“Mademoiselle is wanted at the telephone,” said Marie, appearing at the window of the salon. “ M. Hercule Poirot desires to speak with her.”
“More blood and thunder. Go on, Katherine; go and dally with your detective.”
M. Hercule Poirot’s voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine’s ear.
“That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks? Bon. Mademoiselle, I have a word for you from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or at his hotel, whichever you prefer.”
Katherine reflected for a moment, but she decided that for Van Aldin to come to the Villa Marguerite would be both painful and unnecessary. Lady Tamplin would have hailed his advent with far too much delight. She never lost a chance of cultivating millionaires. She told Poirot that she would much rather come to Nice.
“Excellent, Mademoiselle. I will call for you myself in an auto. Shall we say in about three-quarters of an hour?”
Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared. Katherine was waiting for him, and they drove off at once.
“Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?”
She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was confirmed in her first impression that there was something very attractive about M. Hercule Poirot.
“This is our own roman policier , is it not?” said Poirot. “I made you the promise that we should study it together. And me, I always keep my promises.”