“To the house agents, Hastings. I have a great desire to have a flat in Montagu Mansions. If I am not mistaken, several interesting things will take place there before long.”
We were fortunate in our quest. No. 8, on the fourth floor, was to be let furnished at ten guineas a week. Poirot promptly took it for a month. Outside in the street again, he silenced my protests:
“But I make money nowadays! Why should I not indulge a whim? By the way, Hastings, have you a revolver?”
“Yes—somewhere,” I answered, slightly thrilled. “Do you think——”
“That you will need it? It is quite possible. The idea pleases you, I see. Always the spectacular and romantic appeals to you.”
The following day saw us installed in our temporary home. The flat was pleasantly furnished. It occupied the same position in the building as that of the Robinsons, but was two floors higher.
The day after our installation was a Sunday. In the afternoon, Poirot left the front door ajar, and summoned me hastily as a bang reverberated from somewhere below.
“Look over the banisters. Are those your friends. Do not let them see you.”
I craned my neck over the staircase.
“That’s them,” I declared in an ungrammatical whisper.