Chapter 13 – Letters
Having successfully got rid of Ellen, Poirot turned a somewhat thoughtful face towards me.
'I wonder now-did she hear those shots? I think she did. She heard them, she opened the kitchen door. She heard Nick rush down the stairs and out, and she herself came into the hall to find out what had happened. That is natural enough. But why did she not go out and watch the fireworks that evening? That is what I should like to know, Hastings.'
'What was your idea in asking about a secret hiding place?'
'A mere¹ fanciful idea that, after all, we might not have disposed of J.'
'J?'
'Yes. The last person on my list. The problematical outsider. Supposing for some reason connected with Ellen, that J. had come to the house last night. He (I assume a he) conceals² himself in a secret chamber³ in this room. A girl passes through whom he takes to be Nick. He follows her out-and shoots her. Non-c'est idiot! And anyway, we know that there is no hiding place. Ellen's decision to remain in the kitchen last night was a pure hazard. Come, let us search for the will of Mademoiselle Nick.'
There were no papers in the drawing-room. We adjourned⁴ to the library, a rather dark room looking out on the drive. Here there was a large old-fashioned walnut⁵ bureau-writing-table.
It took us some time to go through it. Everything was in complete confusion. Bills and receipts were mixed up together. Letters of invitation, letters pressing for payment of accounts, letters from friends.
'We will arrange these papers,' said Poirot, sternly, 'with order and method.'
He was as good as his word. Half an hour later, he sat back with a pleased expression on his face. Everything was neatly⁶ sorted, docketed and filed.
'C'est bien, ca. One thing is at least to the good. We have had to go through everything so thoroughly⁷ that there is no possibility of our having missed anything.'
'No, indeed. Not that there's been much to find.' 'Except possibly this.'

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