Five I
Hercule Poirot stood upon the landing for a moment. His head was a little on one side with alistening air. He could hear nothing from downstairs. He crossed to the landing window andlooked out. Mary Restarick was below on the terrace, resuming her gardening work. Poirot noddedhis head in satisfaction. He walked gently along the corridor. One by one in turn he opened thedoors. A bathroom, a linen¹ cupboard, a double bedded spare room, an occupied single bedroom, awoman’s room with a double bed (Mary Restarick’s?). The next door was that of an adjoiningroom and was, he guessed, the room belonging to Andrew Restarick. He turned to the other side ofthe landing. The door he opened first was a single bedroom. It was not, he judged, occupied at thetime, but it was a room which possibly was occupied at weekends. There were toilet brushes onthe dressing² table. He listened carefully, then tiptoed in. He opened the wardrobe. Yes, there weresome clothes hanging up there. Country clothes.
There was a writing table but there was nothing on it. He opened the desk drawers very softly.
There were a few odds³ and ends, a letter or two, but the letters were trivial and dated some timeago. He shut the desk drawers. He walked downstairs, and going out of the house, bade farewell tohis hostess. He refused her offer of tea. He had promised to get back, he said, as he had to catch atrain to town very shortly afterwards.
“Don’t you want a taxi? We could order you one, or I could drive you in the car.”
“No, no, Madame, you are too kind.”
Poirot walked back to the village and turned down the lane by the church. He crossed a littlebridge over a stream. Presently he came to where a large car with a chauffeur⁴ was waitingdiscreetly under a beech⁵ tree. The chauffeur opened the door of the car, Poirot got inside, sat downand removed his patent leather shoes, uttering a gasp⁶ of relief.
“Now we return to London,” he said.
The chauffeur closed the door, returned to his seat and the car purred quietly away. The sight ofa young man

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