Pat laughed.
‘Now, monsieur,’ said Poirot to Donovan. ‘Go in, I pray of you, and telephone to the police. I will descend to the flat below.’
Pat came down the stairs with him. They found Jimmy on guard, and Pat explained Poirot’s presence. Jimmy, in his turn, explained to Poirot his and Donovan’s adventures. The detective listened attentively.
‘The lift door was unbolted, you say? You emerged into the kitchen, but the light it would not turn on.’
He directed his footsteps to the kitchen as he spoke. His fingers pressed the switch.
‘Tiens! Voilà ce qui est curieux!’ he said as the light flashed on. ‘It functions perfectly now. I wonder—’ He held up a finger to ensure silence and listened. A faint sound broke the stillness—the sound of an unmistakable snore. ‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘La chambre de domestique.’
He tiptoed across the kitchen into a little pantry, out of which led a door. He opened the door and switched on the light. The room was the kind of dog kennel designed by the builders of flats to accommodate a human being. The floor space was almost entirely occupied by the bed. In the bed was a rosy-cheeked girl lying on her back with her mouth wide open, snoring placidly.
Poirot switched off the light and beat a retreat.
‘She will not wake,’ he said. ‘We will let her sleep till the police come.’
He went back to the sitting-room. Donovan had joined them.
‘The police will be here almost immediately, they say,’ he said breathlessly. ‘We are to touch nothing.’
Poirot nodded. ‘We will not touch,’ he said. ‘We will look, that is all.’
He moved into the room. Mildred had come down with Donovan, and all four young people stood in the doorway and watched him with breathless interest.
‘What I can’t understand, sir, is this,’ said Donovan. ‘I never went near the window—how did the blood come on my hand?’
‘My young friend, the answer to that stares you in the face. Of what colour is the tablecloth? Red, is it not? and doubtless you did put your hand on the table.’
‘Yes, I did. Is that—? He stopped.
Poirot nodded. He was bending over the table. He indicated with his hand a dark patch on the red.
‘It was here that the crime was committed,’ he said solemnly. ‘The body was moved afterwards.’
Then he stood upright and looked slowly round the room. He did not move, he handled nothing, but nevertheless the four watching felt as though every object in that rather frowsty place gave up its secret to his observant eye.
Hercule Poirot nodded his head as though satisfied. A little sigh escaped him. ‘I see,’ he said.
‘You see what?’ asked Donovan curiously.
‘I see,’ said Poirot, ‘what you doubtless felt—that the room is overfull of furniture.’
Donovan smiled ruefully. ‘I did go barging about a bit,’ he confessed. ‘Of course, everything was in a different place to Pat’s room, and I couldn’t make it out.’
‘Not everything,’ said Poirot.
Donovan looked at him inquiringly.
‘I mean,’ said Poirot apologetically, ‘that certain things are always fixed. In a block of flats the door, the window, the fireplace—they are in the same place in the rooms which are below each other.’
‘Isn’t that rather splitting hairs?’ asked Mildred. She was looking at Poirot with faint disapproval.
‘One should always speak with absolute accuracy. That is a little—how do you say?—fad of mine.’
There was the noise of footsteps on the stairs, and three men came in. They were a police inspector, a constable, and the divisional surgeon. The inspector recognized Poirot and greeted him in an almost reverential manner. Then he turned to the others.
‘I shall want statements from everyone,’ he began, ‘but in the first place—’
Poirot interrupted. ‘A little suggestion. We will go back to the flat upstairs and mademoiselle here shall do what she was planning to do—make us an omelette. Me, I have a passion for the omelettes. Then, M. l’Inspecteur, when you have finished here, you will mount to us and ask questions at your leisure.’
It was arranged accordingly, and Poirot went up with them.
‘M. Poirot,’ said Pat, ‘I think you’re a perfect dear. And you shall have a lovely omelette. I really make omelettes frightfully well.’