Jack: (from the reception desk): Captain Abbot?

Willie: Yes.

Jack: We believe there is a young lady in your room.

Willie: I believe there is. What of it?

Jack: You have a single room for the occupancy of one individual.

Willie: All right. Give me a double room. What’s the number?

Jack: I’m sorry, every room is occupied. We’re booked until November

Willie: Let’s you and I pretend this is a double room, Jack. Put it on my bill.

Jack: I’m afraid I can’t do that. Room 777 is definitely a single room for a single occupancy. I’m afraid the young lady will have to leave.

Willie: The young lady isn’t living here, Jack. She isn’t occupying anything. She’s visiting me. Anyway, she’s my wife.

Jack: Do you have a marriage certificate, Captain?

(After a pause.)

Willie: She left it home. We’ll show it to you tomorrow. I’ll have it sent down by special delivery.

Jack: Captain, young ladies are against the rules of the establishment.

Willie: Since when?

Jack: We are under new management now. We are creating a different image of a well-known respectable hotel. If the lady is not out of there in five minutes, Captain, I’m coming up.

Willie: All right, Jack.

Mr Hendricks: Amity Police, Patrolman Hendricks. Can I help you?

Mr Foote: This is Jack Foote, over on Old Mill Road. I want to report a missing person. Or at least I think she’s missing.

Mr Hendricks: Say again, sir?

Mr Foote: One of my house guests went for a swim at about one this morning. She hasn’t come back yet. Her date found her clothes on the beach.

Mr Hendricks: What was the person’s name?

Mr Foote: Christine Watkins.

Mr Hendricks: Age?

Mr Foote: I don’t know. Just a second. Say around twenty-five. Her date says that’s about right.

Mr Hendricks: Height and weight?

Mr Foote: Wait a minute. (There was a pause.) We think probably about five-seven[143], between one-twenty and one-thirty[144].

Mr Hendricks: Color of hair and eyes?

Mr Foote: Listen Officer, why do you need all this? If the woman is drowned, she’s probably going to be the only one you have — at least tonight, right? You don’t average more than one drowning around here each night, do you?

Mr Hendricks: Who said she drowned, Mr Foote? May be she went for a walk.

Mr Foote: Stark naked at one in the morning? Have you had any reports about a woman walking around naked?

Mr Hendricks: No, Mr Foote, not yet. But once the summer season starts, you never know what to expect. Color of hair and eyes?

Mr Foote: Her hair is… oh, dirty blond, I guess. Sandy, I don’t know what color her eyes are. I’ll have to ask her date. No, he says he doesn’t know either. Let’s say hazel.

Mr Hendricks: Okay, Mr Foote. We’ll get on it. As soon as we find out anything, we’ll contact you.

There was a heavy silence in the elegant, spacious room. It was broken abruptly by the jangle of the telephone. They faced each other, neither attempting to answer. The muscles of the Duke’s face jerked spasmodically. The bell sounded again, then stopped. Through intervening doors they heard the voice of the secretary indistinctly, answering on an extension. A moment later the secretary knocked and came in diffidently. He glanced towards the Duke. “Your Grace, it’s one of the local newspapers. They say that they have had” — he hesitated at an unfamiliar term — “a flash bulletin which appears to concern you.”

With an effort the Duchess recovered her pose. “I will take the call. Hang up the extension.” She picked up the telephone near her. Only a close observer would have noticed that her hands were trembling.

Duchess: The Duchess of Croydon speaking.

Correspondent: Ma’am, we’ve a flash from Associated Press and there’s just been a follow-up… Pardon me. (There was a rustle of paper, then the voice resuming.) Sorry, ma’am. I’ll read this to you. “ London (AP) — Parliamentary sources here to-day name the Duke of Croydon, noted British government trouble shooter[145], as Britain’s next ambassador to Washington. Initial reaction is favourable. An official announcement is expected soon.” There’s more, ma’am. I won’t bother you with it. Why we called was to see if your husband has a statement, then with your permission we’d like to send a photographer to the hotel. Ma’am, are you still there?

Duchess: Yes. At the moment my husband has no statement, nor will he have unless and until the appointment is officially confirmed. The same applies to photography.

Correspondent (the voice sounded disappointed): We’ll run what we have[146], of course, in the next edition.

Duchess: That is your privilege.

Correspondent: Meanwhile, if there’s an official announcement we’d like to be in touch.

Duchess: Should that occur, I’m sure my husband will be glad to meet the press.

Correspondent: Then we may telephone again?

Duchess: Please do.

After lunch, as Poirot was settling himself in his square-backed armchair with his coffee at his elbow, the telephone rang.

Mrs Oliver: Monsieur Poirot?

Mr Poirot: C’est moi[147].

Mrs Oliver: Well, what are you doing? What have you done?

Mr Poirot: I am sitting in this chair. Thinking.

Mrs Oliver: Is that all?

Mr Poirot: It is the important thing. Whether I shall have success in it or not I do not know.

Mrs Oliver: But you must find that girl. She’s probably been kidnapped.

Mr Poirot: It would certainly seem so. And I have a letter here which came by the midday post from her father, urging me to come and see him and tell him what progress I have made.

Mrs Oliver: Well, what progress have you made?

Mr Poirot: At the moment none.

Mrs Oliver: Really, Monsieur Poirot, you really must take a grip on yourself[148].

Mr Poirot: You, too!

Mrs Oliver: What do you mean, me, too?

Mr Poirot: Urging me on.

Mrs Oliver: Why don’t you go down to that place in Chelsea where I was hit on the head?

Mr Poirot: And get myself hit on the head also?

Mrs Oliver: I simply don’t understand you. I gave you a clue by finding the girl in the cafe. You said so.

Mr Poirot: I know, I know.

Mrs Oliver: And then you go and lose her!

Mr Poirot: I know, I know.

Mrs Oliver: What about that woman who threw herself out of a window? Haven’t you got anything out of that?

Mr Poirot: I have made inquiries, yes.

Mrs Oliver: Well?

Mr Poirot: Nothing. The woman is one of many. They are attractive when young, they have affairs, they are passionate, they have still more affairs, they get less attractive, they are unhappy and drink too much, they think they have cancer or some fatal disease and so at last in despair and loneliness they throw themselves out of a window!