be all right. I’ll look after you. Let’s have something more,” he said to the waitress in a loud voice, picking up the menu — “Two baked beans on toast.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HERCULE POIROT was dictating to his secretary. Miss Lemon.
“And while I much appreciate the honour you have done me, I must regretfully inform you that…” The telephone rang. Miss Lemon stretched out a hand for it. “Yes? Who did you say?” She put her hand over the receiver and said to Poirot “Mrs. Oliver.” “Ah… Mrs. Oliver,” said Poirot. He did not particularly want to be interrupted at this moment, but he took the receiver from Miss Lemon. ” ‘Allo,” he said, “Hercule Poirot speaks.” “Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so glad I got you!
I’ve found her for you!” “I beg your pardon?” “Rye found her for you. Your girl! You know, the one who’s committed a murder or thinks she has. She’s talking about it too, a good deal. I think she is off her head. But never mind that now. Do you want to come and get her?” “Where are you, chore Madame?” “Somewhere between St. Paul’s and the Mermaid Theatre and all that. Calthorpe Street,” said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly looking out of the telephone box in which she was standing. “Do you think you can get here quickly? They’re in a restaurant.” “They?” “Oh, she and what I suppose is the unsuitable boy friend. He is rather nice really, and he seems very fond of her.
I can’t think why. People are odd. Well, I don’t want to talk because I want to get back again. I followed them, you see.
I came into the restaurant and saw them there.” “Aha? You have been very clever, Madame.” “No, I haven’t really. It was a pure accident. I mean, I walked into a small cafe place and there the girl was, just sitting there.” “Ah. You had the good fortune then.
That is just as important.” “And I’ve been sitting at the next table to them, only she’s got her back to me.
And anyway I don’t suppose she’d recognise me. I’ve done things to my hair.
Anyway, they’ve been talking as though they were alone in the world, and when they ordered another course — baked beans — (I can’t bear baked beans, it always seems to me so funny that people should) — ” “Never mind the baked beans. Go on.
You left them and came out to telephone.
Is that right?” “Yes. Because the baked beans gave me time. And I shall go back now. Or I might hang about outside. Anyway, try and get here quickly.” “What is the name of this eafe?” “The Merry Shamrock — but it doesn’t look very merry. In fact, it looks rather sordid, but the coffee is quite good.” “Say no more. Go back. In due course, I will arrive.” “Splendid,” said Mrs. Oliver, and rang off.
II
Miss Lemon, always efficient, had preceded him to the street, and was waiting by a taxi. She asked no questions and displayed no curiosity. She did not tell Poirot how she would occupy her time whilst he was away. She did not need to tell him. She always knew what she was going to do and she was always right in what she did.
Poirot duly arrived at the corner of Calthorpe Street. He descended, paid the taxi, and looked around him. He saw The Merry Shamrock but he saw no one in its vicinity who looked at all like Mrs. Oliver, however well disguised. He walked to the end of the street and back. No Mrs.
Oliver. So either the couple in which they were interested had left the cafe and Mrs.
Oliver had gone on a shadowing expedition, or else — To answer “or else” he went to the cafe door. One could not see the inside very well from the outside, on account of steam, so he pushed the door gently open and entered. His eyes swept round it.
He saw at once the girl who had come to visit him at the breakfast table. She was sitting by herself at a table against the wall.