XIV

“See what?”

“There is no mention of a latchkey. But she must have had a latchkey with her. No, she was run down in cold blood, and the first person who bent over her took the key from her bag. But we may yet be in time. He may not have been able to find at once what he sought.”

Another taxi took us to the address Flossie Monro had given us, a squalid block of Mansions in an unsavoury neighbourhood. It was some time before we could gain admission to Miss Monro’s flat, but we had at least the satisfaction of knowing that no one could leave it whilst we were on guard outside.

Eventually we got in. It was plain that someone had been before us. The contents of drawers and cupboards were strewn all over the floor. Locks had been forced, and small tables had even been overthrown, so violent had been the searcher’s haste.

Poirot began to hunt through the debris. Suddenly he stood erect with a cry, holding out something. It was an old-fashioned photograph frame⁠—empty.

He turned it slowly over. Affixed to the back was a small round label⁠—a price label.

“It cost four shillings,” I commented.

“ Mon Dieu! Hastings, use your eyes. That is a new clean label. It was stuck there by the man who took out the photograph, the man who was here before us, but knew that we should come, and so left this for us⁠—Claud Darrell⁠—alias Number Four!”