Poirot arrived at Mrs. Oliver’s residence carrying a carefully arranged bouquet of flowers.

“My dear lady, these are my wishes for your swift recovery,” Poirot said with a slight bow as he presented the bouquet.

Mrs. Oliver accepted the flowers with a warm smile. “Poirot, this is exactly what I’d expect from you. Thank you for your thoughtfulness. It’s a pity my arrangements are always so haphazard.” She cast a glance at the untidy bunch of chrysanthemums in the corner before turning her gaze to the elegant roses Poirot had brought, clearly favoring the latter.

“Madame, I must reiterate, I should have been more insistent in cautioning you against acting on your own,” Poirot said, his tone serious.

“I know you warned me, but things unfolded as they did,” Mrs. Oliver replied, her voice carrying a mix of defiance and regret. “You know, I just had this feeling—an inexplicable unease. It wasn’t there at the start, though. When I entered those back alleys, it turned from an amusing little game into something far more sinister.”

“When exactly did the fear set in?” Poirot inquired, leaning forward slightly.

“It started near those abandoned buildings, by the warehouses,” Mrs. Oliver said, pausing as if to relive the moment. “I felt someone watching me. Yes, I’m certain it was that ‘peacock.’ He must have deliberately sent me the wrong way.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully, though his expression revealed lingering doubt. “Are you entirely certain? Could it not have been someone else—someone who noticed you following David and decided to tail you in turn?”

Mrs. Oliver frowned, the idea visibly unsettling her. “Someone was following me? I hadn’t considered that. Maybe… but at the time, I was too focused to think about it.”

Poirot spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. “This is precisely our dilemma, madame. We have many leads but no definitive breakthroughs. You mentioned that Norma claimed she might have committed murder. But the critical question remains unanswered: who was murdered? That is the missing piece.”

Mrs. Oliver was silent for a moment, her brow furrowed in thought. Then her expression brightened as she remembered something. “Wait, there’s one thing I might not have told you. In that apartment building, someone fell—or was pushed—from the seventh floor not long ago. A woman died. It’s terribly sad, but at the time, I didn’t see how it could relate to this case.”

Poirot froze, his sharp mind instantly honing in on the detail. His voice rose with urgency. “What? You never mentioned this before! A death—this could be the very clue I’ve been seeking! Tell me everything you know.”

“There’s not much to tell,” Mrs. Oliver replied, a bit taken aback by his reaction. “The milkman mentioned it in passing. It was a woman, in her fifties, I think.”

Poirot stood abruptly, his eyes gleaming with newfound determination. “This is the breakthrough we’ve been waiting for! Norma’s fears may be directly tied to this death. I must investigate further.”

As he made his way to the door, he muttered to himself, the words tumbling out in a fervor of realization. “Yes, yes… finally, the pieces begin to fall into place.”