We stopped at Number 58, and Uncle got out, and just as he did, a woman came out of Number 58 – a middle-aged woman with fussy hair and rather arty clothes.
She made a bee line for Uncle and said (Jane Olivera's voice rose to an affected squeak):
'Oh, Mr. Blunt, you don't remember me, I'm sure.'
Well, of course, I could see by Uncle's face that he didn't remember her in the slightest -"
Alistair Blunt sighed.
"I never do. People are always saying it -" "He put on his special face," went on Jane. "I know it well. Kind of polite and make-believe. It wouldn't deceive a baby. He said in a most unconvincing voice:
'Oh – er – of course.'
The terrible woman went on: 'I was a great friend of your wife's, you know'!"
"They usually say that, too," said Alistair Blunt in a voice of even deeper gloom. He smiled rather ruefully. "It always ends the same way!
A subscription to something or other.
I got off this time with five pounds to a zenana mission or something. Cheap!"
"Had she really known your wife?"
"Well, her being interested in zenana missions made me think that, if so, it would have been in India.
We were there about ten years ago.
But of course she couldn't have bee a great friend or I'd have known about it.
Probably net her once at a reception."
Jane Olivera said: "I don't believe she ever met Aunt Rebecca at all.
I think it was just an excuse to talk to you."
Alistair Blunt said tolerantly: "Well, that's quite possible."
Jane said: "I mean, I think it's queer the way she tried to scrape an acquaintance with you, Uncle."
Alistair Blunt said with the same tolerance: "She just wanted a subscription."
Poirot said: "She did not try to follow it up in any way?"
Blunt shook his head.
"I never thought of her again.
I'd even forgotten her name till Jane spotted it in the paper."
Jane said a little unconvincingly: "Well, I thought M. Poirot ought to be told!"
Poirot said politely: "Thank you, Mademoiselle."
He added: "I must not keep you, Mr. Blunt. You are a busy man."
Jane said quickly: "I'll come down with you."
Under his moustaches, Hercule Poirot smiled to himself.
On the ground floor, Jane paused abruptly.
She said: "Come in here." They went into a small room off the hall.
She turned to face him.
"What did you mean on the telephone when you said that you had been expecting me to call you?"
Poirot smiled. He spread out his hands.
"Just that, Mademoiselle.
I was expecting a call from you – and the call came."
"You mean that you knew I'd ring up about this Sainsbury Seale woman."
Poirot shook his head.
"That was only the pretext. You could have found something else if necessary."
Jane said: "Why the hell should I call you up?"
"Why should you deliver this tidbit of information about Miss Sainsbury Seale to me instead of giving it to Scotland Yard? That would have been the natural thing to do."
"All right, Mr. Know All, how much exactly do you know?"
"I know that you are interested in me since you heard that I paid a visit to the Holborn Palace Hotel the other day."
She went so white that it startled him.
He had not believed that that deep tan could change to such a greenish hue.
He went on, quietly and steadily: "You got me to come here today because you wanted to pump me – that is the expression, is it not? – yes, to pump me on the subject of Mr. Howard Raikes."
Jane Olivera said, "Who's he, anyway?"
It was not a very successful parry.
Poirot said: "You do not need to pump me, Mademoiselle.