Alighting at the courtyard he cast his eyes around. A uniformed porter was standing in one of the doorways, whistling a somewhat doleful melody. As Poirot advanced upon him, he said: "Yes, sir?" "I wondered," said Poirot, "if you can tell me anything about a very sad occurrence that took place here recently." "Sad occurrence?" said the porter.

"Nothing that I know of." "A lady who threw herself, or shall we say fell from one of the upper stories, and was killed." "Oh that. I don't know anything about that because I've only been here a week, you see. Hi, Joe." A porter emerging from the opposite side of the block came over.

"You'd know about the lady as fell from the seventh. About a month ago, was it?" "Not quite as much as that," said Joe.

He was an elderly slow-speaking man.

"Nasty business it was." "She was killed instantly?" "Yes." "What was her name? It may, you understand, have been a relative of mine," Poirot explained. He was not a man who had any scruples about departing from the truth.

"Indeed, sir. Very sorry to hear it.

She was a Mrs. Charpentier." "She had been in the flat some time?" "Well, let me see now. About a year - a year and a half perhaps. No, I think it must have been about two years. No. 76, seventh floor." "That is the top floor?" "Yes, sir. A Mrs. Charpentier." Poirot did not press for any other descriptive information since he might be presumed to know such things about his own relative. Instead he asked: "Did it cause much excitement, much questioning? What time of day was it?" "Five or six o'clock in the morning, I think. No warning or anything. Just down she came. In spite of being so early we got a crowd almost at once, pushing through the railing over there. You know what people are." "And the police, of course." "Oh yes, the police came quite quickly.

And a doctor and an ambulance. All the usual," said the porter rather in the weary tone of one who had had people throwing themselves out of a seventh-storey window once or twice every month.

"And I suppose people came down from the flats when they heard what had happened." "Oh, there wasn't so many coming from the flats because for one thing with the noise of traffic and everything around here most of them didn't know about it.

Someone or other said she gave a bit of a scream as she came down, but not so that it caused any real commotion. It was only people in the street, passing by, who saw it happen. And then, of course, they craned their necks over the railings, and other people saw them craning, and joined them.

You know what an accident is!" Poirot assured him he knew what an accident was.

"She lived alone?" he said, making it only half a question.

"That's right." "But she had friends, I suppose, among the other flat dwellers?" Joe shrugged and shook his head. "May have done. I couldn't say. Never saw her in the restaurant much with any of our lot.

She had outside friends to dinner here sometimes. No, I wouldn't say she was specially pally with anybody here. You'd do best," said Joe, getting slightly restive, "to go and have a chat with Mr. McFarlane who's in charge here if you want to know about her." "Ah, I thank you. Yes, that is what I mean to do." "His office is in that block over there, sir. On the ground floor. You'll see it marked up on the door." Poirot went as directed. He detached from his brief-case the top letter with which Miss Lemon had supplied him, and which was marked "Mr. McFarlane".

Mr. McFarlane turned out to be a goodlooking, shrewd-looking man of about forty-five. Poirot handed him the letter.

He opened and read it.

"Ah yes," he said, "I see." He laid it down on the desk and looked at Poirot.

"The owners have instructed me to give you all the help I can about the sad death of Mrs. Louise Charpentier. Now what do you want to know exactly. Monsieur" - he glanced at the letter again - "Monsieur Poirot?" "This is, of course, all quite confidential," said Poirot. "Her relatives have been communicated with by the police and by a solicitor, but they were anxious as I was coming to England, that I should get a few more personal facts, if you understand me. It is distressing when one can get only official reports." "Yes, quite so. Yes, I quite understand that it must be. Well, I'll tell you anything lean." "How long had she been here and how did she come to take the flat?" "She'd been here - I can look it up exactly - about two years. There was a vacant tenancy and I imagine that the lady who was leaving, being an acquaintance of hers, told her in advance that she was giving it up. That was a Mrs. Wilder Worked for the B.B.C. Had been in London for some time, but was going to Canada. Very nice lady - I don't think she knew the deceased well at all. Just happened to mention she was giving up the flat. Mrs. Charpentier liked the flat." "You found her a suitable tenant?" There was a very faint hesitation before Mr. McFarlane answered: "She was a satisfactory tenant, yes." "You need not mind telling me," said Hercule Poirot. "There were wild parties, eh? A little too - shall we say - gay in her entertaining?" Mr. McFarlane stopped being so discreet.

"There were a few complaints from time to time, but mostly from elderly people." Hercule Poirot made a significant gesture.

"A bit too fond of the bottle, yes, sir - and in with quite a gay lot. It made for a bit of trouble now and again." "And she was fond of the gentlemen?" "Well, I wouldn't like to go as far as that.59 "No, no, but one understands." "Of course she wasn't so young." "Appearances are very often deceptive.

How old would you have said she was?" "It's difficult to say. Forty-fortyfive." He added, "Her health wasn't good, you know." "So I understand." "She drank too much - no doubt about it. And then she'd get very depressed.

Nervous about herself. Always going to doctors, I believe, and not believing what they told her. Ladies do get it into their heads - especially about that time of life -she thought that she had cancer. Was quite sure of it. The doctor reassured her but she didn't believe him. He said at the inquest that there was nothing really wrong with her. Oh well, one hears of things like that every day. She got all worked up and one final day -" he nodded.

"It is very sad," said Poirot. "Did she have any special friends among the residents of the flats?" "Not that I know of. This place, you see, isn't what I call the matey kind.

They're mostly people in business, in jobs." "I was thinking possibly of Miss Claudia Reece-Holland. I wondered if they had known each other." "Miss Reece-Holland? No, I don't think so. Oh I mean they were probably acquaintances, talked when they went up in the lift together, that sort of thing. But I don't think there was much social contact of any kind. You see, they would be in a different generation. I mean-" Mr.

McFarlane seemed a little flustered. Poirot wondered why.

He said, "One of the other girls who share Miss Holland's flat knew Mrs.

Charpentier, I believe-Miss Norma Restarick." "Did she? I wouldn't know - she's only come here quite recently, I hardly know her by sight. Rather a frightenedlooking young lady. Not long out of school, I'd say." He added, "Is there anything more I can do for you, sir?" "No, thank you. You've been most kind.

I wonder if possibly I could see the flat.

Just in order to be able to say -" Poirot paused, not particularising what he wanted to be able to say.

"Well, now, let me see. A Mr. Travers has got it now. He's in the City all day.

Yes, come up with me if you like, sir." They went up to the seventh floor. As Mr. McFarlane introduced his key one of the numbers fell from the door and narrowly avoided Poirot's patent-leather shoe. He hopped nimbly and then bent to pick it up. He replaced the spike which fixed it on the door very carefully.

"These numbers are loose," he said.