I was glad when the telephone bell rang to distract him.
‘Who is that? Oh, it is Japp. Bonjour, mon ami.’
‘What’s he got to say?’ I asked, drawing nearer the telephone.
Finally, after various ejaculations, Poirot spoke.
‘Yes, and who called for it? Do they know?’
Whatever the answer, it was not what he expected. His face dropped ludicrously.
‘Are you sure?’
‘………’
‘No, it is a little upsetting, that is all.’
‘………’
‘Yes, I must rearrange my ideas.’
‘………’
‘Comment?’
‘………’
‘All the same, I was right about it. Yes, a detail, as you say.’
‘………’
‘No, I am still of the same opinion. I would pray of you to make still further inquiries of the restaurants in the neighbourhood of Regent Gate and Euston, Tottenham Court Road and perhaps Oxford Street.’
‘………’
‘Yes, a woman and a man. And also in the neighbourhood of the Strand just before midnight. Comment?’
‘………’
‘But, yes, I know that Captain Marsh was with the Dortheimers. But there are other people in the world besides Captain Marsh.’
‘………’
‘To say I have the head of a pig is not pretty. Tout de même, oblige me in this matter, I pray of you.’
‘………’
He replaced the receiver.
‘Well?’ I asked impatiently.
‘Is it well? I wonder. Hastings, that gold box was bought in Paris. It was ordered by letter and it comes from a well-known Paris shop which specializes in such things. The letter was supposedly from a Lady Ackerley—Constance Ackerley the letter was signed. Naturally there is no such person. The letter was received two days before the murder. It ordered the initials of (presumably) the writer in rubies and the inscription inside. It was a rush order—to be called for the following day. That is, the day before the murder.’
‘And was it called for?’
‘Yes, it was called for and paid for in notes.’
‘Who called for it?’ I asked excitedly. I felt we were getting near to the truth.
‘A woman called for it, Hastings.’
‘A woman?’ I said, surprised.
‘Mais oui. A woman—short, middle-aged, and wearing pince-nez.’
We looked at each other, completely baffled.
Chapter 25
A Luncheon Party
It was, I think, on the day after that that we went to the Widburns’ luncheon party at Claridge’s.
Neither Poirot nor I were particularly anxious to go. It was, as a matter of fact, about the sixth invitation we had received. Mrs Widburn was a persistent woman and she liked celebrities. Undaunted by refusals, she finally offered such a choice of dates that capitulation was inevitable. Under those circumstances the sooner we went and got it over the better.
Poirot had been very uncommunicative ever since the news from Paris.
To my remarks on the subject he returned always the same answer.
‘There is something here I do not comprehend.’
And once or twice he murmured to himself.
‘Pince-nez. Pince-nez in Paris. Pince-nez in Carlotta Adams’ bag.’
I really felt glad of the luncheon party as a means of distraction.
Young Donald Ross was there and came up and greeted me cheerily. There were more men than women and he was put next to me at table.
Jane Wilkinson sat almost opposite us, and next to her, between her and Mrs Widburn, sat the young Duke of Merton.
I fancied—of course it may have been only my fancy—that he looked slightly ill at ease. The company in which he found himself was, so I should imagine, little to his liking. He was a strictly conservative and somewhat reactionary young man—the kind of character that seemed to have stepped out of the Middle Ages by some regrettable mistake. His infatuation for the extremely modern Jane Wilkinson was one of those anachronistic jokes that Nature so loves to play.
Seeing Jane’s beauty and appreciating the charm that her exquisitely husky voice lent to the most trite utterances, I could hardly wonder at his capitulation. But one can get used to perfect beauty and an intoxicating voice! It crossed my mind that perhaps even now a ray of common-sense was dissipating the mists of intoxicated love. It was a chance remark—a rather humiliating gaffe on Jane’s part that gave me that impression.