he? Nobody knows. What does he look like? Again nobody knows. How many times have we seen him, you and I? Five times, is it not? And could either of us say truthfully that we could be sure of recognising him again?”
I was forced to shake my head, as I ran back in my mind over those five different people who, incredible as it seemed, were one and the same man. The burly lunatic asylum keeper, the man in the buttoned up overcoat in Paris, James, the footman, the quiet young medical man in the Yellow Jasmine case, and the Russian Professor. In no way did any two of these people resemble each other.
“No,” I said hopelessly. “We’ve nothing to go by whatsoever.”
Poirot smiled.
“Do not, I pray of you, give way to such enthusiastic despair. We know one or two things.”
“What kind of things?” I asked sceptically.
“We know that he is a man of medium height, and of medium or fair colouring. If he were a tall man of swarthy complexion he could never have passed himself off as the fair stocky doctor, It is child’s play, of course, to put on an additional inch or so for the part of James, or the Professor. In the same way he must have a short straight
