One drew up by us, and Poirot directed it to go Genevieve in Moffat Street.

Genevieve turned out to be one of those establishments where one nondescript hat and a scarf display themselves in a glass box downstairs and where the real centre of operations is one floor up a flight of musty-smelling stairs.

Having climbed the stairs we came to a door with ‘Genevieve. Please Walk In’ on it, and having obeyed this command we found ourselves in a small room full of hats while an imposing blonde creature came forward with a suspicious glance at Poirot.

‘Miss Driver?’ asked Poirot.

‘I do not know if Modom can see you. What is your business, please?’ 

‘Please tell Miss Driver that a friend of Miss Adams would like to see her.’

The blonde beauty had no need to go on this errand. A black velvet curtain was violently agitated and a small vivacious creature with flaming red hair emerged.

‘What’s that?’ she demanded.

‘Are you Miss Driver?’

‘Yes. What’s that about Carlotta?’

‘You have heard the sad news?’

‘What sad news?’

‘Miss Adams died in her sleep last night. An overdose of veronal.’

The girl’s eyes opened wide.

‘How awful!’ she exclaimed. ‘Poor Carlotta. I can hardly believe it. Why, she was full of life yesterday.’

‘Nevertheless it is true, Mademoiselle,’ said Poirot. ‘Now see – it is just on one o’clock. I want you to do me the honour of coming out to lunch with me and my friend. I want to ask you several questions.’

The girl looked him up and down. She was a pugilistic little creature. She reminded me in some ways of a fox terrier.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded bluntly.

‘My name is Hercule Poirot. This is my friend Captain Hastings.’

I bowed.

Her glance travelled from one to the other of us. 

‘I’ve heard of you,’ she said abruptly. ‘I’ll come.’

She called to the blonde:

‘Dorothy?’

‘Yes, Jenny.’

‘Mrs Lester’s coming in about that Rose Descartes model we’re making for her. Try the different feathers. Bye-bye, shan’t be long, I expect.’

She picked up a small black hat, affixed it to one ear, powdered her nose furiously, and then looked at Poirot.

‘Ready,’ she said abruptly.

Five minutes afterwards we were sitting in a small restaurant in Dover Street. Poirot had given an order to the waiter and cocktails were in front of us.

‘Now,’ said Jenny Driver. ‘I want to know the meaning of all this. What has Carlotta been getting herself mixed up in?’

‘She had been getting herself mixed up in something, then, Mademoiselle?’

‘Now then, who is going to ask the questions, you or me?’

‘My idea was that I should,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I have been given to understand that you and Miss Adams were great friends.’

‘Right.’

‘Eh bien, then I ask you, Mademoiselle, to accept my solemn assurance that what I do, I am doing in the interests of your dead friend. I assure you that that is so.’

There was a moment’s silence while Jenny Driver considered this question. Finally she gave a quick assenting nod of the head.

‘I believe you. Carry on. What do you want to know?’

‘I understand, Mademoiselle, that your friend lunched with you yesterday.’

‘She did.’

‘Did she tell you what her plans were for last night?’

‘She didn’t exactly mention last night.’

‘But she said something?’

‘Well, she mentioned something that maybe is what you’re driving at. Mind you, she spoke in confidence.’

‘That is understood.’

‘Well, let me see now. I think I’d better explain things in my own words.’

‘If you please, Mademoiselle.’

‘Well, then, Carlotta was excited. She isn’t often excited. She’s not that kind. She wouldn’t tell me anything definite, said she’d promised not to, but she’d got something on. Something I gathered, in the nature of a gigantic hoax.’

‘A hoax?’

‘That’s what she said. She didn’t say how or when or where. Only–’ She paused, frowning. ‘Well – you see – Carlotta’s not the kind of person who enjoys practical jokes or hoaxes or things of that kind. She’s one of those serious, nice-minded, hard-working girls. What I mean is, somebody had obviously put her up to this stunt. And I think – she didn’t say so, mind–’

‘No, no, I quite understand. What was it that you thought?’

‘I thought – I was sure – that in some way money was concerned. Nothing really ever excited Carlotta except money. She was made that way. She’d got one of the best heads for business I’ve ever met. She wouldn’t have been so excited and so pleased unless money – quite a lot of money – had been concerned. My impression was that she’d taken on something for a bet – and that she was pretty sure of winning. And yet that isn’t quite true. I mean, Carlotta didn’t bet. I’ve never known her make a bet. But anyway, somehow or other, I’m sure money was concerned.’

‘She did not actually say so?’

‘N-no-o. Just said that she’d be able to do this, that and the other in the near future. She was going to get her sister over from America to meet her in Paris. She was crazy about her little sister. Very delicate, I believe, and musical. Well that’s all I know. Is that what you want?’

Poirot nodded his head.

‘Yes. It confirms my theory. I had hoped, I admit, for more. I had anticipated that Miss Adams would have been bound to secrecy. But I hoped that, being a woman, she would not have counted revealing the secret to her best friend.’

‘I tried to make her tell me,’ admitted Jenny. ‘But she only laughed and said she’d tell me about it some day.’

Poirot was silent for a moment. Then he said:

‘You know the name of Lord Edgware?’

‘What? The man who was murdered? On a poster half an hour ago.’

‘Yes. Do you know if Miss Adams was acquainted with him?’

‘I don’t think so. I’m sure she wasn’t. Oh! wait a minute.’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle?’ said Poirot eagerly.

‘What was it now?’ She frowned, knitting her brow as she tried to remember. ‘Yes, I’ve got it now. She mentioned him once. Very bitterly.’

‘Bitterly?’

‘Yes. She said – what was it? – that men like that shouldn’t be allowed to ruin other people’s lives by their cruelty and lack of understanding. She said – why, so she did – that he was the kind of man whose death would probably be a good thing for everybody.’

‘When was it she said this, Mademoiselle?’ 

‘Oh! about a month ago, I think it was.’

‘How did the subject come up?’

Jenny Driver racked her brains for some minutes and finally shook her head.

‘I can’t remember,’ she confessed. ‘His name cropped up or something. It might have been in the newspaper. Anyway, I remember thinking it odd that Carlotta should be so vehement all of a sudden when she didn’t even know the man.’

‘Certainly it is odd,’ agreed Poirot thoughtfully. Then he asked:

‘Do you know if Miss Adams was in the habit of taking veronal?’

‘Not that I knew. I never saw her take it or mention taking it.’

‘Did you ever see in her bag a small gold box with the initials C.A. on it in rubies?’

‘A small gold box – no. I am sure I didn’t.’

‘Do you happen to know where Miss Adams was last November?’

‘Let me see. She went back to the States in November, I think – towards the end of the month. Before that she was in Paris.’

‘Alone?’

‘Alone, of course! Sorry – perhaps you didn’t mean that! I don’t know why any mention of Paris always suggests the worst. And it’s such a nice respectable place really. But Carlotta wasn’t the week-ending sort, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

‘Now, Mademoiselle, I am going to ask you a very important question. Was there any man Miss Adams was specially interested in?’

‘The answer to that is “No,”’ said Jenny slowly. ‘Carlotta, since I’ve known her, has been wrapped up in her work and in her delicate sister. She’s had the “head of the family all depends on me” attitude very strongly. So the answer’s NO – strictly speaking.’