“Jennie’s hat,” said Poirot, a tremor in his voice. “My worst fear, it has come to pass, Catchpool. And inside the hat . . .” He walked over, very slowly. “Yes, it is as I thought: a cufflink. The fourth cufflink, also with the monogram PIJ.”

His mustache began to move with some energy, and I could only imagine the grimaces it concealed. “Poirot, he has been a fool—a contemptible fool—to allow this to happen!”

“Poirot, no one could possibly accuse you of—” I began.

“Non! Do not try to console me! Always you want to turn away from pain and suffering, but I am not like you, Catchpool! I cannot countenance such . . . cowardice. I want to regret what I regret, without you trying to stop me. It is necessary!”

I stood as still as a statue. He had wanted to silence me, and he had succeeded.

“Catchpool,” he said my name abruptly, as if he thought my attention might have wandered far from the matter at hand. “Observe the marks made by the blood here. The body was pulled through it to leave this . . . trail. Does that make sense to you?” he demanded.

“Well . . . yes, I’d say so.”

“Look at the direction of movement: not toward the window, but away from it.”

“Which means what?” I asked.

“Since Jennie’s body is not here, it must have been removed from the room. The trail of blood is going not toward the window but toward the corridor, so . . .” Poirot stared at me expectantly.

“So?” I said tentatively. Then, as clarity dawned, “Oh, I see what you mean: the marks, the smears, were made when the killer pulled Jennie Hobbs’s body from the pool of blood toward the door?”

“Non. Look at the width of the doorway, Catchpool. Look at it: it is wide. What does this tell you?”

“Not an awful lot,” I said, thinking it best to be candid. “A murderer wishing to remove his victim’s body from a hotel room would hardly care whether the doorway of that room was wide or narrow.”

Poirot shook his head disconsolately, muttering under his breath.

He turned to Lazzari. “Signor, please tell me everything you know, from the beginning.”