"Oh, doctor, you're wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed."
I recognized in our new visitor Dr. Hawker's housekeeper, Miss Rider. The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on incoherence.
"What terrible voice? Who is it, and what's the trouble?"
"It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it—and a voice spoke. 'Help,' it said. 'Doctor—help. They've killed me!' Then it sort of tailed away. 'Who's speaking?' I said. 'Who's speaking?' Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, 'Foscatine'—something like that—'Regent's Court.'"
The doctor uttered an exclamation.
"Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent's Court. I must go at once. What can have happened?"
"A patient of yours?" asked Poirot.
"I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless———" He hesitated.
