‘Have you?’ I said. ‘Miss Gannett drop in to tea?’
Miss Gannett is one of the chief of our news-mongers.
‘Guess again,’ said Caroline, with intense complacency.
I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of Caroline’s Intelligence corps. My sister received each guess with a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the information herself.
‘M. Poirot!’ she said. ‘Now, what do you think of that?’
I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them to Caroline.
‘Why did he come?’ I asked.
‘To see me, of course. He said that, knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister – your charming sister, I’ve got mixed up – but you know what I mean.’
‘What did he talk about?’ I asked.
‘He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania – the one who’s just married a dancer?’
‘Yes?’
‘I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a russian grand duchess – one of the czar’s daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.’
‘Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?’ I inquired sarcastically.
‘He didn’t mention it. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super-detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful royal clients.’
‘It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,’ said my sister complacently.
It would be – to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly lady living in a small village.
‘Did he tell you if the dancer was really a grand duchess?’ I inquired.
‘He was not at liberty to speak,’ said Caroline importantly.
I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline – probably not at all. he had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.
‘And after all this,’ I remarked, ‘I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand?’
‘Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions from.’
‘Probably from my only link with the outside world – my patients. unfortunately, my practice does not lie amongst royal princes and interesting russian émigrés.’
Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.
‘You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, tonight.’
To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.
‘Damn my liver,’ I said irritably. ‘Did you talk about the murder at all?’
‘Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot straight upon several points. he was very grateful to me. he said I had the makings of a born detective in me – and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.’
Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to over-flowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.
‘He talked a lot about the little grey cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.’
