Wicked, isn't it?
I hope some one took the number."
"The stars fight against us," said Poirot, in a low voice.
"You would like to see her?"
The nurse led the way, and we followed.
Poor Flossie Monro, with her rouge and her dyed hair. She lay there very peacefully, with a little smile on her lips.
"Yes," murmured Poirot. "The stars fight against us - but is it the stars?" He lifted his head as though struck by a sudden idea. "Is it the stars, Hastings?
If it is not - if it is not... Oh, I swear to you, my friend, standing here by this poor woman's body, that I will have no mercy when the time comes!"
"What do you mean?" I asked.
But Poirot had turned to the nurse and was eagerly demanding information.
A list of the articles found in her hand-bag was finally obtained.
Poirot gave a suppressed cry as he read it over.
"You see, Hastings, you see?"
"See what?"
"There is no mention of a latch-key.
But she must have had a latch-key with her.
No, she was run down in cold blood, and the first person who bent over her took the key from her bag.
But we may yet be in time.
He may not have been able to find at once what he sought."
Another taxi took us to the address Flossie Monro had given us, a squalid block of Mansions in an unsavoury neighbourhood.
It was some time before we could gain admission to Miss Monro's flat, but we had at least the satisfaction of knowing that no one could leave it whilst we were on guard outside.
Eventually we got in.
It was plain that some one had been before us.
The contents of drawers and cupboards were strewn all over the floor.
The forced locks and the small broken tables showed the violence and the impatience of the searchers.
Poirot started revolving the debris.
Suddenly he stood up and gave a shout, holding something in his hand.
It was an old and empty photgraph frame.
On the backside there was a small round sticker with the price.
"It cost 4 shillings," I observed.
"Mon Dieu!
Hastings, use your eyes.
This is a new sticker.
It was put here by the man who took the photograph; the man who was here before our arrival but knew we would come and left this for us - Claude Darrell. Alias, Number 4."
Chapter 15 THE TERRIBLE CATASTROPHE
It was after the tragic death of Miss Flossie Monro that I began to be aware of a change in Poirot.
Up to now, his invincible confidence in himself had stood the test.
But it seemed as though, at last, the long strain was beginning to tell.
His manner was grave and brooding, and his nerves were on edge.
In these days he was as jumpy as a cat.
He avoided all discussion of the Big Four as far as possible, and seemed to throw himself into his ordinary work with almost his old ardour.
Nevertheless, I knew that he was secretly active in the big matter.
Extraordinary-looking Slavs were constantly calling to see him, and though he vouchsafed no explanation as to these mysterious activities, I realised that he was building some new defence or weapon of opposition with the help of these somewhat repulsive-looking foreigners.
Once, purely by chance, I happened to see the entries in his post-book - he had asked me to verify some small item - and I noticed the paying out of a huge sum - a huge sum even for Poirot who was coining money nowadays - to some Russian with apparently every letter of the alphabet in his name.
But he gave no clue as to the line on which he proposed to operate.
Only over and over again he gave utterance to one phrase.
"It is the greatest mistake to underestimate your adversary.
Remember that, mon ami."
And I realised that that was the pitfall he was striving at all costs to avoid.
So matters went on until the end of March, and then one morning Poirot made a remark which startled me considerably.