Twenty-two

COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

I“So you have returned,” said Hercule Poirot.

He placed a bookmarker carefully to mark his place in the book he wasreading. This time a cup of hot chocolate stood on the table by his elbow.

Poirot certainly has the most terrible taste in drinks! For once he did noturge me to join him.

“How are you?” I asked.

“I am disturbed. I am much disturbed. They make the renovations, theredecorations, even the structural alteration in these flats.”

“Won’t that improve them?”

“It will improve them, yes—but it will be most vexatious to me. I shallhave to disarrange myself. There will be a smell of paint!” He looked at mewith an air of outrage.

Then, dismissing his difficulties with a wave of his hand, he asked:

“You have had the success, yes?”

I said slowly: “I don’t know.”

“Ah—it is like that.”

“I found out what I was sent to find out. I did not find the man himself. Imyself do not know what was wanted. Information? Or a body?”

“Speaking of bodies, I read the account of the adjourned inquest atCrowdean. Wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. And yourbody has been given a name at last.”

I nodded.

“Harry Castleton, whoever he may be.”

“Identified by his wife. You have been to Crowdean?”

“Not yet. I thought of going down tomorrow.”

“Oh, you have some leisure time?”

“Not yet. I’m still on the job. My job takes me there—” I paused a mo-ment and then said: “I don’t know much about what’s been happeningwhile I’ve been abroad—just the mere fact of identification—what do youthink of it?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“It was to be expected.”

“Yes—the police are very good—”

“And wives are very obliging.”

“Mrs. Merlina Rival! What a name!”

“It reminds me of something,” said Poirot. “Now of what does it remindme?”

He looked at me thoughtfully but I couldn’t help him. Knowing Poirot, itmight have reminded him of anything.

“A visit to a friend—in a country house,” mused Poirot, then shook hishead. “No—it is so long ago.”

“When I come back to London, I’ll come and tell you all I can find outfrom Hardcastle about Mrs. Merlina Rival,” I promised.

Poirot waved a hand and said: “It is not necessary.”

“You mean you know all about her already without being told?”

“No. I mean that I am not interested in her—”

“You’re not interested—but why not? I don’t get it.” I shook my head.

“One must concentrate on the essentials. Tell me instead of the girlcalled Edna—who died in the telephone box in Wilbraham Crescent.”

“I can’t tell you more than I’ve told you already—I know nothing aboutthe girl.”

“So all you know,” said Poirot accusingly, “or all you can tell me is thatthe girl was a poor little rabbit, whom you saw in a typewriting office,where she had torn the heel off her shoe in a grating—” he broke off.

“Where was that grating, by the way?”

“Really, Poirot, how should I know?”

“You could have known if you had asked. How do you expect to knowanything if you do not ask the proper questions?”

“But how can it matter where the heel came off?”

“It may not matter. On the other hand, we should know a definite spotwhere this girl had been, and that might connect up with a person she hadseen there—or with an event of some kind which took place there.”

“You are being rather farfetched. Anyway I do know it was quite nearthe office because she said so and that she bought a bun and hobbled backon her stocking feet to eat the bun in the office and she ended up by say-ing how on earth was she to get home like that?”

“Ah, and how did she get home?” Poirot asked with interest.

I stared at him.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Ah—but it is impossible, the way you never ask the right questions! Asa result you know nothing of what is important.”

“You’d better come down to Crowdean and ask questions yourself,” Isaid, nettled.

“That is impossible at the moment. There is a most interesting sale of au-thors’ manuscripts next week—”

“Still on your hobby?”

“But, yes, indeed.” His eyes brightened. “Take the works of John DicksonCarr or Carter Dickson, as he calls himself sometimes—”

I escaped before he could get under way, pleading an urgent appoint-ment. I was in no mood to listen to lectures on past masters of the art ofcrime fiction.