“Pardon?”
“A house to be let or sold,” said Poirot slowly and distinctly. “Littlegreen House.”
“Oh, Littlegreen House,” said the young woman vaguely. “Littlegreen House, did you say?”
“That is what I said.”
“Littlegreen House,” said the young woman, making a tremendous mental effort. “Oh, well, I expect Mr. Gabler would know about that.”
“Can I see Mr. Gabler?”
“He’s out,” said the young woman with a kind of faint, anaemic satisfaction as of one who says, “A point to me.”
“Do you know when he will be in?”
“I couldn’t say, I’m sure,” said the young woman.
“You comprehend, I am looking for a house in this neighbourhood,” said Poirot.
“Oh, yes,” said the young woman, uninterested.
“And Littlegreen House seems to me just what I am looking for. Can you give me particulars?”
“Particulars?” The young woman seemed startled.
“Particulars of Littlegreen House.”
Unwillingly she opened a drawer and took out an untidy file of papers.
Then she called, “John.”
A lanky youth sitting in a corner looked up.
“Yes, miss.”
“Have we got any particulars of—what did you say?”
“Littlegreen House,” said Poirot distinctly.
“You’ve got a large bill of it here,” I remarked, pointing to the wall.
She looked at me coldly. Two to one, she seemed to think, was an unfair way of playing the game. She called up her own reinforcements.
“You don’t know anything about Littlegreen House, do you, John?”
“No, miss. Should be in the file.”
“I’m sorry,” said the young woman without looking so in the least. “I rather fancy we must have sent all the particulars out.”
“C’est dommage.”
“Pardon?”
“A pity.”
“We’ve a nice bungalow at Hemel End, two bed., one sitt.”
She spoke without enthusiasm, but with the air of one willing to do her duty by her employer.