“If you please, sir, if I might make so bold—”
Tommy looked up.
“Hullo, Albert,” he said dully.
“I know all about it, sir—but don’t take on so.”
“Don’t take on—” He gave a short laugh. “Easily said, isn’t it?”
“Ah, but think, sir. Blunt’s Brilliant Detectives! Never beaten. And if you’ll excuse my saying so, I happen to overhear what you and the Missus was ragging about this morning. Mr. Poirot, and his little grey cells. Well, sir, why not use your little grey cells, and see what you can do?”
“It’s easier to use your little grey cells in fiction than it is in fact, my boy.”
“Well,” said Albert stoutly, “I don’t believe anybody could put the Missus out, for good and all. You know what she is, sir, just like one of those rubber bones you buy for little dogs—guaranteed indestructible.”
“Albert,” said Tommy, “you cheer me.”
“Then what about using your little grey cells, sir?”
“You’re a persistent lad, Albert. Playing the fool has served us pretty well up to now. We’ll try it again. Let us arrange our facts neatly, and with method. At ten minutes past two exactly, our quarry enters the lift. Five minutes later we speak to the lift man, and having heard what he says, we also go up to the third floor. At, say, nineteen minutes past two we enter the suite of Mrs. Van Snyder. And now, what significant fact strikes us?”
There was a pause, no significant fact striking either of them.
“There wasn’t such a thing as a trunk in the room, was there?” asked Albert, his eyes lighting suddenly.