I shook my head, utterly fogged.
‘It might be just a coincidence,’ I suggested.
‘No, no, everything cannot be a coincidence. Six months ago, a letter was suppressed. Why? There are too many things here unexplained. There must be some reason linking them together.’
He sighed. Presently he went on:
‘That story that Bryan Martin came to tell us—’
‘Surely, Poirot, that has got no connection with this business.’
‘You are blind, Hastings, blind and wilfully obtuse. Do you not see that the whole thing makes a pattern? A pattern confused at present but which will gradually become clear…’
I felt Poirot was being over-optimistic. I did not feel that anything would ever become clear. My brain was frankly reeling.
‘It’s no good,’ I said suddenly. ‘I can’t believe it of Carlotta Adams. She seemed such a—well, such a thoroughly nice girl.’
Yet, even as I spoke, I remembered Poirot’s words about love of money. Love of money—was that at the root of the seemingly incomprehensible? I felt that Poirot had been inspired that night. He had seen Jane in danger—the result of the strange egotistical temperament. He had seen Carlotta led astray by avarice.
‘I do not think she committed the murder, Hastings. She is too cool and level-headed for that. Possibly she was not even told that murder would be done. She may have been used innocently. But then—’
He broke off, frowning.
‘Even so, she’s an accessory after the fact now. I mean, she will see the news today. She will realize—’
A hoarse sound broke from Poirot.
‘Quick, Hastings. Quick! I have been blind—imbecile. A taxi. At once.’
I stared at him.
He waved his arms.
‘A taxi—at once.’
One was passing. He hailed it and we jumped in.
‘Do you know her address?’
‘Carlotta Adams, do you mean?’
‘Mais oui, mais oui. Quickly, Hastings, quickly. Every minute is of value. Do you not see?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I don’t.’
Poirot swore under his breath.
‘The telephone book? No, she would not be in it. The theatre.’
At the theatre they were not disposed to give Carlotta’s address, but Poirot managed it. It was a flat in a block of mansions near Sloane Square. We drove there, Poirot in a fever of impatience.
‘If I am not too late, Hastings. If I am not too late.’
‘What is all this haste? I don’t understand. What does it mean?’
‘It means that I have been slow. Terribly slow to realize the obvious. Ah! mon Dieu, if only we may be in time.’
Chapter 9
The Second Death
Though I did not understand the reason for Poirot’s agitation, I knew him well enough to be sure that he had a reason for it.
We arrived at Rosedew Mansions, Poirot sprang out, paid the driver and hurried into the building. Miss Adams’ flat was on the first floor, as a visiting-card stuck on a board informed us.
Poirot hurried up the stairs, not waiting to summon the lift which was at one of the upper floors.
He knocked and rang. There was a short delay, then the door was opened by a neat middle-aged woman with hair drawn tightly back from her face. Her eyelids were reddened as though with weeping.
‘Miss Adams?’ demanded Poirot eagerly.
The woman looked at him.
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘Heard? Heard what?’
His face had gone deadly pale, and I realized that this, whatever it was, was what he had feared.
The woman continued slowly to shake her head.
‘She’s dead. Passed away in her sleep. It’s terrible.’
Poirot leaned against the doorpost.
‘Too late,’ he murmured.
His agitation was so apparent that the woman looked at him with more attention.
‘Excuse me, sir, but are you a friend of hers? I do not remember seeing you come here before?’
Poirot did not reply to this directly. Instead he said:
‘You have had a doctor? What did he say?’
‘Took an overdose of a sleeping draught. Oh! the pity of it! Such a nice young lady. Nasty dangerous things—these drugs. Veronal he said it was.’
Poirot suddenly stood upright. His manner took on a new authority.
‘I must come in,’ he said.
The woman was clearly doubtful and suspicious.