II
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the sheet of paper on which
Ted1 Williamson had
laboriously2
Miss Valetta, 17 Upper Renfrew Lane, N15.
He wondered if he would learn anything at that address. Somehow he fancied not. But it was
the only help Ted could give him.
No. 17 Upper Renfrew Lane was a
dingy4 but respectable street. A
stout5 woman with bleary
eyes opened the door to Poirot’s knock.
“Miss Valetta?”
“Gone away a long time ago, she has.”
Poirot advanced a step into the
doorway6 just as the door was about to close.
“You can give me, perhaps, her address?”
“Couldn’t say, I’m sure. She didn’t leave one.”
“When did she go away?”
“Last summer it was.”
“Can you tell me exactly when?”
A gentle clicking noise came from Poirot’s right hand where two half crowns jostled each
other in friendly fashion.
The bleary-eyed woman
softened7 in an almost magical manner. She became graciousness
itself.
“Well, I’m sure I’d like to help you, sir. Let me see now. August, no, before that—July—yes,
July it must have been. About the first week in July. Went off in a hurry, she did. Back to Italy, I
believe.”
“She was an Italian, then?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And she was at one time lady’s maid to a Russian dancer, was she not?”
“That’s right. Madame Semoulina or some such name. Danced at the
Thespian8 in this Bally
everyone’s so wild about. One of the stars, she was.”
Poirot said:
“Do you know why Miss Valetta left her post?”
The woman hesitated a moment before saying:
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure.”
“She was dismissed, was she not?”
“Well—I believe there was a bit of a dustup! But mind you, Miss Valetta didn’t let on much
about it. She wasn’t one to give things away. But she looked wild about it. Wicked temper she had
—real Eyetalian—her black eyes all snapping and looking as if she’d like to put a knife into you. I
wouldn’t have crossed her when she was in one of her moods!”
“And you are quite sure you do not know Miss Valetta’s present address?”
The half crowns clinked again encouragingly.
The answer rang true enough.
“I wish I did, sir. I’d be only too glad to tell you. But there—she went off in a hurry and there
it is!”
Poirot said to himself thoughtfully:
“Yes, there it is. . . .”
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