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information from those I have employed to find it; though it is quite possible that I shall receive nothing at all.”
    â€œBut aren’t you going to do something?”
    â€œNot till the right moment,” said Poirot.
    â€œWell, I shall,” said Mrs. Oliver.
    â€œPray, pray be very careful,” he implored her.
    â€œWhat nonsense! What could happen to me?”
    â€œWhere there is murder, anything can happen. I tell that to you. I, Poirot.”

Six
    I
    M r. Goby sat in a chair. He was a small shrunken little man, so nondescript as to be practically nonexistent.
    He looked attentively at the claw foot of an antique table and addressed his remarks to it. He never addressed anybody direct.
    â€œGlad you got the names for me, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “Otherwise, you know, it might have taken a lot of time. As it is, I’ve got the main facts—and a bit of gossip on the side…Always useful, that. I’ll begin at Borodene Mansions, shall I?”
    Poirot inclined his head graciously.
    â€œPlenty of porters,” Mr. Goby informed the clock on the chimneypiece. “I started there, used one or two different young men. Expensive, but worth it. Didn’t want it thought that there was anyone making any particular inquiries! Shall I use initials, or names?”
    â€œWithin these walls you can use the names,” said Poirot.
    â€œMiss Claudia Reece-Holland spoken of as a very nice younglady. Father an MP. Ambitious man. Gets himself in the news a lot. She’s his only daughter. She does secretarial work. Serious girl. No wild parties, no drink, no beatniks. Shares flat with two others. Number two works for the Wedderburn Gallery in Bond Street. Arty type. Whoops it up a bit with the Chelsea set. Goes around to places arranging exhibitions and art shows.
    â€œThe third one is your one. Not been there long. General opinion is that she’s a bit ‘wanting.’ Not all there in the top storey. But it’s all a bit vague. One of the porters is a gossipy type. Buy him a drink or two and you’ll be surprised at the things he’ll tell you! Who drinks, and who drugs, and who’s having trouble with his income tax, and who keeps his cash behind the cistern. Of course you can’t believe it all. Anyway, there was some story about a revolver being fired one night.”
    â€œA revolver fired? Was anyone injured?”
    â€œThere seems a bit of doubt as to that. His story is he heard a shot fired one night, and he comes out and there was this girl, your girl, standing there with a revolver in her hand. She looked sort of dazed. And then one of the other young ladies—or both of them, in fact—they come running along. And Miss Cary (that’s the arty one) says, ‘Norma, what on earth have you done?’ and Miss Reece-Holland, she says sharp-like, ‘Shut up, can’t you, Frances. Don’t be a fool!’ and she took the revolver away from your girl and says, ‘Give me that.’ She slams it into her handbag and then she notices this chap Micky, and goes over to him and says, laughing-like, ‘That must have startled you, didn’t it?’ and Micky he says it gave him quite a turn, and she says, ‘You needn’t worry. Matter of fact, we’d no idea this thing was loaded. We were just fooling about.’ And then she says: ‘Anyway, if anybody asks you questions, tellthem it is quite all right,’ and then she says: ‘Come on, Norma,’ and took her arm and led her along to the elevator, and they all went up again.
    â€œBut Micky said he was a bit doubtful still. He went and had a good look round the courtyard.”
    Mr. Goby lowered his eyes and quoted from his notebook:
    â€œâ€˜I’ll tell you, I found something, I did! I found some wet patches. Sure as anything I did. Drops of blood they were. I touched them with my finger. I tell you what I think. Somebody had been