Poirot’s Early Cases by Agatha Christie

But his tone lacked conviction. They got into the lift and descended to the floor below. They found their way across the kitchen without much difficulty and once more switched on the sitting-room light.

‘It must have been in here,’ said Donovan, ‘that—that I got the stuff on me. I never touched anything in the kitchen.’

He looked round him. Jimmy did the same, and they both frowned. Everything looked neat and commonplace and miles removed from any suggestion of violence or gore.

Suddenly Jimmy started violently and caught his companion’s arm.

‘Look!’

Donovan followed the pointing finger, and in his turn uttered an exclamation. From beneath the heavy red curtains there protruded a foot—a woman’s foot in a gaping patent leather shoe.

Jimmy went to the curtains and drew them sharply apart. In the recess of the window a woman’s huddled body lay on the floor, a sticky dark pool beside it. She was dead, there was no doubt of that. Jimmy was attempting to raise her up when Donovan stopped him.

‘You’d better not do that. She oughtn’t to be touched till the police come.’

‘The police. Oh, of course. I say, Donovan, what a ghastly business. Who do you think she is? Mrs Ernestine Grant?’

‘Looks like it. At any rate, if there’s anyone else in the flat they’re keeping jolly quiet.’

‘What do we do next?’ asked Jimmy. ‘Run out and get a policeman or ring up from Pat’s flat?’

‘I should think ringing up would be best. Come on, we might as well go out the front door. We can’t spend the whole night going up and down in that evil-smelling lift.’

Jimmy agreed. Just as they were passing through the door he hesitated. ‘Look here; do you think one of us ought to stay—just to keep an eye on things—till the police come?’

‘Yes, I think you’re right. If you’ll stay I’ll run up and telephone.’

He ran quickly up the stairs and rang the bell of the flat above. Pat came to open it, a very pretty Pat with a flushed face and a cooking apron on. Her eyes widened in surprise.

‘You? But how—Donovan, what is it? Is anything the matter?’

He took both her hands in his. ‘It’s all right, Pat—only we’ve made a rather unpleasant discovery in the flat below. A woman—dead.’

‘Oh!’ She gave a little gasp. ‘How horrible. Has she had a fit or something?’

‘No. It looks—well—it looks rather as though she had been murdered.’

‘Oh, Donovan!’

‘I know. It’s pretty beastly.’

Her hands were still in his. She had left them there—was even clinging to him. Darling Pat—how he loved her. Did she care at all for him? Sometimes he thought she did. Sometimes he was afraid that Jimmy Faulkener—remembrances of Jimmy waiting patiently below made him start guiltily.

‘Pat, dear, we must telephone to the police.’

‘Monsieur is right,’ said a voice behind him. ‘And in the meantime, while we are waiting their arrival, perhaps I can be of some slight assistance.’

They had been standing in the doorway of the flat, and now they peered out on the landing. A figure was standing on the stairs a little way above them. It moved down and into their range of vision.

They stood staring at the little man with a very fierce moustache and an egg-shaped head. He wore a resplendent dressing-gown and embroidered slippers. He bowed gallantly to Patricia.

‘Mademoiselle!’ he said. ‘I am, as perhaps you know, the tenant of the flat above. I like to be up high—in the air—the view over London. I take the flat in the name of Mr O’Connor. But I am not an Irishman. I have another name. That is why I venture to put myself at your service. Permit me.’ With a flourish he pulled out a card and handed it to Pat. She read it.

‘M. Hercule Poirot. Oh!’ She caught her breath.

‘The M. Poirot! The great detective? And you will really help?’

‘That is my intention, mademoiselle. I nearly offered my help earlier in the evening.’

Pat looked puzzled.

‘I heard you discussing how to gain admission to your flat. Me, I am very clever at picking locks. I could, without doubt, have opened your door for you, but I hesitated to suggest it. You would have had the grave suspicions of me.’