I exhaled slowly, knowing it would be pointless to ask why, in that case, he had felt it necessary to leave the hotel in the first place.

“We must get off this bus and catch another,” he said. “Perhaps there will be better views from the next one.”

There were. Poirot saw no sign of Jennie, much to his consternation, but I saw some amusing sights that made me realize all over again why I loved London: a man dressed in a clown costume, juggling about as badly as I had ever seen a person juggle. Still, passersby were throwing coins into the hat by his feet. Other highlights were a poodle that had a face exactly like a prominent politician, and a vagrant sitting on the pavement with an open suitcase beside him, eating food out of it as if it were his very own mobile canteen. “Look, Poirot,” I said. “That chap doesn’t care about the cold—he’s as happy as the cat that got the cream. The tramp that got the cream, I should say. Poirot, look at that poodle—does it remind you of anyone? Somebody famous. Go on, look, you can’t fail to see it.”

“Catchpool,” Poirot said severely. “Stand up, or we will miss our stop. Always you look away, seeking the diversion.”

I rose to my feet. As soon as we were off the bus, I said, “You’re the one who took me on a pointless sightseeing tour of London. You can hardly blame me for taking an interest in the sights.”

Poirot stopped walking. “Tell me something. Why will you not look at the three bodies in the hotel? What is it that you cannot bear to observe?”

“Nothing. I’ve looked at the bodies as much as you have—I did quite a lot of my looking before you turned up, as a matter of fact.”

“If you do not wish to discuss it with me, you only need to say so, mon ami.”

“There is nothing to discuss. I don’t know anybody who would stare at a deceased person for any longer than necessary. That’s all there is to it.”

“Non,” said Poirot quietly. “It is not all.”