“No, sir, she was not.
Most emphatically not.
A tall woman, middle-aged, grey hair, blotchy complexion and a budding moustache.
A siren?
Not on your life.”
“Poirot,” I cried, as we took our departure. “A moustache.
Did you hear?”
“I have the use of my ears, thank you, Hastings!”
“But what a very unpleasant man.”
“He has not the charming manner, no.”
“Well, we ought to get the thief all right,” I remarked. “We can identify him.”
“You are of such a naive simplicity, Hastings.
Do you not know that there is such a thing as an alibi?”
“You think he will have an alibi?”
Poirot replied unexpectedly:
“I sincerely hope so.”
“The trouble with you is,” I said, “that you like a thing to be difficult.”
“Quite right, mon ami.
I do not like—how do you say it—the bird who sits!”
Poirot’s prophecy was fully justified.
Our travelling companion in the brown suit turned out to be a Mr. Norton Kane.
He had gone straight to the George Hotel at Monkhampton and had been there during the afternoon.
The only evidence against him was that of Miss Durrant who declared that she had seen him getting out his luggage from the car while we were at lunch.
“Which in itself is not a suspicious act,” said Poirot meditatively.
After that remark, he lapsed into silence and refused to discuss the matter any further, saying when I pressed him, that he was thinking of moustaches in general, and that I should be well advised to do the same.
I discovered, however, that he had asked Joseph Aarons—with whom he spent the evening—to give him every detail possible about Mr. Baker Wood.
As both men were staying at the same hotel, there was a chance of gleaning some stray crumbs of information.
Whatever Poirot learned, he kept to himself, however.
Mary Durrant, after various interviews with the police, had returned to Ebermouth by an early morning train.
We lunched with Joseph Aarons, and after lunch, Poirot announced to me that he had settled the theatrical agent’s problem satisfactorily, and that we could return to Ebermouth as soon as we liked.
“But not by road, mon ami; we go by rail this time.”
“Are you afraid of having your pocket picked, or of meeting another damsel in distress?”
“Both those affairs, Hastings, might happen to me on the train.
No, I am in haste to be back in Ebermouth, because I want to proceed with our case.”
“Our case?”
“But, yes, my friend.
Mademoiselle Durrant appealed to me to help her.
Because the matter is now in the hands of the police, it does not follow that I am free to wash my hands of it.
I came here to oblige an old friend, but it shall never be said of Hercule Poirot that he deserted a stranger in need!” And he drew himself up grandiloquently.
“I think you were interested before that,” I said shrewdly. “In the office of cars, when you first caught sight of that young man, though what drew your attention to him I don’t know.”
“Don’t you, Hastings?
You should.
Well, well, that must remain my little secret.”
We had a short conversation with the police inspector in charge of the case before leaving.
He had interviewed Mr. Norton Kane, and told Poirot in confidence that the young man’s manner had not impressed him favourably.
He had blustered, denied, and contradicted himself.
“But just how the trick was done, I don’t know,” he confessed. “He could have handed the stuff to a confederate who pushed off at once in a fast car.
But that’s just theory.
We’ve got to find the car and the confederate and pin the thing down.”
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.