Lord Edgeware Dies by Agatha Christie Page A

nasty stuff herself.”
    “It is possible that I am wrong,” said Poirot. “Yes, it is possible that I am entirely wrong. I will see the doctor. But, you see, Miss Adams had enemies. Things are very different in America -”
    He hesitated, but the good Alice leapt at the bait.
    “Oh! I know, sir. I've read about Chicago and them gunmen and all that. It must be a wicked country and what the police can be about, I can't think. Not like our policemen.”
    Poirot left it thankfully at that, realising that Alice Bennett's insular proclivities would save him the trouble of explanations.
    His eye fell on a small suitcases-more of an attachй case, that was lying on a chair.
    “Did Miss Adams take that with her when she went out last night?”
    “In the morning she took it, sir. She didn't have it when she came back at teatime, but she brought it back last thing.”
    “Ah! You permit that I open it?”
    Alice Bennett would have permitted anything. Like most canny and suspicious women, once she had overcome her distrust she was child's play to manipulate. She would have assented to anything Poirot suggested.
    The case was not locked. Poirot opened it. I came forward and looked over his shoulder.
    “You see, Hastings, you see?” he murmured excitedly.
    The contents were certainly suggestive.
    There was a box of make-up materials, two objects which I recognised as elevators to place in shoes and raise the height an inch or so, there was a pair of grey gloves and, folded in tissue paper, an exquisitely-made wig of golden hair, the exact shade of gold of Jane Wilkinson's and dressed like hers with a centre parting and curls in the back of the neck.
    “Do you doubt now, Hastings?” asked Poirot.
    I believe I had up to that moment. But now I doubted no longer.
    Poirot closed the case again and turned to the maid.
    “You do not know with whom Miss Adams dined yesterday evening?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Do you know with whom she had lunch or tea?”
    “I know nothing about tea, sir. I believe she lunched with Miss Driver.”
    “Miss Driver?”
    “Yes, her great friend. She has a hat-shop in Moffatt Street, just off Bond Street. Genevieve, it's called.”
    Poirot noted the address in his notebook just below that of the doctor.
    “One thing more, Madame. Can you remember anything - anything at all - that Mademoiselle Adams said or did after she came in at six o'clock that strikes you as at all unusual or significant?”
    The maid thought for a moment or two.
    “I really can't say that I do, sir,” she said at last. “I asked her if she would have tea and she said she'd had some.”
    “Oh! she said she had had it,” interrupted Poirot.
    “Pardon. Continue.”
    “And after that she was writing letters till just on the time she went out.”
    “Letters, eh? You do not know to whom?”
    “Yes, sir. It was just one letter - to her sister in Washington. She wrote her sister twice a week regular. She took the letter out with her to post because of catching the mail. But she forgot it.”
    “Then it is here still?”
    “No, sir. I posted it. She remembered last night just as she was getting into bed. And I said I'd run out with it. By putting an extra stamp on it and putting it in the late fee box it would go all right.”
    “Ah! - and is that far?”
    “No, sir, the post office is just round the corner.”
    “Did you shut the door of the flat behind you?”
    Bennett stared.
    “No, sir. I just left it to - as I always do when I go out to post.”
    Poirot seemed about to speak - then checked himself.
    “Would you like to look at her, sir?” asked the maid tearfully. “Looks beautiful she does.”
    We followed her into the bedroom.
    Carlotta Adams looked strangely peaceful and much younger than she had appeared that night at the Savoy. She looked like a tired child asleep.
    There was a strange expression on Poirot's face as he stood looking down on her. I saw him make the sign of the Cross.
    “J'ai fait un serment,