“He didn’t limp, did he?” asked Inspector Crome.
“Yes—yes, now you come to speak of it I think he did limp. Very dark, he might have been some kind of half-caste.”
“Was he in his seat the last time the lights came up?”
“No. He came in after the big picture began.”
Inspector Crome nodded, handed Mr. Leadbetter a statement to sign and got rid of him.
“That’s about as bad a witness as you’ll find,” he remarked pessimistically. “He’d say anything with a little leading. It’s perfectly clear that he hasn’t the faintest idea what our man looks like. Let’s have the commissionaire back.”
The commissionaire, very stiff and military, came in and stood to attention, his eyes fixed on Colonel Anderson.
“Now, then, Jameson, let’s hear your story.”
Jameson saluted.
“Yessir. Close of the performance, sir. I was told there was a gentleman taken ill, sir. Gentleman was in the two and fourpennies, slumped down in his seat like. Other gentlemen standing around. Gentleman looked bad to me, sir. One of the gentlemen standing by put his hand to the ill gentleman’s coat and drew my attention. Blood, sir. It was clear the gentleman was dead—stabbed, sir. My attention was drawn to an A B C railway guide, sir, under the seat. Wishing to act correctly, I did not touch same, but reported to the police immediately that a tragedy had occurred.”
“Very good. Jameson, you acted very properly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Did you notice a man leaving the two and four-pennies about five minutes earlier?”
“There were several, sir.”
“Could you describe them?”
“Afraid not, sir. One was Mr. Geoffrey Parnell. And there was a young fellow, Sam Baker, with his young lady. I didn’t notice anybody else particular.”
“A pity. That’ll do, Jameson.”
“Yessir.”
The commissionaire saluted and departed.
“The medical details we’ve got,” said Colonel Anderson. “We’d better have the fellow that found him next.”
A police constable came in and saluted.
“Mr. Hercule Poirot’s here, sir, and another gentleman.”
Inspector Crome frowned.
“Oh, well,” he said. “Better have ’em in, I suppose.”
Twenty-seven
THE DONCASTER MURDER
Coming in hard on Poirot’s heels, I just caught the fag end of Inspector Crome’s remark.
Both he and the Chief Constable were looking worried and depressed.
Colonel Anderson greeted us with a nod of the head.
“Glad you’ve come, M. Poirot,” he said politely. I think he guessed that Crome’s remark might have reached our ears. “We’ve got it in the neck again, you see.”