Though, mind you, he didn't treat me well - no, he didn't - he didn't treat me well at all.
Not as a lady should be treated.
They're all the same when it comes to a question of money."
"No, no, mademoiselle, do not say that," protested Poirot, filling up her glass once more. "Could you now describe this Mr. Darrell to me?"
"He wasn't anything so very much to look at," said Flossie Monro dreamily. "Neither tall nor short, you know, but quite well set up.
Spruce looking.
Eyes a sort of blue-gray.
And more or less fair-haired, I suppose.
But oh, what an artist!
I never saw any one to touch him in the profession!
He'd have made his name before now if it hadn't been for jealousy.
Ah, Mr. Poirot, jealousy - you wouldn't believe it, you really wouldn't, what we artists have to suffer through jealousy.
Why, I remember once at Manchester -" We displayed what patience we could in listening to a long complicated story about a pantomime, and the infamous conduct of the principal boy.
Then Poirot led her gently back to the subject of Claud Darrell.
"It is very interesting, all this that you are able to tell us, mademoiselle, about Mr. Darrell.
Women are such wonderful observers - they see everything, they notice the little detail that escapes the mere man.
I have seen a woman identify one man out of a dozen others - and why, do you think?
She had observed that he had a trick of stroking his nose when he was agitated.
Now would a man ever have thought of noticing a thing like that?"
"Did you ever!" cried Miss Monro. "I suppose we do notice things.
I remember Claudie, now I come to think of it, always fiddling with his bread at table. He'd get a little piece between his fingers and then dab it round to pick up crumbs.
I've seen him do it a hundred times.
Why, I'd know him anywhere by that one trick of his."
"Is not that just what I say?
The marvellous observation of a woman.
And did you ever speak to him about this little habit of his, mademoiselle?"
"No, I didn't, Mr. Poirot.
You know what men are!
They don't like you to notice things - especially if it should seem you were telling them off about it.
I never said a word - but many's the time I smiled to myself.
Bless you, he never knew he was doing it even."
Poirot nodded gently.
I noticed that his own hand was shaking a little as he stretched it out to his glass.
"Then there is always handwriting as a means of establishing identity," he remarked. "Without doubt you have preserved a letter written by Mr. Darrell?"
Flossie Monro shook her head regretfully.
"He was never one for writing.
Never wrote me a line in his life."
"That is a pity," said Poirot.
"I tell you what, though," said Miss Monro suddenly. "I've got a photograph if that would be any good?"
"Ma foi, but what stupendous luck!
You will permit me to inspect that photograph, mademoiselle?"
"Why, of course."
"Perhaps you will even permit me to have a copy made?
It would not take long."
"Certainly if you like."
Miss Monro rose.
"Well, I must run away," she declared archly. "Very glad to have met you and your friend, Mr. Poirot."
"And the photograph?
When may I have it?"
"I'll look it out tonight.