Twenty

COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

I reported to Beck as soon as I got to London.

He waved his cigar at me.

“There might have been something in that idiotic crescent idea of yoursafter all,” he allowed.

“I’ve turned up something at last, have I?”

“I won’t go as far as that, but I’ll just say that you may have. Our con-struction engineer, Mr. Ramsay of 62, Wilbraham Crescent, is not all heseems. Some very curious assignments he’s taken on lately. Genuine firms,but firms without much back history, and what history they have, rather apeculiar one. Ramsay went off at a minute’s notice about five weeks ago.

He went to Rumania.”

“That’s not what he told his wife.”

“Possibly not, but that’s where he went. And that’s where he is now.

We’d like to know a bit more about him. So you can stir your stumps, mylad, and get going. I’ve got all the visas ready for you, and a nice new pass-port. Nigel Trench it will be this time. Rub up your knowledge of rareplants in the Balkans. You’re a botanist.”

“Any special instructions?”

“No. We’ll give you your contact when you pick up your papers. Findout all you can about our Mr. Ramsay.” He looked at me keenly. “You don’tsound as pleased as you might be.” He peered through the cigar smoke.

“It’s always pleasant when a hunch pays off,” I said evasively.

“Right Crescent, wrong number. 61 is occupied by a perfectly blamelessbuilder. Blameless in our sense, that is. Poor old Hanbury got the numberwrong, but he wasn’t far off.”

“Have you vetted the others? Or only Ramsay?”

“Diana Lodge seems to be as pure as Diana. A long history of cats.

McNaughton was vaguely interesting. He’s a retired professor, as youknow. Mathematics. Quite brilliant, it seems. Resigned his Chair quite sud-denly on the grounds of ill-health. I suppose that may be true—but heseems quite hale and hearty. He seems to have cut himself off from all hisold friends, which is rather odd.”

“The trouble is,” I said, “that we get to thinking that everything thateverybody does is highly suspicious.”

“You may have got something there,” said Colonel Beck. “There aretimes when I suspect you, Colin, of having changed over to the other side.

There are times when I suspect myself of having changed over to the otherside, and then having changed back again to this one! All a jolly mix-up.”

My plane left at ten p.m. I went to see Hercule Poirot first. This time hewas drinking a sirop de cassis (Black currant to you and me). He offered mesome. I refused. George brought me whisky. Everything as usual.

“You look depressed,” said Poirot.

“Not at all. I’m just off abroad.”

He looked at me. I nodded.

“So it is like that?”

“Yes, it is like that.”

“I wish you all success.”

“Thank you. And what about you, Poirot, how are you getting along withyour homework?”

“Pardon?”

“What about the Crowdean Clocks Murder — Have you leaned back,closed your eyes and come up with all the answers?”

“I have read what you left here with great interest,” said Poirot.

“Not much there, was there? I told you these particular neighbours werea wash-out—”

“On the contrary. In the case of at least two of these people very illumin-ating remarks were made—”

“Which of them? And what were the remarks?”

Poirot told me in an irritating fashion that I must read my notes care-fully.

“You will see for yourself then—It leaps to the eye. The thing to do nowis to talk to more neighbours.”

“There aren’t any more.”

“There must be. Somebody has always seen something. It is an axiom.”

“It may be an axiom but it isn’t so in this case. And I’ve got further de-tails for you. There has been another murder.”

“Indeed? So soon? That is interesting. Tell me.”

I told him. He questioned me closely until he got every single detail outof me. I told him, too, of the postcard I had passed on to Hardcastle.

“Remember—four one three—or four thirteen,” he repeated. “Yes—it isthe same pattern.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Poirot closed his eyes.

“That postcard lacks only one thing, a fingerprint dipped in blood.”

I looked at him doubtfully.

“What do you really think of this business?”

“It grows much clearer—as usual, the murderer cannot let well alone.”

“But who’s the murderer?”

Poirot craftily did not reply to that.

“Whilst you are away, you permit that I make a few researches?”

“Such as?”

“Tomorrow I shall instruct Miss Lemon to write a letter to an old lawyerfriend of mine, Mr. Enderby. I shall ask her to consult the marriage re-cords at Somerset House. She will also send for me a certain overseascable.”

“I’m not sure that’s fair,” I objected. “You’re not just sitting and think-ing.”

“That is exactly what I am doing! What Miss Lemon is to do, is to verifyfor me the answers that I have already arrived at. I ask not for informa-tion, but for confirmation.”

“I don’t believe you know a thing, Poirot! This is all bluff. Why, nobodyknows yet who the dead man is—”

“I know.”

“What’s his name?”

“I have no idea. His name is not important. I know, if you can under-stand, not who he is but who he is.”

“A blackmailer?”

Poirot closed his eyes.

“A private detective?”

Poirot opened his eyes.

“I say to you a little quotation. As I did last time. And after that I say nomore.”

He recited with the utmost solemnity:

“Dilly, dilly, dilly—Come and be killed.”