“You remember Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent? No? I assisted him in a little matter of a Japanese wrestler. A pretty little problem, I must recount it to you one day. He, without doubt, will be able to put us in the way of finding out what we want to know.”
It took us some time to run Mr. Aarons to earth, and it was after midnight when we finally managed it. He greeted Poirot with every evidence of warmth, and professed himself ready to be of service to us in any way.
“There’s not much about the profession I don’t know,” he said, beaming genially.
“Eh bien, M. Aarons, I desire to find a young girl called Bella Duveen.”
“Bella Duveen. I know the name, but for the moment I can’t place it. What’s her line?”
“That I do not know—but here is her photograph.”
Mr. Aarons studied it for a moment, then his face lighted.
“Got it!” He slapped his thigh. “The Dulcibella Kids, by the Lord!”
“The Dulcibella Kids?”
“That’s it. They’re sisters. Acrobats, dancers and singers. Give quite a good little turn. They’re in the provinces somewhere, I believe—if they’re not resting. They’ve been on in Paris for the last two or three weeks.”