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“She didn’t shoot Morley, if that’s what you mean. Amberiotis saw him alive after she left—and we’ve checked up on her movements after she left Queen Charlotte Street that morning.”
Poirot said impatiently:
“I am not suggesting for a moment that she shot Morley. Of course she did not. But all the same—”
Japp said:
“If you are right about Morley, then it’s far more likely that he told her something which, although she doesn’t suspect it, gives a clue to his murderer. In that case, she might have been deliberately got out of the way.”
Poirot said:
“All this involves an organization, some big concern quite out of proportion to the death of a quiet dentist in Queen Charlotte Street.”
“Don’t you believe everything Reginald Barnes tells you! He’s a funny old bird—got spies and communists on the brain.”
Japp got up and Poirot said:
“Let me know if you have news.”
When Japp had gone out, Poirot sat frowning down at the table in front of him.
He had definitely the feeling of waiting for something. What was it?
He remembered how he had sat before, jotting down various unrelated facts and a series of names. A bird had flown past the window with a twig in its mouth.
He, too, had been collecting twigs. Five, six, picking up sticks …
He had the sticks—quite a number of them now. They were all there, neatly pigeonholed in his orderly mind—but he had not as yet attempted to set them in order. That was the next step—lay them straight.
What was holding him up? He knew the answer. He was waiting for something.
Something inevitable, foreordained, the next link in the chain. When it came—then—then he could go on….
II
It was late evening a week later when the summons came. Japp’s voice was brusque over the telephone.
“That you, Poirot? We’ve found her. You’d better come round. King Leopold Mansions. Battersea Park. Number 45.”
A quarter of an hour later a taxi deposited Poirot outside King Leopold Mansions.
It was a big block of mansion flats looking out over Battersea Park. Number 45 was on the second floor. Japp himself opened the door.
His face was set in grim lines.
“Come in,” he said. “It’s not particularly pleasant, but I expect you’ll want to see for yourself.”
Poirot said—but it was hardly a question:
“Dead?”
“What you might describe as very dead!”
Poirot cocked his head at a familiar sound coming from a door on his right.
“That’s the porter,” said Japp. “Being sick in the scullery sink! I had to get him up here to see if he could identify her.”
He led the way down the passage and Poirot followed him. His nose wrinkled.
