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“Very well. I have received, Madame, eight letters and three bills by the evening post.”
“Then you know which letter I mean. You will be wise, M. Poirot, to refuse the commission you have been offered.”
“That, Madame, is a matter I shall decide myself.”
The voice said coldly:
“I am warning you, M. Poirot. Your interference will no longer be tolerated. Keep out of this business.”
“And if I do not keep out of it?”
“Then we shall take steps to see that your interference is no longer to be feared….”
“That is a threat, Madame!”
“We are only asking you to be sensible … It is for your own good.”
“You are very magnanimous!”
“You cannot alter the course of events and what has been arranged. So keep out of what doesn’t concern you! Do you understand?”
“Oh yes, I understand. But I consider that Mr. Morley’s death is my concern.”
The woman’s voice said sharply:
“Morley’s death was only an incident. He interfered with our plans.”
“He was a human being, Madame, and he died before his time.”
“He was of no importance.”
Poirot’s voice was dangerous as he said very quietly:
“There you are wrong….”
“It was his own fault. He refused to be sensible.”
“I, too, refuse to be sensible.”
“Then you are a fool.”
There was a click the other end as the receiver was replaced.
Poirot said, “Allo?” then put down his receiver in turn. He did not trouble to ask the Exchange to trace the number. He was fairly sure that the call had been put through from a public telephone box.
What intrigued and puzzled him was the fact that he thought he had heard the voice somewhere before. He racked his brains, trying to bring the elusive memory back. Could it be the voice of Miss Sainsbury Seale?
As he remembered it, Mabelle Sainsbury Seale’s voice had been high-pitched and somewhat affected, with rather overemphasized diction. This voice was not at all like that, and yet—perhaps it might be Miss Sainsbury Seale with her voice disguised. After all, she had been an actress in her time. She could alter her voice, probably, easily enough. In actual timbre, the voice was not unlike what he remembered.
But he was not satisfied with that explanation. No, it was some other person that the voice brought back to him. It was not a voice he knew well—but he was still quite sure that he had heard it once, if not twice, before.
Why, he wondered, bother to ring up and threaten him? Could these people actually believe that threats would deter him? Apparently they did. It was poor psychology!
IV
There was some sensational news in the morning papers. The Prime Minister had been shot at when leaving 10, Downing Street with a friend yesterday evening. Fortunately the bullet had gone wide. The man, an Indian, had been taken into custody.
After reading this, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard where he was shown up to Japp’s room. The latter greeted him heartily.
