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V
Hercule Poirot went up in the lift to Sir Joseph Hoggin’s office. He sent in his card and was told
that Sir Joseph was engaged at the moment but would see him presently. A haughty blonde sailed
out of Sir Joseph’s room at last with her hands full of papers. She gave the quaint little man a
disdainful glance in passing.
Sir Joseph was seated behind his immense mahogany desk. There was a trace of lipstick on
his chin.
“Well, Mr. Poirot? Sit down. Got any news for me?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“The whole affair is of a pleasing simplicity. In each case the money was sent to one of those
boarding houses or private hotels where there is no porter or hall attendant and where a large
number of guests are always coming and going, including a fairly large preponderance of ex-
Service men. Nothing would be easier than for any one to walk in, abstract a letter from the rack,
either take it away, or else remove the money and replace it with blank paper. Therefore, in every
case, the trail ends abruptly in a blank wall.”
“You mean you’ve no idea who the fellow is?”
“I have certain ideas, yes. It will take a few days to follow them up.”
Sir Joseph looked at him curiously.
“Good work. Then, when you have got anything to report—”
“I will report to you at your house.”
Sir Joseph said:
“If you get to the bottom of this business, it will be a pretty good piece of work.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“There is no question of failure. Hercule Poirot does not fail.”
Sir Joseph Hoggin looked at the little man and grinned.
“Sure of yourself, aren’t you?” he demanded.
“Entirely with reason.”
“Oh well.” Sir Joseph Hoggin leaned back in his chair. “Pride goes before a fall, you know.”
VI
Hercule Poirot, sitting in front of his electric radiator (and feeling a quiet satisfaction in its neat
geometrical pattern) was giving instructions to his valet and general factotum.
“You understand, Georges?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“More probably a flat or maisonette. And it will definitely be within certain limits. South of
the Park, east of Kensington Church, west of Knightsbridge Barracks and north of Fulham Road.”
“I understand perfectly, sir.”
Poirot murmured.
“A curious little case. There is evidence here of a very definite talent for organization. And
there is, of course, the surprising invisibility of the star performer—the Nemean Lion himself, if I
may so style him. Yes, an interesting little case. I could wish that I felt more attracted to my client
—but he bears an unfortunate resemblance to a soap manufacturer of Liège who poisoned his wife
in order to marry a blonde secretary. One of my early successes.”
Georges shook his head. He said gravely:
“These blondes, sir, they’re responsible for a lot of trouble.”
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