recognising one's friends. The tilted forward hat, the hat attached airily to the back of the head, the beret, and many other styles. In this particular June the hat of the moment was shaped like an inverted soup plate and was worn attached (as if by suction) over one ear, leaving the other side of the face and hair open to inspection.
“These hats are usually worn on the right side of the head?” asked Poirot.
The little modiste nodded.
“But we keep a few to be worn on the opposite side,” she explained. “Because there are people who much prefer their profile to the left or who have a habit of parting hair on one side only. Now, would there be any special reason for Carlotta's wanting that side of her face to be in shadow?”
I remembered that the door of the house in Regent Gate opened to the left, so that anyone entering would be in full view of the butler that side. I remember also that Jane Wilkinson (so I had noticed the other night) had a tiny mole at the corner of the left eye.
I said as much excitedly. Poirot agreed, nodding his head vigorously.
“It is so. It is so. Vous avez parfaitement raison, Hastings. Yes, that explains the purchase of the hat.”
“M. Poirot?” Jenny sat suddenly bolt upright. “You don't think - you don't for one moment think - that Carlotta did it? Killed him, I mean. You can't think that? Not just because she spoke so bitterly about him.”
“I do not think so. But it is curious, all the same - that she should have spoken so, I mean. I would like to know the reason for it. What had he done - what did she know of him to make her speak in such a fashion?”
“I don't know but she didn't kill him. She's - oh! she was - well - too refined.”
Poirot nodded approvingly.
“Yes, yes. You put that very well. It is a point psychological. I agree. This was a scientific crime - but not a refined one.”
“Scientific?”
“The murderer knew exactly where to strike so as to reach the vital nerve centres at the base of the skull where it joins the cord.”
“Looks like a doctor,” said Jenny thoughtfully.
“Did Miss Adams know any doctors? I mean, was any particular doctor a friend of hers?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Never heard of one. Not over here, anyway.”
“Another question. Did Miss Adams wear pince-nez?”
“Glasses? Never.”
“Ah!” Poirot frowned.
A vision rose in my mind. A doctor, smelling of carbolic, short-sighted eyes magnified by powerful lenses. Absurd!
“By the way, did Miss Adams know Bryan Martin, the film actor?”
“Why, yes. She used to know him as a child, she told me. I don't think she saw much of him, though. Just once in a while. She told me she thought he'd got very swollen-headed.”
She looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.
“Goodness, I must fly. Have I helped you at all, M. Poirot?”
“You have. I shall ask you for further help by and by.”
“It's yours. Someone staged this devilry. We've got to find out who it is.”
She gave us a quick shake of the hand, flashed her white teeth in a sudden smile and left us with characteristic abruptness.
“An interesting personality,” said Poirot as he paid the bill.
“I like her,” I said.
“It is always a pleasure to meet a quick mind.”
“A little hard, perhaps,” I reflected. “The shock of her friend's death did not upset her as much as I should have thought it would have done.”
“She is not the sort that weeps, certainly,” agreed Poirot dryly.
“Did you get what you hoped from the interview?”
He shook his head.
“No - I hoped - very much I hoped - to get a clue to the personality of D, the person who gave her the little gold box. There I have failed. Unfortunately Carlotta Adams was a reserved girl. She was not one to gossip about her friends or her possible love affairs. One the other hand, the person who suggested the hoax may not have been a friend at all. It may have been a mere acquaintance who proposed it - doubtless for some
“These hats are usually worn on the right side of the head?” asked Poirot.
The little modiste nodded.
“But we keep a few to be worn on the opposite side,” she explained. “Because there are people who much prefer their profile to the left or who have a habit of parting hair on one side only. Now, would there be any special reason for Carlotta's wanting that side of her face to be in shadow?”
I remembered that the door of the house in Regent Gate opened to the left, so that anyone entering would be in full view of the butler that side. I remember also that Jane Wilkinson (so I had noticed the other night) had a tiny mole at the corner of the left eye.
I said as much excitedly. Poirot agreed, nodding his head vigorously.
“It is so. It is so. Vous avez parfaitement raison, Hastings. Yes, that explains the purchase of the hat.”
“M. Poirot?” Jenny sat suddenly bolt upright. “You don't think - you don't for one moment think - that Carlotta did it? Killed him, I mean. You can't think that? Not just because she spoke so bitterly about him.”
“I do not think so. But it is curious, all the same - that she should have spoken so, I mean. I would like to know the reason for it. What had he done - what did she know of him to make her speak in such a fashion?”
“I don't know but she didn't kill him. She's - oh! she was - well - too refined.”
Poirot nodded approvingly.
“Yes, yes. You put that very well. It is a point psychological. I agree. This was a scientific crime - but not a refined one.”
“Scientific?”
“The murderer knew exactly where to strike so as to reach the vital nerve centres at the base of the skull where it joins the cord.”
“Looks like a doctor,” said Jenny thoughtfully.
“Did Miss Adams know any doctors? I mean, was any particular doctor a friend of hers?”
Jenny shook her head.
“Never heard of one. Not over here, anyway.”
“Another question. Did Miss Adams wear pince-nez?”
“Glasses? Never.”
“Ah!” Poirot frowned.
A vision rose in my mind. A doctor, smelling of carbolic, short-sighted eyes magnified by powerful lenses. Absurd!
“By the way, did Miss Adams know Bryan Martin, the film actor?”
“Why, yes. She used to know him as a child, she told me. I don't think she saw much of him, though. Just once in a while. She told me she thought he'd got very swollen-headed.”
She looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation.
“Goodness, I must fly. Have I helped you at all, M. Poirot?”
“You have. I shall ask you for further help by and by.”
“It's yours. Someone staged this devilry. We've got to find out who it is.”
She gave us a quick shake of the hand, flashed her white teeth in a sudden smile and left us with characteristic abruptness.
“An interesting personality,” said Poirot as he paid the bill.
“I like her,” I said.
“It is always a pleasure to meet a quick mind.”
“A little hard, perhaps,” I reflected. “The shock of her friend's death did not upset her as much as I should have thought it would have done.”
“She is not the sort that weeps, certainly,” agreed Poirot dryly.
“Did you get what you hoped from the interview?”
He shook his head.
“No - I hoped - very much I hoped - to get a clue to the personality of D, the person who gave her the little gold box. There I have failed. Unfortunately Carlotta Adams was a reserved girl. She was not one to gossip about her friends or her possible love affairs. One the other hand, the person who suggested the hoax may not have been a friend at all. It may have been a mere acquaintance who proposed it - doubtless for some
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