.
Poirot: You can be sure of that?
Sims: The girl herself doesn’t deny it. What do you think of that?
Poirot: Extremely interesting.
Sims: We only want one thing more — evidence of how the poison came into her possession. That oughtn’t to be difficult.
Poirot: But so far you haven’t been successful?
Sims: I’ve barely started. The inquest was only this morning.
Poirot: What happened at it?
Sims: Adjourned for a week.
Poirot: And the young lady — Katrina?
Sims: I’m detaining her on suspicion. Don’t want to run any risks. She might have some funny[159] friends in the country who’d try to get her out of it.
Poirot: No, I don’t think she has any friends.
Sims: Really? What makes you say that, Mr Poirot?
Poirot: It’s just an idea of mine. There were no other “items” as you call them?
Sims: Nothing that’s strictly relevant. Miss B. seems to have been monkeying a bit with her shares lately — must have dropped quite a tidy sum. It’s rather a funny business, one way and another, but I don’t see how it affects the main issue — not at present that is.
Poirot: No, perhaps you are right. Well, my best thanks to you. It was most amiable of you to ring me up.
Sims: Not at all. I’m a man of my word. I could see you were interested. Who knows you may be able to give me a helping hand before the end.
Poirot: That would give me a great pleasure. It might help you, for instance, if I could lay my hand on a friend of the girl Katrina.
Sims: I thought you said she hadn’t any friends?
Poirot: I was wrong. She has one. (Before the Inspector could ask a further question, Poirot had rung off.)
13. Amateur Doctors Have a Cold Day
(to be taken with “Miscellanea” and converted into dialogues)
Washington. — Because medical costs are rising so fast, more and more people are diagnosing their own illnesses or, worse still, those of their friends. The government would do well to make a study of how these nonprofessional diagnoses are affecting the nation’s health picture.
The other day I had a cold. It was just like the ones you see on television. I was sneezing, coughing and looking mournfully at my wife. I called my secretary at the office and said I wouldn’t be in because I felt lousy.
“You must have one of those “eight-hour things” that’s going all around town,” she said. “You’ll feel perfectly well tomorrow.”
Eight hours seemed to be a reasonable time to have a cold, and I was looking forward to staying in bed, particularly since the Yankees and Red Sox were playing a crucial game to get into the American League playoffs.
