XII

“Yes,” I said.

“You give me note, please.”

I had foreseen the request, and handed him over the scrap of paper without a word. But that was not all.

“You have a telegram today, yes? Come along just now? From South America, yes?”

I realized anew the excellence of their espionage system⁠—or it might have been a shrewd guess. Bronsen was bound to cable me. They would wait until the cable was delivered and would strike hard upon it.

No good could come of denying what was palpably true.

“Yes,” I said. “I did get a telegram.”

“You fetch him, yes? Fetch him now.”

I ground my teeth, but what could I do. I ran upstairs again. As I did so, I thought of confiding in Mrs. Pearson, at any rate as far as Cinderella’s disappearance went. She was on the landing, but close behind her was the little maidservant, and I hesitated. If she was a spy⁠—the words of the note danced before my eyes: “… she will suffer⁠ ⁠…” I passed into the sitting room without speaking.

I took up the telegram and was about to pass out again when an idea struck me. Could I not leave some sign which would mean nothing to my enemies but which Poirot himself would find significant. I hurried across to the bookcase and tumbled out four books onto the floor. No fear of Poirot’s not seeing them. They would outrage his eyes immediately⁠—and coming on top of his little lecture, surely he would find them unusual. Next I put a shovelful of coal on the fire and managed to spill four knobs into the grate. I had done all I could⁠—pray Heaven Poirot would read the sign aright.