to ring up a certain person and ask him to come here.’
‘What person?’
‘Mr Bryan Martin.’
‘The film star? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘I think,’ said Poirot, ‘that you may find what he has got to say interesting—and possibly helpful. Hastings, will you be so good?’
I took up the telephone-book. The actor had a flat in a big block of buildings near St James’ Park.
‘Victoria 49499.’
The somewhat sleepy voice of Bryan Martin spoke after a few minutes.
‘Hello—who’s speaking?’
‘What am I to say?’ I whispered, covering the mouthpiece with my hand.
‘Tell him,’ said Poirot, ‘that Lord Edgware has been murdered, and that I should esteem it a favour if he would come round here and see me immediately.’
I repeated this meticulously. There was a startled exclamation at the other end.
‘My God,’ said Martin. ‘So she’s done it then! I’ll come at once.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Poirot. I told him.
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. He seemed pleased. ‘So she’s done it then. That was what he said? Then it is as I thought, it is as I thought.’
Japp looked at him curiously.
‘I can’t make you out, M. Poirot. First you sound as though you thought the woman might not have done it after all. And now you make out that you knew it all along.’
Poirot only smiled.
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