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The young woman who did so appeared to consist chiefly of arms and legs. She had finally dislodged herself as the men turned to walk down the street.
The girl stood on the pavement looking after them. Then, suddenly and vigorously, she ejaculated, “Hi!”
Not realizing that the call was addressed to them, neither man turned, and the girl repeated: “Hi! Hi! You there!”
They stopped and looked round inquiringly. The girl walked towards them. The impression of arms and legs remained. She was tall, thin, and her face had an intelligence and aliveness that redeemed its lack of actual beauty. She was dark with a deeply tanned skin.
She was addressing Poirot:
“I know who you are—you’re the detective man, Hercule Poirot!” Her voice was warm and deep, with a trace of American accent.
Poirot said:
“At your service, Mademoiselle.”
Her eyes went on to his companion.
Poirot said:
“Chief Inspector Japp.”
Her eyes widened—almost it seemed with alarm. She said, and there was a slight breathlessness in her voice:
“What have you been doing here? Nothing—nothing has happened to Uncle Alistair, has it?”
Poirot said quickly:
“Why should you think so, Mademoiselle?”
“It hasn’t? Good.”
Japp took up Poirot’s question.
“Why should you think anything had happened to Mr. Blunt, Miss—”
He paused inquiringly.
The girl said mechanically:
“Olivera. Jane Olivera.” Then she gave a slight and rather unconvincing laugh. “Sleuths on the doorstep rather suggest bombs in the attic, don’t they?”
“There’s nothing wrong with Mr. Blunt, I’m thankful to say, Miss Olivera.”
She looked directly at Poirot.
“Did he call you in about something?”
Japp said:
“We called on him, Miss Olivera, to see if he could throw any light on a case of suicide that occurred this morning.”
She said sharply:
“Suicide? Whose? Where?”
“A Mr. Morley, a dentist, of 58, Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Oh!” said Jane Olivera blankly. “Oh!—” She started ahead of her, frowning. Then she said unexpectedly:
