pacing up and down on the opposite side of the
street.
Hercule Poirot nodded to himself. "Definitive
64
Agatha Chrt
rnent," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole!
What move must the cat make now?"
His decision took him to the nearest post office.
Here he put through a couple of telephone calls.
The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his
steps to Charman's Green police station, where he
inquired for Inspector Sims.
Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a
hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I
thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone
call through from the chief constable about you.
He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-fice."
The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to
one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a
gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.
"You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot.
Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost
before we know it is a case. What put you onto
it?"
Poirot drew out the letter he had received and
handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with
some interest.
"Interest
ing," he said. "The trouble is, it might
mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been