Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories: A Hercule Poirot Collection With Foreword by Charles Todd

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Classics, Thriller
ISBN: 9780062251657
Google: NdydxJIUrD4C
Amazon: B009R51W4C
Barnesnoble: B009R51W4C
Goodreads: 16089218
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1999-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

I WILL COME TO SEE YOU THIS EVENING AT HALF PAST SEVEN.

J.F.

“A compromising document to leave behind,” commented Poirot, as he handed it back.

“Well, he didn’t know she’d got it in her pocket,” said the inspector. “He probably thought she’d destroyed it. We’ve evidence that he was a careful man, though. The pistol she was shot with we found under the body—and there again no fingerprints. They’d been wiped off very carefully with a silk handkerchief.”

“How do you know,” said Poirot, “that it was a silk handkerchief?”

“Because we found it,” said the inspector triumphantly. “At the last, as he was drawing the curtains, he must have let it fall unnoticed.”

He handed across a big white silk handkerchief—a good-quality handkerchief. It did not need the inspector’s finger to draw Poirot’s attention to the mark on it in the centre. It was neatly marked and quite legible. Poirot read the name out.

“John Fraser.”

“That’s it,” said the inspector. “John Fraser—J.F. in the note. We know the name of the man we have to look for, and I daresay when we find out a little about the dead woman, and her relations come forward, we shall soon get a line on him.”

“I wonder,” said Poirot. “No, mon cher, somehow I do not think he will be easy to find, your John Fraser. He is a strange man—careful, since he marks his handkerchiefs and wipes the pistol with which he has committed the crime—yet careless since he loses his handkerchief and does not search for a letter that might incriminate him.”

“Flurried, that’s what he was,” said the inspector.

“It is possible,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is possible. And he was not seen entering the building?”

“There are all sorts of people going in and out all the time. These are big blocks. I suppose none of you—” he addressed the four collectively—“saw anyone coming out of the flat?”

Pat shook her head. “We went out earlier—about seven o’clock.”

“I see.” The inspector rose. Poirot accompanied him to the door.

“As a little favour, may I examine the flat below?”

“Why, certainly, M. Poirot. I know what they think of you at headquarters. I’ll leave you a key. I’ve got two. It will be empty. The maid cleared out to some relatives, too scared to stay there alone.”

“I thank you,” said M. Poirot. He went back into the flat, thoughtful.

“You’re not satisfied, M. Poirot?” said Jimmy.

“No,” said Poirot. “I am not satisfied.”

Donovan looked at him curiously. “What is it that—well, worries you?”

Poirot did not answer. He remained silent for a minute or two, frowning, as though in thought, then he made a sudden impatient movement of the shoulders.

“I will say good night to you, mademoiselle. You must be tired. You have had much cooking to do—eh?”

Pat laughed. “Only the omelette. I didn’t do dinner. Donovan and Jimmy came and called for us, and we went out to a little place in Soho.”

“And then without doubt, you went to a theatre?”

“Yes. The Brown Eyes of Caroline.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “It should have been blue eyes—the blue eyes of mademoiselle.

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