Vandel, diverted from his enthusiastic account of the décor he was designing for a forthcoming ballet, supplied information easily enough.
‘Sanderfield? George Sanderfield? Nasty fellow. Rolling in money but they say he’s a crook. Dark horse! Affair with a dancer? But of course, my dear–he had an affair with Katrina. Katrina Samoushenka. You must have seen her? Oh, my dear–too delicious. Lovely technique. The Swan of Tuolela–you must have seen that? My décor! And that other thing of Debussy or is it Mannine “La Biche au Bois”? She danced it with Michael Novgin. He’s so marvellous, isn’t he?’
‘And she was a friend of Sir George Sanderfield?’
‘Yes, she used to week-end with him at his house on the river. Marvellous parties I believe he gives.’
‘Would it be possible, mon cher, for you to introduce me to Mademoiselle Samoushenka?’
‘But, my dear, she isn’t here any longer. She went to Paris or somewhere quite suddenly. You know, they do say that she was a Bolshevik spy or something–not that I believed it myself–you know people love saying things like that. Katrina always pretended that she was a White Russian–her father was a Prince or a Grand Duke–the usual thing! It goes down so much better.’ Vandel paused and returned to the absorbing subject of himself. ‘Now as I was saying, if you want to get the spirit of Bathsheba you’ve got to steep yourself in the Semitic tradition. I express it by–’
He continued happily.
IV
The interview that Hercule Poirot managed to arrange with Sir George Sanderfield did not start too auspiciously.
The ‘dark horse’, as Ambrose Vandel had called him, was slightly ill at ease. Sir George was a short square man with dark coarse hair and a roll of fat in his neck.
He said:
‘Well, M. Poirot, what can I do for you? Er–we haven’t met before, I think?’
‘No, we have not met.’
‘Well, what is it? I confess, I’m quite curious.’
‘Oh, it is very simple–a mere matter of information.’
The other gave an uneasy laugh.
‘Want me to give you some inside dope, eh? Didn’t know you were interested in finance.’
‘It is not a matter of les affaires. It is a question of a certain lady.’
‘Oh, a woman.’ Sir George Sanderfield leant back in his armchair. He seemed to relax. His voice held an easier note.
Poirot said:
‘You were acquainted, I think, with Mademoiselle Katrina Samoushenka?’
Sanderfield laughed.
‘Yes. An enchanting creature. Pity she’s left London.’
‘Why did she leave London?’
‘My dear fellow, I don’t know. Row with the management, I believe. She was temperamental, you know–very Russian in her moods. I’m sorry that I can’t help you but I haven’t the least idea where she is now. I haven’t kept up with her at all.’
There was a note of dismissal in his voice as he rose to his feet.
Poirot said:
‘But is not Mademoiselle Samoushenka that I am anxious to trace.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No, it is a question of her maid.’
‘Her maid?’ Sanderfield stared at him.
Poirot said:
‘Do you–perhaps–remember her maid?’
All Sanderfield’s uneasiness had returned. He said awkwardly:
‘Good Lord, no, how should I? I remember she had one, of course…Bit of a bad lot, too, I should say. Sneaking, prying sort of girl. If I were you I shouldn’t put any faith in a word that girl says. She’s the kind of girl who’s a born liar.’
Poirot murmured:
‘So actually, you remember quite a lot about her?’
Sanderfield said hastily:
‘Just an impression, that’s all…Don’t even remember her name. Let me see, Marie something or other–no, I’m afraid I can’t help you to get hold of her. Sorry.’
Poirot said gently:
‘I have already got the name of Marie Hellin from the Thespian Theatre–and her address. But I am speaking, Sir George, of the maid who was with Mademoiselle Samoushenka before Marie Hellin. I am speaking of Nita Valetta.’
Sanderfield stared. He said:
‘Don’t remember her at all. Marie’s the only one I remember. Little dark girl with a nasty look in her eye.’
Poirot said:
‘The girl I mean was at your house Grasslawn last June.’
Sanderfield said sulkily:
‘Well, all I can say is I don’t remember her. Don’t believe she had a maid with her. I think you’re making a mistake.’
Hercule Poirot shook his head. He did not think he was making a mistake.
V
Marie Hellin looked swiftly at Poirot out of small intelligent eyes and as swiftly looked away again. She said in smooth, even tones:
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