what Poirot saw in them to make him so intent. I asked him.
"Mon ami," he replied, "you miss the point. I am looking for something that I do not see."
"What is that?"
"A mistake—even a little mistake—on the part of the murderer."
He stepped swiftly to the small adjoining kitchen, looked in, and shook his head.
"Monsieur," he said to the manager, "explain to me, I pray, your system of serving meals here."
The manager stepped to a small hatch in the wall.
"This is the service lift," he explained. "It runs to the kitchens at the top of the building. You order through this telephone, and the dishes are sent down in the lift, one course at a time. The dirty plates and dishes are sent up in the same manner. No domestic worries, you understand, and at the same time you avoid the wearying publicity of always dining in a restaurant."
Poirot nodded.
"Then the plates and dishes that were used tonight are on high in the kitchen. You permit that I mount there?"
