chairs, picked up a magazine from the table, and drew a finger gingerly over the surface of the oak sideboard. His face expressed complete approval.
“No dust?” I asked, with a smile.
He beamed on me, appreciative of my knowledge of his peculiarities.
“Not a particle, mon ami! And for once, perhaps, it is a pity!”
His sharp, birdlike eyes darted here and there.
“Ah!” he remarked suddenly, with an intonation of relief. “The hearthrug is crooked,” and he bent down to straighten it
Suddenly he uttered an exclamation and rose. In his hand he held a small fragment of paper.
“In France, as in England,” he remarked, "the domestics omit to sweep under the mats!”
Bex took the fragment from him, and I came closer to examine it.
“You recognize it—eh, Hastings?”
I shook my head, puzzled—and yet that particular shade of pink paper was very familiar.
The commissary’s mental processes were quicker than mine.
“A fragment of a check,” he exclaimed.
The piece of paper was roughly about two inches square. On it was written in ink the word Duveen.
“Bien," said Bex. “This check was payable to, or drawn by, one named Duveen.”
“The former, I fancy,” said Poirot, “for, if I am not mistaken, the handwriting is that of M. Renauld.”
That was soon established, by comparing it with a memorandum from the desk.
“Dear me,” murmured the commissary, with a crestfallen air, “I really cannot imagine how I came to overlook this.”
Poirot laughed. “The moral of that is, always look under the mats! My friend Hastings here will tell you that anything in the least crooked is a torment to me. As soon as I saw that the hearthrug was out of the straight, I said to myself: ‘Tiens! The leg of the chair caught it in being pushed back. Possibly
30
