THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
My sister raised her eyebrows.
"Naturally," she said. "Who suggested you should do anything else?"
The honors were with Caroline.
"If you do happen to see M. Poirot," she said, as I opened the front door, "you might tell him about the boots."
It was a most subtle parting shot. I wanted dreadfully to understand the enigma of the boots. When the old lady with the Breton cap opened the door to me, I found myself asking if M. Poirot was in, quite automatically.
Poirot sprang up to meet me, with every appearance of pleasure.
"Sit down, my good friend," he said. "The big chair? This small one? The room is not too hot, no?"
I thought it was stifling, but refrained from saying so. The windows were closed, and a large fire burned in the grate.
"The English people, they have a mania for the fresh air," declared Poirot. "The big air, it is all very well outside, where it belongs. Why admit it to the house? But let us not discuss such banalities: You have something for me, yes?"
"Two things," I said. "First—this—from my sister."
I handed over the pot of medlar jelly.
"How kind of Mademoiselle Caroline. She has remembered her promise. And the second thing?"
"Information—of a kind."
[180]
