I did not quite follow his reasoning, but I merely asked how he proposed to find the girl.
“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 de 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.”
“Can you find out for me exactly where they are?”
“Easy as a bird. You go home, and I’ll send you round the dope in the morning.”
With this promise we took leave of him. He was as good as his word. About eleven o’clock the following day, a scribbled note reached us: The Dulcibella Sisters are on at the Palace in Coventry. Good luck to you.
Without more ado, we started for Coventry. Poirot made no inquiries at the theater, but contented himself with booking stalls for the variety performance that evening.
The show was wearisome beyond words—or perhaps it was only my mood that made it seem so. Japanese families bal-
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