Poirot read the news in her face.
“It is over, eh?”
“She died six minutes ago.”
Poirot stood as though stunned.
The nurse, mistaking his emotion, began speaking gently.
“She did not suffer, and she was unconscious towards the last. She was run over by a motor, you know—and the driver of the car did not even stop. Wicked, isn’t it? I hope someone took the number.”
“The stars fight against us,” said Poirot, in a low voice.
“You would like to see her?”
The nurse led the way, and we followed.
Poor Flossie Monro, with her rouge and her dyed hair. She lay there very peacefully, with a little smile on her lips.
“Yes,” murmured Poirot. “The stars fight against us—but is it the stars?” He lifted his head as though struck by a sudden idea. “Is it the stars, Hastings? If it is not—if it is not … Oh, I swear to you, my friend, standing here by this poor woman’s body, that I will have no mercy when the time comes!”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
But Poirot had turned to the nurse and was eagerly demanding information. A list of the articles found in her handbag was finally obtained. Poirot gave a suppressed cry as he read it over.
“You see, Hastings, you see?”