I shall never forget the night he came down as the Char of Persia, I think he called it—a sort of Eastern King it was. He had the big paper knife in his hand, and
'Mind, Dorcas,' he says, 'you'll have to be very respectful.
This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!'
Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name—a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be.
A real sight she looked.
You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian.
Nobody would have known her." "These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the chest upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?"
"He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas, smiling. "And well I know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I'm sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have been got quite lately, I think.
There was a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of hair.
Burnt corks they use mostly—though 'tis messy getting it off again.
Miss Cynthia was a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had."
"So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again.
"Do you think it is the one?" I whispered eagerly.
Poirot nodded.
"I do.
You notice it had been trimmed?"
"No."
"Yes.
It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp's, and I found one or two snipped hairs.
Hastings, this affair is very deep."
"Who put it in the chest, I wonder?"
"Some one with a good deal of intelligence," remarked Poirot dryly. "You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked?
Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent.
We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all."
I acquiesced.
"There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me."
I was pleased with the compliment.
There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth.
"Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be invaluable."
This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next words were not so welcome.
"I must have an ally in the house," he observed reflectively.
"You have me," I protested.
"True, but you are not sufficient."
I was hurt, and showed it.
Poirot hurried to explain himself.
"You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any way."
"Oh, I see.
How about John?"
"No, I think not."
"The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I said thoughtfully.
"Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly.
"She is the very person.
But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try."
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation.
We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy."
"Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?"
"Yes, I do." The lady nodded.
"And I told you I'd help you with pleasure—to hang Alfred Inglethorp."
"Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question.