Chapter 2
It was about a quarter to three when I stepped off the lift on the fourth floor of Whitehaven Mansions. Fishing in my overcoat pocket for my keys, I pushed open the front door and entered the flat. I immediately felt uneasy, but was not sure why. Because I heard nothing, my first thought was that I was alone, but Hercule Poirot was sitting at his desk, reading the newspaper, and a steaming cup of tea was waiting on the coffee table. "I saw you from the window, Mon ami. The weather is deplorable, n'est pas?"
I sank into my favourite armchair and picked up the cup. I was savouring the first mouthful of hot liquid running down my throat when I suddenly realised what had bothered me so much when I arrived. The absence of the perpetual sound of typewriter keys clicking. "I say, Poirot, it's nearly three. I've never known Miss Lemon to be two minutes late, let alone an hour."
My friend immediately dropped his paper, looked at his watch and muttered something in his native tongue. He looked into the office of his secretary, poking about on his desk until he found her diary. I was about to admonish him for prying into Miss Lemon's private affairs until he showed me the lunch appointment she had arranged with her friend. It read, in her neat, precise handwriting; Lunch, March 26th, Corner House, 12:15.
I think I had pulled on my still-wet overcoat and made it downstairs and outside before Poirot had managed to draw breath. I drove furiously round to the Corner House, and once there, I ran inside in search of a waitress. In my wallet, tucked away at the back, was one of the pictures I had taken for practice when I had taken up photography as one of my many hobbies. I had discarded most of them, but this one was special. It was of Poirot and Miss Lemon. There was nothing particularly special about the occasion, just an every day conversation, but the evening light falling across her face gave her a luminous look that took my breath away. I showed the photo to the waitress. She confirmed that Miss Lemon had indeed been there. She was also able to tell me that she had left a little before one. I had just stepped back out into the rain when the girl tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around to see what she wanted.
"I just remembered. As I was clearing the table, she says to her friend; Sorry to dash off but I must get to the post office, I've no stamps and this letter must go today"
I hastily thanked her for her help and ran back to the car. The post office was less helpful, the clerk serving that lunchtime had left early, but I was assured that if I returned the next morning, then she would be on duty. Feeling deflated at this dead end, I suddenly realised that she would have walked back from the post office and that retracing her steps might tell me something. Enquiries in a couple of shops assured me there had been no accidents in the street. Oddly this brought me little comfort. I was brought out of my reverie when I stepped on something. When I knelt down, I realised what it was. The heel of a woman's shoe. Her shoe. Looking around desperately, I ran my hand through my hair, a sick feeling rising in my stomach. I needed Poirot. If anyone could solve this, he could. I took off running.