II Hercule Poirot sat at his handsome modern desk.
He liked modern furniture.
Its squareness and solidity were more agreeable to him than the soft contours of antique models.
In front of him was a square sheet of paper with neat headings and comments. Against some of them were query marks.
First came: Amberiotis.
Espionage.
In England for that purpose?
Was in India last year.
During period of riots and unrest.
Could be a communist agent.
There was a space and then the next heading: Frank Carter?
Morley thought him unsatisfactory.
Was discharged from his employment recently.
Why?
After that came a name with merely a question mark:
Howard Raikes?
Next came a sentence in quotes:
"But that's absurd!"??? Hercule Poirot's head was poised interrogatively.
Outside the window a bird was carrying a twig to build its nest.
Hercule Poirot looked rather like a bird as he sat there with his egg-shaped head cocked on one side.
He made another entry a little further down.
Mr. Barnes?
He paused and then wrote:
Morley's office?
Mark on carpet.
Possibilities.
He considered that last entry for some time. Then he got up, called for his hat and stick and went out.
III Three-quarters of an hour later Hercule Poirot came out of the underground station at Ealing Broadway and five minutes after that he had reached his destination – 88 Castlegardens Road.
It was a small, semidetached house, and the neatness of the front garden drew an admiring nod from Hercule Poirot.
"Admirably symmetrical," he murmured to himself.
Mr. Barnes was at home and Poirot was shown into a small precise dining room and here presently Mr. Barnes came to him.
Mr. Barnes was a small man with twinkling eyes and a nearly bald head.
He peeped over the top of his glasses at his visitor while in his left hand he twirled the card that Poirot had given the maid.
He said in a small, prim, almost falsetto voice: "Well, well, M. Poirot?
I am honored, I am sure."
"You must excuse my calling upon you in this informal manner," said Poirot punctiliously.
"Much the best way," said Mr. Barnes.
"And the time is admirable, too.
A quarter to seven – very sound time at this period of the year for catching anyone at home."
He waved his hand. "Sit down, M. Poirot.
I've no doubt we've got a good deal to talk about.
Number 58 Queen Charlotte Street, I suppose?"
Poirot said: "You suppose rightly – but why should you suppose anything of the kind?"
"My dear sir," said Mr. Barnes,
"I've been retired from the Home Office for some time now – but I've not gone quite rusty yet.
If there's any hush hush business, it's far better not to use the police.
Draws attention to it all!"
Poirot said: "I will ask yet another question. Why should you suppose this is a hush hush business?"
"Isn't it?" asked the other.
"Well, if it isn't, in my opinion it ought to be."