“And you don’t say far wrong,” said Mr. Aarons complacently; “whether it is past, present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to come to.”
“ Précisément. Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know about a young woman called Kidd.”
“Kidd? Kitty Kidd?”
“Kitty Kidd.”
“Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator, song and a dance—That one?”
“That is the one.”
“ Very smart, she was. Made a good income. Never out of an engagement. Male impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of fact, you could not touch her as a character actress.”
“So I have heard,” said Poirot; “but she has not been appearing lately, has she?”
“No. Dropped right out of things. Went over to France and took up with some swell nobleman there. She quitted the stage then for good and all, I guess.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Let me see. Three years ago. And she has been a loss—let me tell you that.”
“She was clever?”
“Clever as a cartload of monkeys.”
“You don’t know the name of the man she became friends with in Paris?”