‘So you are Irish. That is why you have the dark hair and the blue-grey eyes, with the look—’
‘As though they had been put in with a smutty finger—’ Norman finished with amusement.
‘Comment? What is that you say?’
‘That is a saying about Irish eyes—that they have been put in with a smutty finger.’
‘Really? It is not elegant, that. And yet—it expresses it well.’ He bowed to Jane. ‘The effect is very good, Mademoiselle.’
Jane laughed as she got up.
‘You’ll turn my head, M. Poirot. Good night, and thank you for supper. You’ll have to stand me another if Norman is sent to prison for blackmail.’
A frown came over Norman’s face at the reminder.
Poirot bade the two young people good night.
When he got home he unlocked a drawer and took out a list of eleven names.
Against four of these names he put a light tick. Then he nodded his head thoughtfully.
‘I think I know,’ he murmured to himself. ‘But I have got to be sure. Il faut continuer.’
Chapter 17
In Wandsworth
Mr Henry Mitchell was just sitting down to a supper of sausage and mash when a visitor called to see him.
Somewhat to the steward’s astonishment the visitor in question was the full-moustached gentleman who had been one of the passengers on the fatal plane.
M. Poirot was very affable, very agreeable in his manner. He insisted on Mr Mitchell’s getting on with his supper, paid a graceful compliment to Mrs Mitchell, who was standing staring at him open-mouthed.
He accepted a chair, remarked that it was very warm for the time of year and then gently came round to the purpose of his call.
‘Scotland Yard, I fear, is not making much progress with the case,’ he said.
Mitchell shook his head.
‘It was an amazing business, sir—amazing. I don’t see what they’ve got to go on. Why, if none of the people on the plane saw anything, it’s going to be difficult for anyone afterwards.’
‘Truly, as you say.’
‘Terribly worried, Henry’s been, over it,’ put in his wife. ‘Not able to sleep of nights.’
The steward explained:
‘It’s lain on my mind, sir, something terrible. The company have been very fair about it. I must say I was afraid at first I might lose my job—’
‘Henry, they couldn’t. It would have been cruelly unfair.’
His wife sounded highly indignant. She was a buxom, highly-complexioned woman with snapping dark eyes.
‘Things don’t always happen fairly, Ruth. Still it turned out better than I thought. They absolve me from blame. But I felt it, if you understand me. I was in charge, as it were.’
‘I understand your feelings,’ said Poirot sympathetically. ‘But I assure you that you are over-conscientious. Nothing that happened was your fault.’
‘That’s what I say, sir,’ put in Mrs Mitchell.