Rowley went on: "David Hunter, that's Rosaleen Cloade's brother, had called to see him the evening after he arrived. His story to the police is that he'd had a letter from the chap saying he had been a friend of Robert Underhay's and was down and out. At his sister's request he went to the Stag and saw the fellow and gave him a fiver. That's his story and you bet he means to stick to it! Of course the police are keeping dark about what Beatrice heard."

"David Hunter says he had no previous acquaintance with the man?"

"That's what he says. Anyway, I gather Hunter never met Underhay."

"And what about Rosaleen Cloade?"

"The police asked her to look at the body in case she knew the man. She told them that he was a complete stranger to her."

"Eh bien," said Piorot. "Then that answers your question!"

"Does it?" said Rowley bluntly. "I think not. If the dead man is Underhay then Rosaleen was never my uncle's wife and she's not entitled to a penny of his money. Do you think she would recognise him under those circumstances?"

"You don't trust her?"

"I don't trust either of them."

"Surely there are plenty of people who could say for certain that the dead man is or is not Underhay?"

"It doesn't seem to be so easy. That's what I want you to do. Find someone who knows Underhay. Apparently he has no living relations in this country - and he was always an unsociable lonely sort of chap. I suppose there must be old servants - friends - someone - but the war's broken up everything and shifted people round. I wouldn't know how to begin to tackle the job - anyway I haven't the time. I'm a farmer - and I'm short-handed."

"Why me?" said Hercule Poirot.

Rowley looked embarrassed.

A faint twinkle came into Poirot's eye.

"Spirit guidance?" he murmured.

"Good Lord, no," said Rowley horrified.

"Matter of fact," he hesitated, "I heard a fellow I know talk about you - said you were a wizard at these sort of things. I don't know about your fees - expensive, I expect - we're rather a stony-broke lot, but I dare say we could cough it up amongst the lot of us. That is, if you'll take it on."

Hercule Poirot said slowly:

"Yes, I think perhaps I can help you."

His memory, a very precise and definite memory, went back. The club bore, the rustling newspapers, the monotonous voice.

The name - he had heard the name - it would come back to him presently. If not, he could always ask Mellon... No, he had got it. Porter. Major Porter.

Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.

"Will you come back here this afternoon, Mr Cloade?"

"Well - I don't know. Yes, I suppose I could. But surely you can't do anything in that short time?"