“It used to be in my house, and now it isn’t, and all I can do is stare at a picture of it and wonder what became of it! Oh, dear, what an upsetting day this has turned out to be!”

BLANCHE UNSWORTH, AS WAS her custom, asked Poirot the moment he returned to the lodging house if there was anything she could get for him.

“Indeed there is,” he told her. “I should like a piece of paper and some pencils to draw with. Colored pencils.”

Blanche’s face fell. “I can bring you paper, but as for colored pencils, I can’t say as I’ve got any, unless you’re interested in the color of ordinary pencil lead.”

“Ah! Gray: the best of all.”

“Are you having me on, Mr. Poirot? Gray?”

“Oui.” Poirot tapped the side of his head. “The color of the little gray cells.”

“Oh, no. Give me a nice soft pink or lilac any day of the week.”

“Colors do not matter—a green dress, a blue jug and bowl set, a white one.”

“I’m not following you, Mr. Poirot.”

“I do not ask you to follow me, Mrs. Unsworth—only to bring me one of your ordinary pencils and a piece of paper, quickly. And an envelope. I have been talking at great length about art today. Hercule Poirot will attempt now to compose his own work of art!”

Twenty minutes later, seated at one of the tables in the dining room, Poirot called for Blanche Unsworth again. When she appeared, he handed her the envelope, which was sealed. “Please telephone to Scotland Yard for me,” he said. “Ask them to send somebody to collect this without delay and deliver it to Constable Stanley Beer. I have written his name on the envelope. Please explain that this is important. It is in connection with the Bloxham Hotel murders.”

“I thought you were drawing a picture,” said Blanche.

“My picture is sealed inside the envelope, accompanied by a letter.”

“Oh. Well, then, I can’t see the picture, can I?”

Poirot smiled. “It is not necessary for you to see it, madame, unless you work for Scotland Yard—which, to my knowledge, you do not.”

“Oh.” Blanche Unsworth looked vexed. “Well. I suppose I should make this call for you, then,” she said.

“Merci, madame.”

When she returned five minutes later, she had her hand over her mouth and pink spots on her cheeks. “Oh, dear, Mr. Poirot,” she said. “Oh, this is bad news for all of us! I don’t know what’s wrong with people, I really don’t.”

“What news?”

“I telephoned to Scotland Yard, like you asked—they said they’ll send someone to collect your envelope. Then the phone rang again, right after I’d put it down. Oh, Mr. Poirot, it’s dreadful!”

“Calm yourself, madame. Tell me, please.”

“There’s been another murder at the Bloxham! I don’t know what’s wrong with some of these fancy hotels, I really don’t.”

14. The Mind in the Mirror