given to her in her food at dinner--but, frankly,
that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke
soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple
tart."
"'They' being?"
"Miss Barrowby, Mr. Delafontaine and Mrs.
Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant--a
half Russian girl--but she didn't eat
with the family. She had the remains as they came
out from the dining room. There's a maid, but it
was her night out. She left the soup on the stove
and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was
cold. All hree of them ate the same thing--and,
apart from that, I don't think you could get
strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's
64
Agatha Christie
merit," 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-rice."
The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to