“It is to the curtains I refer. They were not drawn. A little odd, that. And then there was the coffee. It was very black coffee.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Very black,” repeated Poirot. “In conjunction with that let us remember that very little of the rice soufflé was eaten, and we get—what?”
“Moonshine,” laughed the doctor. “You’re pulling my leg.”
“Never do I pull the leg. Hastings here knows that I am perfectly serious.”
“I don’t know what you are getting at, all the same,” I confessed. “You don’t suspect the manservant, do you? He might have been in with the gang, and put some dope in the coffee. I suppose they’ll test his alibi?”
“Without doubt, my friend; but it is the alibi of Signor Ascanio that interests me.”
“You think he has an alibi?”
“That is just what worries me. I have no doubt that we shall soon be enlightened on that point.”
The Daily Newsmonger enabled us to become conversant with succeeding events.