Goby, however, materialised with his usual suddenness from the small room which was sacred to Miss Lemon’s typewriting and where she had evidently kept him in storage.
Poirot removed his overcoat. Miss Lemon hung it up on the hall-stand, and Mr. Goby, as was his fashion, addressed the back of Miss Lemon’s head.
“I’ll have a cup of tea in the kitchen with George,” said Mr. Goby. “My time is my own. I’ll keep.” He disappeared obligingly into the kitchen.
Poirot went into his sitting-room where Sir Roderick was pacing up and down full of vitality.
“Run you down, my boy,” he said genially. “Wonderful thing the telephone.” “You remembered my name? I am gratified.” “Well, I didn’t exactly remember your name,” said Sir Roderick. “Names, you know, have never been my strong point.
Never forget a face,” he ended proudly.
“No. I rang up Scotland Yard.” “Oh!” Poirot looked faintly startled, though reflecting that that was the sort of thing that Sir Roderick would do.
“Asked me who I wanted to speak to. I said, put me on to the top. That’s the thing to do in life, my boy. Never accept second in charge. No good. Go to the top, that’s what I say. I said who I was, mind you.
Said I wanted to speak to the top brass and I got on to it in the end. Very civil fellow.
Told him I wanted the address of a chap in Allied Intelligence who was out with me at a certain place in France at a certain date.
The chap seemed a bit at sea, so I said: “You know who I mean.’ A Frenchman, I said, or a Belgian. Belgian, weren’t you? I said: ‘He’s got a Christian name something like Achilles. It’s not Achilles,’ I said, ‘but it’s like Achilles. Little chap,’ I said, ‘big moustaches.’ And then he seemed to catch on, and he said you’d be in the telephone book, he thought. I said that’s all right, but I said: ‘He won’t be listed under Achilles or Hercules (as he said it was), will he? and I can’t remember his second name.’ So then he gave it me. Very civil sort of fellow.
Very civil, I must say.” “I am delighted to see you,” said Poirot, sparing a hurried thought for what might be said to him later by Sir Roderick’s telephone acquaintance. Fortunately it was not likely to have been quite the top brass.
It was presumably someone with whom he was already acquainted, and whose job it was to produce civility on tap for distinguished persons of a bygone day.
“Anyway,” said Sir Roderick, “I got here.” “I am delighted. Let me offer you some refreshment. Tea, a grenadine, a whisky and soda, some strop de cassis — ” “Good lord, no,” said Sir Roderick, alarmed at the mention ofsirop de cassis. “I’ll take whisky for choice. Not that I’m allowed it,” he added, “but doctors are all fools, as we know. All they care for is stopping you having anything you’ve a fancy for.” Poirot rang for George and gave him the proper instructions. The whisky and the siphon were placed at Sir Roderick’s elbow and George withdrew.
“Now,” said Poirot, “what can I do for you?” “Got a job for you, old boy.” After the lapse of time, he seemed even more convinced of the close liaison between him and Poirot in the past, which was as well, thought Poirot, since it would produce an even greater dependence on his, Poirot’s, capabilities by Sir Roderick’s nephew.
“Papers,” said Sir Roderick, dropping his voice. “Lost some papers and I’ve got to find ’em, see? So I thought what with my eyes not being as good as they were, and the memory being a trifle off key sometimes, I’d better go to someone in the know.
See? You came along in the nick of time the other day, just in time to be useful, because Pve got to cough ’em up, you understand.” “It sounds most interesting,” said Poirot.
“What are these papers, if I may ask?” “Well, I suppose if you’re going to find them, you’ll have to ask, won’t you? Mind you, they’re very secret and confidential.