“Who was it dat croaked Luigi Valdarno?” asked the Italian hoarsely, brandishing the weapon, and sweeping each one of us with it. We dared not move.
“My God, Poirot, this is awful. What shall we do?” I cried.
“You will oblige me by refraining from talking so much, Hastings. I can assure you that our friend will not shoot until I give the word.”
“Youse sure o’ dat, eh?” said the Italian, leering unpleasantly.
It was more than I was, but the woman turned to Poirot like a flash.
“What is it you want?”
Poirot bowed.
“I do not think it is necessary to insult Miss Elsa Hardt’s intelligence by telling her.”
With a swift movement, the woman snatched up a big black velvet cat which served as a cover for the telephone.
“They are stitched in the lining of that.”