At last he roused himself, and opening the suitcase, took out some papers and magazines, then closed the suitcase again and endeavored to shove it under the opposite seat—without success. Some hidden obstacle resisted it. He shoved harder with rising impatience, but it still stuck out halfway into the carriage.
“Why the devil wont it go in?” he muttered, and hauling it out completely, he stooped down and peered under the seat....
A moment later a cry rang out into the night, and the great train came to an unwilling halt in obedience to the imperative jerking of the communication-cord.
“Mon ami,” said Poirot. “You have, I know, been deeply interested in this mystery of the Plymouth Express. Read this.”
I picked up the note he flicked across the table to me. It was brief and to the point.
Dear Sir:
I shall be obliged if you will call upon me at your earliest convenience.
Yours faithfully,
Ebenezer Halliday.
The connection was not clear to my mind, and I looked inquiringly at Poirot. For answer he took up the newspaper and read aloud:
“‘A sensational discovery was made last night. A young naval officer returning to Plymouth found under the seat of his compartment, the body of a woman, stabbed through the heart. The officer at once pulled the communication-cord, and the train was brought to a standstill. The woman who was about thirty years of age, and richly dressed, has not yet been identified.’
“And later we have this: ‘The woman found dead in the Plymouth Express has been identified as the Honorable Mrs. Rupert Carrington.’ You see now, my friend? Or if you do not, I will add this. Mrs. Rupert Carrington was, before her marriage, Flossie Halliday, daughter of old man Halliday, the steel king of America.”
“And he has sent for you? Splendid!”