III
It was the habit of Hercule Poirot to leave nothing untested.
Though on the face of it it seemed unlikely that Miss Carnaby was anything but the foolish
and rather muddle-headed woman that she appeared to be, Poirot nevertheless managed to
interview a somewhat forbidding lady who was the niece of the late Lady Hartingfield.
“Amy Carnaby?” said Miss Maltravers. “Of course, remember her
perfectly1. She was a good
soul and suited Aunt Julia down to the ground.
Devoted2 to dogs and excellent at reading aloud.
Tactful, too, never contradicted an
invalid3. What’s happened to her? Not in
distress4 of any kind, I
hope. I gave her a reference about a year ago to some woman—name began with H—”
Poirot explained hastily that Miss Carnaby was still in her post. There had been, he said, a
little trouble over a lost dog.
“Amy Carnaby is devoted to dogs. My aunt had a Pekinese. She left it to Miss Carnaby when
she died and Miss Carnaby was devoted to it. I believe she was quite heartbroken when it died. Oh
yes, she’s a good soul. Not, of course,
precisely5 intellectual.”
Hercule Poirot agreed that Miss Carnaby could not, perhaps, be described as intellectual.
His next
proceeding6 was to discover the Park Keeper to whom Miss Carnaby had spoken on
the fateful afternoon. This he did without much difficulty. The man remembered the incident in
question.
“Middle-aged lady, rather stout—in a regular state she was—lost her Pekinese dog. I knew
her well by sight—brings the dog along most afternoons. I saw her come in with it. She was in a
rare taking when she lost it. Came running to me to know if I’d seen any one with a Pekinese dog!
Well, I ask you! I can tell you, the Gardens is full of dogs—every kind—terriers, Pekes, German
sausage-dogs—even them Borzois—all kinds we have. Not likely as I’d notice one Peke more
than another.”
Hercule Poirot nodded his head thoughtfully.
He went to 38 Bloomsbury Road Square.
Nos. 38, 39 and 40 were incorporated together as the Balaclava Private Hotel. Poirot walked
up the steps and pushed open the door. He was greeted inside by gloom and a smell of cooking
cabbage with a reminiscence of breakfast kippers. On his left was a mahogany table with a sad-
looking
chrysanthemum7 plant on it. Above the table was a big baize-covered rack into which
letters were stuck. Poirot stared at the board thoughtfully for some minutes. He pushed open a
door on his right. It led into a kind of lounge with small tables and some so-called easy chairs
covered with a depressing pattern of cretonne. Three old ladies and one fierce-looking old
gentleman raised their heads and gazed at the intruder with deadly
venom8. Hercule Poirot blushed
and withdrew.
He walked farther along the passage and came to a staircase. On his right a passage branched
at right angles to what was evidently the dining room.
A little way along this passage was a door marked “Office.”
On this Poirot tapped. Receiving no response, he opened the door and looked in. There was a
large desk in the room covered with papers but there was no one to be seen. He withdrew, closing
A sad-looking girl in a dirty
apron10 was
shuffling11 about with a basket of knives and forks with
which she was laying the tables.
Hercule Poirot said apologetically:
“Excuse me, but could I see the Manageress?”
The girl looked at him with lacklustre eyes.
She said:
“I don’t know, I’m sure.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“There is no one in the office.”
“Well, I don’t know where she’d be, I’m sure.”
“Perhaps,” Hercule Poirot said, patient and
persistent12, “you could find out?”
The girl sighed.
Dreary13 as her day’s round was, it had now been made additionally so by this
new burden laid upon her. She said sadly:
“Well, I’ll see what I can do.”
Poirot thanked her and removed himself once more to the hall, not daring to face the
malevolent14 glare of the occupants of the lounge. He was staring up at the baize-covered letter rack
when a
rustle15 and a strong smell of Devonshire violets proclaimed the arrival of the Manageress.
Mrs. Harte was full of graciousness. She exclaimed:
“So sorry I was not in my office. You were requiring
rooms?”
Hercule Poirot murmured:
“Not precisely. I was wondering if a friend of mine had been staying here lately. A Captain
Curtis.”
“Curtis,” exclaimed Mrs. Harte. “Captain Curtis? Now where have I heard that name?”
Poirot did not help her. She shook her head vexedly.
He said:
“You have not, then, had a Captain Curtis staying here?”
“Well, not lately, certainly. And yet, you know, the name is certainly familiar to me. Can you
describe your friend at all?”
“That,” said Hercule Poirot, “would be difficult.” He went on: “I suppose it sometimes
happens that letters arrive for people when in actual fact no one of that name is staying here?”
“That does happen, of course.”
“What do you do with such letters?”
“Well, we keep them for a time. You see, it probably means that the person in question will
arrive shortly. Of course, if letters or parcels are a long time here unclaimed, they are returned to
the post office.”
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
He said:
“I comprehend.” He added: “It is like this, you see. I wrote a letter to my friend here.”
Mrs. Harte’s face cleared.
“That explains it. I must have noticed the name on an envelope. But really we have so many
ex-Army gentlemen staying here or passing through—Let me see now.”
She peered up at the board.
Hercule Poirot said:
“It is not there now.”
“It must have been returned to the postman, I suppose. I am so sorry. Nothing important, I
hope?”
“No, no, it was of no importance.”
pursued him.
“If your friend should come—”
“It is most unlikely. I must have made a mistake. . . .”
“Our terms,” said Mrs. Harte, “are very moderate. Coffee after dinner is included. I would
like you to see one or two of our bed-sitting rooms. . . .”
With difficulty Hercule Poirot escaped.
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