I went down with the girl and saw her into the taxi. She had composed herself by now and thanked me very prettily. 

I found Poirot walking up and down the room, his brows knitted in thought. He looked unhappy.

I was glad when the telephone bell rang to distract him.

‘Who is that? Oh, it is Japp. Bonjour, mon ami.’

‘What’s he got to say?’ I asked, drawing nearer the telephone.

Finally, after various ejaculations, Poirot spoke.

‘Yes, and who called for it? Do they know?’

Whatever the answer, it was not what he expected. His face dropped ludicrously.

‘Are you sure?’

‘…’

‘No, it is a little upsetting, that is all.’

‘…’

‘Yes, I must rearrange my ideas.’

‘…’

‘Comment?’

‘…’

‘All the same, I was right about it. Yes, a detail, as you say.’

‘…’

‘No, I am still of the same opinion. I would pray of you to make still further inquiries of the restaurants in the neighbourhood of Regent Gate and Euston, Tottenham Court Road and perhaps Oxford Street.’

‘…’ 

‘Yes, a woman and a man. And also in the neighbourhood of the Strand just before midnight. Comment?’

‘…’

‘But, yes, I know that Captain Marsh was with the Dortheimers. But there are other people in the world besides Captain Marsh.’

‘…’

‘To say I have the head of a pig is not pretty. Tout de meme, oblige me in this matter, I pray of you.’

‘…’

He replaced the receiver.

‘Well?’ I asked impatiently.

‘Is it well? I wonder. Hastings, that gold box was bought in Paris. It was ordered by letter and it comes from a well-known Paris shop which specializes in such things. The letter was supposedly from a Lady Ackerley – Constance Ackerley the letter was signed. Naturally there is no such person. The letter was received two days before the murder. It ordered the initials of (presumably) the writer in rubies and the inscription inside. It was a rush order – to be called for the following day. That is, the day before the murder.’

‘And was it called for?’

‘Yes, it was called for and paid for in notes.’

‘Who called for it?’ I asked excitedly. I felt we were getting near to the truth. 

‘A woman called for it, Hastings.’

‘A woman?’ I said, surprised.

‘Mais oui. A woman – short, middle-aged, and wearing pince-nez. ’

We looked at each other, completely baffled.

Chapter 25. A Luncheon Party

It was, I think, on the day after that that we went to the Widburns’ luncheon party at Claridge’s.

Neither Poirot nor I were particularly anxious to go. It was, as a matter of fact, about the sixth invitation we had received. Mrs Widburn was a persistent woman and she liked celebrities. Undaunted by refusals, she finally offered such a choice of dates that capitulation was inevitable. Under those circumstances the sooner we went and got it over the better.

Poirot had been very uncommunicative ever since the news from Paris.

To my remarks on the subject he returned always the same answer.

‘There is something here I do not comprehend.’

And once or twice he murmured to himself.

‘Pince-nez. Pince-nez in Paris. Pince-nez in Carlotta Adams’ bag.’ 

I really felt glad of the luncheon party as a means of distraction.

Young Donald Ross was there and came up and greeted me cheerily. There were more men than women and he was put next to me at table.

Jane Wilkinson sat almost opposite us, and next to her, between her and Mrs Widburn, sat the young Duke of Merton.

I fancied – of course it may have been only my fancy – that he looked slightly ill at ease. The company in which he found himself was, so I should imagine, little to his liking. He was a strictly conservative and somewhat reactionary young man – the kind of character that seemed to have stepped out of the Middle Ages by some regrettable mistake. His infatuation for the extremely modern Jane Wilkinson was one of those anachronistic jokes that Nature so loves to play.

Seeing Jane’s beauty and appreciating the charm that her exquisitely husky voice lent to the most trite utterances, I could hardly wonder at his capitulation. But one can get used to perfect beauty and an intoxicating voice! It crossed my mind that perhaps even now a ray of common-sense was dissipating the mists of intoxicated love. It was a chance remark – a rather humiliating gaffe on Jane’s part that gave me that impression.

Somebody – I forgot who – had uttered the phrase ‘judgement of Paris’, and straight away Jane’s delightful voice was uplifted.

‘Paris?’ she said. ‘Why, Paris doesn’t cut any ice nowadays. It’s London and New York that count.’

As sometimes happens, the words fell in a momentary lull of conversation. It was an awkward moment. On my right I heard Donald Ross draw his breath sharply. Mrs Widburn began to talk violently about Russian opera. Everyone hastily said something to somebody else. Jane alone looked serenely up and down the table without the least consciousness of having said anything amiss.

It was then I noticed the Duke. His lips were drawn tightly together, he had flushed, and it seemed to me as though he drew slightly away from Jane. He must have had a foretaste of the fact that for a man of his position to marry a Jane Wilkinson might lead to some awkward contretemps.

As so often happens, I made the first remark that came into my head to my left-hand neighbour, a stout titled lady who arranged children’s matinees. I remember that the remark in question was: ‘Who is that extraordinary looking woman in purple at the other end of the table?’ It was, of course, the lady’s sister! Having stammered apologies, I turned and chatted to Ross, who answered in monosyllables.

It was then, rebuffed on both sides, that I noticed Bryan Martin. He must have been late for I had not seen him before.

He was a little way further down the table on my side and was leaning forward and chatting with great animation to a pretty blonde woman.

It was some time since I had seen him at close quarters, and I was struck at once by the great improvement in his looks. The haggard lines had almost disappeared. He looked younger and in every way more fit. He was laughing and chaffing his vis-à-vis and seemed in first-rate spirits.

I did not have time to observe him further, for at that moment my stout neighbour forgave me and graciously permitted me to listen to a long monologue on the beauties of a Children’s Matinee which she was organizing for Charity.

Poirot had to leave early as he had an appointment. He was investigating the strange disappearance of an Ambassador’s boots and had a rendezvous fixed for half-past two. He charged me to make his adieus to Mrs Widburn. While I was waiting to do so – not an easy matter, for she was at the moment closely surrounded by departing friends all breathing out ‘Darlings’ at a great rate – somebody touched me on the shoulder.

It was young Ross.

‘Isn’t M. Poirot here? I wanted to speak to him.’ 

I explained that Poirot had just departed.

Ross seemed taken aback. Looking more closely at him, I saw that something seemed to have upset him. He looked white and strained and he had a queer uncertain look in his eyes.

‘Did you want to see him particularly?’ I asked.

He answered slowly.

‘I – don’t know.’

It was such a queer answer that I stared at him in surprise. He flushed.

‘It sounds odd, I know. The truth is that something rather queer has happened. Something that I can’t make out. I – I’d like M. Poirot’s advice about it. Because, you see, I don’t know what to do – I don’t want to bother him, but–’

He looked so puzzled and unhappy that I hastened to reassure him.

‘Poirot has gone to keep an appointment,’ I said. ‘But I know he means to be back for five o’clock. Why not ring him up then, or come and see him?’