IN THE LOBBY OF the Bloxham, we nearly walked straight into Henry Negus, Richard Negus’s brother. He was carrying a small briefcase in one hand. In the other, he carried a very large suitcase, which he dropped in order to speak to us. “I wish I were a younger, stronger man,” he said, out of breath. “How is the case progressing, if I might enquire?”

From his expression and tone of voice, I deduced that he was unaware that there had been a fourth murder. I said nothing, interested to see what Poirot would do.

“We are confident of success,” said Poirot with deliberate vagueness. “You have spent the night here, monsieur?”

“Night? Oh, the suitcase. No, I stayed at the Langham. Couldn’t face this place, though Mr. Lazzari was good enough to offer. I am here only to collect Richard’s belongings.” Henry Negus inclined his head toward the suitcase but kept his eyes averted, as if he didn’t want to see it himself. I looked at the stiff card label attached to its handle: Mr. R. Negus.

“Well, I had better make haste,” said Negus. “Please keep me informed.”

“We will,” I said. “Goodbye, Mr. Negus. I am so very sorry about your brother.”

“Thank you, Mr. Catchpool. Monsieur Poirot.” Negus looked embarrassed, perhaps even angry. I thought I understood why: in the face of tragedy, he had decided to be efficient and did not wish to be reminded of his own sadness while he was trying to focus on the practicalities.

As he walked out onto the street, I saw Luca Lazzari rushing toward us, clutching at his hair. A sheen of sweat covered his face. “Ah, Monsieur Poirot, Mr. Catchpool! At last! You have heard the disastrous news? Unhappy days at the Bloxham Hotel! Oh, unhappy days!”

Was it my imagination, or had he styled his mustache to resemble Poirot’s? It was a pale imitation, if imitation it was. I found it fascinating that a fourth murder in his hotel had produced in him such a mournful disposition. When only three guests had been murdered at the Bloxham, he had remained chipper. A thought occurred to me: maybe this time the victim was an employee of the hotel and not a guest. I asked who had been killed.

“I do not know who she is or where she is now,” said Lazzari. “Come, follow me. You will see for yourselves.”

“You do not know where she is?” Poirot demanded as we followed the hotel manager to the lift. “What do you mean? Is she not here, in the hotel?”

“Ah, but where in the hotel? She could be anywhere!” Lazzari wailed.