I asked one of
’em what was the big to-do. When I heard about these
murders, I thought to meself, ‘That could have been a
murderer that you saw, Sammy.’ She looked frightful,
did the lady—frightful!”
Poirot was staring at one of the many stains on the
man’s shirt. “Frightful,” he murmured. “Your story is
most intriguing, Mr. Kidd. Two keys, you say?”
“That’s right, sir. Two gold keys.”
“You were close enough to see, yes?”
“Oh, yes, sir—the street’s nicely lit up outside the
Bloxham. It was no trouble seeing.”
“Can you tell me anything else about these keys
apart from their gold color?”
“Yes. They had numbers on ’em.”
“Numbers?” I said. This was a detail that Samuel
Kidd had not revealed to me in his first telling of the
story outside the hotel, nor in his second, on the way
here in the car. And . . . dash it all, I should have
thought to ask him. I had seen Richard Negus’s key,
the one that Poirot had found behind the loose
fireplace tile. It had the number 238 on it.
“Yes, sir, numbers. Like, you know, one hundred,
two hundred . . .”
“I know what numbers are,” I said brusquely.
“Were those, in fact, the numbers you saw on the
keys, Mr. Kidd?” Poirot asked. “One hundred and two
hundred?”
“No, sir. One of them was a hundred and summat,
if I’m not mistaking. The other . . .” Kidd scratched
his head vigorously. Poirot averted his eyes. “It was
three hundred and summat, I think, sir. Though I
couldn’t swear to it, you understand. But that’s what
I’m seeing now in my mind’s eye: one hundred and
summat, three hundred and summat.”
Room 121, Harriet Sippel’s room. And Ida
Gransbury’s, Room 317.
I felt a hollow space open up in my stomach. I
recognized the sensation: it was how I had felt when I
first saw the three dead bodies and was told by the
police doctor that a gold monogrammed cufflink had
been found in each of their mouths.
It now seemed likely that Samuel Kidd had been
within inches of the murderer last night. A frightful-
looking lady. I shivered.
“This woman that you saw,” said Poirot, “did she
have fair hair and a brown hat and coat?”
He was, of course, thinking of Jennie. I still
believed there was no link, but I could see Poirot’s
reasoning: Jennie had been running around London
last night in a state of great agitation and so had this
other lady. It was just about possible they were one
and the same person.
“No, sir. She had a hat on but it were pale blue,
and her hair were dark. Curled and dark.”
“How old was she?”
“Wouldn’t like to guess a lady’s age, sir. Between
young and old, I’d say.”
“Apart from the blue hat, what was she wearing?”
“Can’t say I took that in, sir. I was too busy
looking at her face when I could.”
“Was she pretty?” I asked.
“Yes, but I wasn’t looking for that reason, sir. I
was looking because I know her, see. I took one look
and I thought to meself, ‘Sammy, you know that lady.’
”
Poirot shifted in his chair. He looked at me, then
back at Kidd. “If you know her, Mr. Kidd, please tell
us who she is.”
“I can’t, sir. That’s what I was trying to get straight
in my head when she ran away. I don’t know how I
know her, or her name, or nothing like that. It’s not
from making boilers I know her, I can say that much.
She looked refined. A proper lady. I don’t know
anybody like that, but I do know her. That face—it’s
not a face I saw last night for the first time. No, sir.”
Samuel Kidd shook his head. “It’s a puzzle all right. I
might have asked her, if she’d not run away.”
I wondered, out of all the people who ever ran
away, how many did so for that very reason: because
they would rather not be asked, whatever the question
might be.
SHORTLY AFTER I HAD sent Samuel Kidd packing with
orders to search his memory for the name of this
mysterious woman and
’em what was the big to-do. When I heard about these
murders, I thought to meself, ‘That could have been a
murderer that you saw, Sammy.’ She looked frightful,
did the lady—frightful!”
Poirot was staring at one of the many stains on the
man’s shirt. “Frightful,” he murmured. “Your story is
most intriguing, Mr. Kidd. Two keys, you say?”
“That’s right, sir. Two gold keys.”
“You were close enough to see, yes?”
“Oh, yes, sir—the street’s nicely lit up outside the
Bloxham. It was no trouble seeing.”
“Can you tell me anything else about these keys
apart from their gold color?”
“Yes. They had numbers on ’em.”
“Numbers?” I said. This was a detail that Samuel
Kidd had not revealed to me in his first telling of the
story outside the hotel, nor in his second, on the way
here in the car. And . . . dash it all, I should have
thought to ask him. I had seen Richard Negus’s key,
the one that Poirot had found behind the loose
fireplace tile. It had the number 238 on it.
“Yes, sir, numbers. Like, you know, one hundred,
two hundred . . .”
“I know what numbers are,” I said brusquely.
“Were those, in fact, the numbers you saw on the
keys, Mr. Kidd?” Poirot asked. “One hundred and two
hundred?”
“No, sir. One of them was a hundred and summat,
if I’m not mistaking. The other . . .” Kidd scratched
his head vigorously. Poirot averted his eyes. “It was
three hundred and summat, I think, sir. Though I
couldn’t swear to it, you understand. But that’s what
I’m seeing now in my mind’s eye: one hundred and
summat, three hundred and summat.”
Room 121, Harriet Sippel’s room. And Ida
Gransbury’s, Room 317.
I felt a hollow space open up in my stomach. I
recognized the sensation: it was how I had felt when I
first saw the three dead bodies and was told by the
police doctor that a gold monogrammed cufflink had
been found in each of their mouths.
It now seemed likely that Samuel Kidd had been
within inches of the murderer last night. A frightful-
looking lady. I shivered.
“This woman that you saw,” said Poirot, “did she
have fair hair and a brown hat and coat?”
He was, of course, thinking of Jennie. I still
believed there was no link, but I could see Poirot’s
reasoning: Jennie had been running around London
last night in a state of great agitation and so had this
other lady. It was just about possible they were one
and the same person.
“No, sir. She had a hat on but it were pale blue,
and her hair were dark. Curled and dark.”
“How old was she?”
“Wouldn’t like to guess a lady’s age, sir. Between
young and old, I’d say.”
“Apart from the blue hat, what was she wearing?”
“Can’t say I took that in, sir. I was too busy
looking at her face when I could.”
“Was she pretty?” I asked.
“Yes, but I wasn’t looking for that reason, sir. I
was looking because I know her, see. I took one look
and I thought to meself, ‘Sammy, you know that lady.’
”
Poirot shifted in his chair. He looked at me, then
back at Kidd. “If you know her, Mr. Kidd, please tell
us who she is.”
“I can’t, sir. That’s what I was trying to get straight
in my head when she ran away. I don’t know how I
know her, or her name, or nothing like that. It’s not
from making boilers I know her, I can say that much.
She looked refined. A proper lady. I don’t know
anybody like that, but I do know her. That face—it’s
not a face I saw last night for the first time. No, sir.”
Samuel Kidd shook his head. “It’s a puzzle all right. I
might have asked her, if she’d not run away.”
I wondered, out of all the people who ever ran
away, how many did so for that very reason: because
they would rather not be asked, whatever the question
might be.
SHORTLY AFTER I HAD sent Samuel Kidd packing with
orders to search his memory for the name of this
mysterious woman and
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