II
It was late evening a week later when the summons came. Japp’s voice was brusque over the
telephone.
“That you, Poirot? We’ve found her. You’d better come round. King Leopold Mansions¹.
Battersea Park. Number 45.”
A quarter of an hour later a taxi deposited Poirot outside King Leopold Mansions.
It was a big block of mansion² flats looking out over Battersea Park. Number 45 was on the
second floor. Japp himself opened the door.
His face was set in grim lines.
“Come in,” he said. “It’s not particularly pleasant, but I expect you’ll want to see for yourself.”
Poirot said—but it was hardly a question:
“Dead?”
“What you might describe as very dead!”
Poirot cocked his head at a familiar sound coming from a door on his right.
“That’s the porter,” said Japp. “Being sick in the scullery sink! I had to get him up here to see if
he could identify her.”
He led the way down the passage and Poirot followed him. His nose wrinkled.
“Not nice,” said Japp. “But what can you expect? She’s been dead well over a month.”
The room they went into was a small lumber³ and box room. In the middle of it was a big metal
chest of the kind used for storing furs. The lid was open.
Poirot stepped forward and looked inside.
He saw the foot first, with the shabby shoe on it and the ornate buckle⁴. His first sight of Miss
Sainsbury Seale had been, he remembered, a shoe buckle.
His gaze travelled up, over the green wool coat and skirt till it reached the head.
He made an inarticulate noise.
“I know,” said Japp. “It’s pretty horrible.”
The face had been battered⁵ out of all recognizable shape. Add to that the natural process of
decomposition⁶, and it was no wonder that both men looked a shade pea green as they turned away.
“Oh well,” said Japp. “It’s all in a day’s work—our day’s work. No doubt about it, ours is a

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