I turned the pages of my book…
Possibly dozed off…
Suddenly Poirot uttered a low cry. I sat up abruptly.
He was looking at me with an indescribable expression, his eyes green and shining.
‘Hastings, Hastings.’
‘Yes, what is it?’
‘Do you remember I said to you that if the murderer had been a man of order and method he would have cut this page, not torn it?’
‘Yes?’
‘I was wrong. There is order and method throughout this crime. The page had to be torn, not cut. Look for yourself.’
I looked.
‘Eh bien, you see?’
I shook my head.
‘You mean he was in a hurry?’
‘Hurry or no hurry it would be the same thing. Do you not see, my friend? The page had to be torn…’
I shook my head.
In a low voice Poirot said:
‘I have been foolish. I have been blind. But now—now—we shall get on!’
Chapter 27
Concerning Pince-Nez
A minute later his mood had changed. He sprang to his feet.
I also sprang to mine—completely uncomprehending but willing.
‘We will take a taxi. It is only nine o’clock. Not too late to make a visit.’
I hurried after him down the stairs.
‘Whom are we going to visit?’
‘We are going to Regent Gate.’
I judged it wisest to hold my peace. Poirot, I saw, was not in the mood for being questioned. That he was greatly excited I could see. As we sat side by side in the taxi his fingers drummed on his knees with a nervous impatience most unlike his usual calm.
I went over in my mind every word of Carlotta Adams’ letter to her sister. By this time I almost knew it by heart. I repeated again and again to myself Poirot’s words about the torn page.
But it was no good. As far as I was concerned, Poirot’s words simply did not make sense. Why had a page got to be torn. No, I could not see it.
A new butler opened the door to us at Regent Gate. Poirot asked for Miss Carroll, and as we followed the butler up the stairs I wondered for the fiftieth time where the former ‘Greek god’ could be. So far the police had failed utterly to run him to earth. A sudden shiver passed over me as I reflected that perhaps he, too, was dead…
The sight of Miss Carroll, brisk and neat and eminently sane, recalled me from these fantastic speculations. She was clearly very much surprised to see Poirot.
‘I am glad to find you still here, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot as he bowed over her hand. ‘I was afraid you might be no longer in the house.’
‘Geraldine would not hear of my leaving,’ said Miss Carroll. ‘She begged me to stay on. And really, at a time like this, the poor child needs someone. If she needs nothing else, she needs a buffer. And I can assure you, when need be, I make a very efficient buffer, M. Poirot.’
Her mouth took on a grim line. I felt that she would have a short way with reporters or news hunters.
‘Mademoiselle, you have always seemed to me the pattern of efficiency. The efficiency, I admire it very much. It is rare. Mademoiselle Marsh no, she has not got the practical mind.’
‘She’s a dreamer,’ said Miss Carroll. ‘Completely impractical. Always has been. Lucky she hasn’t got her living to get.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘But I don’t suppose you came here to talk about people being practical or impractical. What can I do for you, M. Poirot?’
I do not think Poirot quite liked to be recalled to the point in this fashion. He was somewhat addicted to the oblique approach. With Miss Carroll, however, such a thing was not practicable. She blinked at him suspiciously through her strong glasses.
‘There are a few points on which I should like definite information. I know I can trust your memory, Miss Carroll.’
‘I wouldn’t be much use as a secretary if you couldn’t,’ said Miss Carroll grimly.
‘Was Lord Edgware in Paris last November?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me the date of his visit?’
‘I shall have to look it up.’