“But if this fellow tries to escape?”
Poirot smiled.
“He will not.”
I returned in a minute with the waiting taxi. The scarf had been unwound from the stranger’s face, and I gave a start of surprise.
“He’s not a Jap,” I ejaculated in a whisper to Poirot.
“Observation was always your strong point, Hastings! Nothing escapes you. No, the man is not a Jap. He is an Italian.”
We got into the taxi, and Poirot gave the driver an address in St. John’s Wood. I was by now completely fogged. I did not like to ask Poirot where we were going in front of our captive, and strove in vain to obtain some light upon the proceedings.
We alighted at the door of a small house standing back from the road. A returning wayfarer, slightly drunk, was lurching along the pavement and almost collided with Poirot, who said something sharply to him which I did not catch. All three of us went up the steps of the house. Poirot rang the bell and motioned us to stand a little aside. There was no answer and he rang again and then seized the knocker which he plied for some minutes vigorously.
A light appeared suddenly above the fanlight, and the door was opened cautiously a little way.
“What the devil do you want?” a man’s voice demanded harshly.