Part 37 (1/2)

So it came about that at three o'clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirot's neat room and sipped blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from old-fas.h.i.+oned gla.s.ses.

”It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle,” Poirot was saying.

”I'm sure I shall be glad to help you in any way I can,” murmured Anne vaguely.

”It is a little mater of memory.”

”Memory?”

”Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and to Major Despard. None of them, alas, have given me the response that I hoped

for.”

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

”I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the drawing-room of Mr. Shaitana.”

A weary shadow pa.s.sed over Anne's face. Was she never to be free of that nightmare?

Poirot noticed the expression.

”I know, mademoiselle, I know,” he said kindly. ”C'est pnible, n'est ce pas? That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror

for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death.”

Rhoda's feet s.h.i.+fted a little uncomfortably on the floor.

”Well?” said Anne.

”Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that room?”

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

”I don't understand?”

”But, yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains, the fire-irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?”

”Oh, I see.” Anne hesitated, frowning. ”It's difficult. I don't really think I remember. I couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were painted--some inconspicuous colour. There were rugs on the floor. There was a piano.” She shook her head. ”I really couldn't tell you any more.”

470

”But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object, some ornament, some piece of bricabrac?”

”There was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember,” said Anne slowly.

”Over by the window.”

”Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay the little dagger.”

Anne looked at him.

”I never heard which table that was on.”

”Pas si bte,” commented Poirot to himself. ”But then, no more is Hercule Poirot! If she knew me better she would realise I would never lay a piege as gross as that!”

Aloud he said: ”A case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?”

Anne answered with some enthusiasm.

”Yes--some of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings.

And scarabsbut I don't like them so much.”

”He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana,” murmured Poirot. ”Yes, he must have been,” Anne agreed. ”The room was full of stuff. One couldn't begin to look at it all.”