It was at these last that Poirot bent and looked. Moistening his finger he rubbed it along the right-hand corner and then inspected the result. His finger was slightly black. He repeated the performance with another finger on the left-hand corner of the curb. This time his finger was quite clean.

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully to himself. "Yes."

He looked at the fitted washbasin. Then he strolled to the window. It looked out over some leads - the roof of a garage, he fancied, and then to a small back alley. An easy way to come and go unseen from room No. 5. But then it was equally easy to walk upstairs to No. 5 unseen. He had just done it himself.

Quietly, Poirot withdrew, shutting the door noiselessly behind him. He went along to his own room. It was decidedly chilly. He went downstairs again, hesitated, and then, driven by the chill of the evening, boldly entered the Residents Only, drew up a second arm- chair to the fire and sat down.

The monumental old lady was even more formidable seen close at hand. She had iron-grey hair, a nourishing moustache and, when presently she spoke, a deep and awe-inspiring voice.

"This lounge," she said, "is Reserved for persons staying in the hotel."

"I am staying in the Hotel," replied Hercule Poirot.

The old lady meditated for a moment or two before returning to the attack.

Then she said accusingly:

"You're a foreigner."

"Yes," replied Hercule Poirot.

"In my opinion," said the old lady, "you should all go back."

"Go back where?" inquired Poirot.

"To where you came from," said the old lady firmly.

She added as a kind of rider, sotto voce: "Foreigners!" and snorted.

"That," said Poirot mildly, "would be difficult."

"Nonsense," said the old lady. "That's what we fought the war for, isn't it? So that people could go back to their proper places and stay there."

Poirot did not enter into a controversy. He had already learnt that every single individual had a different version of the theme. "What did we fight the war for?"

A somewhat hostile silence reigned.

"I don't know what things are coming to," said the old lady. "I really don't. Every year I come and stay in this place. My husband died here sixteen years ago. He's buried here. I come every year for a month."

"A pious pilgrimage," said Poirot politely.

"And every year things get worse and worse. No service! Food uneatable! Vienna steaks indeed! A steak's either Rump or Fillet steak

-not chopped-up horse!"

Poirot shook his head sadly.

"One good thing - they've shut down the aerodrome," said the old lady.

"Disgraceful it was, all those young airmen coming in here with those dreadful girls. Girls, indeed! I don't know what their mothers are thinking of nowadays. Letting them gad about as they do. I blame the Government. Sending the mothers to work in factories. Only let 'em off if they've got young children. Young children, stuff and nonsense! Any one can look after a baby! A baby doesn't go running round after soldiers. Girls from fourteen to eighteen, they're the ones that need looking after! Need their mothers. It takes a mother to know just what a girl is up to. Soldiers! Airmen! That's all they think about. Americans!