cases which I have recorded, Poirot’s investigations have started from the central fact, whether murder or robbery, and have proceeded from thence by a process of logical deduction to the final triumphant unravelling. In the events I am now about to chronicle a remarkable chain of circumstances led from the apparently trivial incidents which first attracted Poirot’s attention to the sinister happenings which completed a most unusual case.
I had been spending the evening with an old friend of mine, Gerald Parker. There had been, perhaps, about half a dozen people there besides my host and myself, and the talk fell, as it was bound to do sooner or later wherever Parker found himself, on the subject of house-hunting in London. Houses and flats were Parker’s special hobby. Since the end of the War, he had occupied at least half a dozen different flats and maisonettes. No sooner was he settled anywhere than he would light unexpectedly upon a new find, and would forthwith depart bag and baggage. His moves were nearly always accomplished at a slight pecuniary gain, for he had a shrewd business head, but it was sheer love of the sport that actuated him, and not a desire to make money at it. We listened to Parker for some time with the respect of the novice for the expert. Then it was our turn, and a perfect babel of tongues was let loose. Finally the floor was left to Mrs Robinson, a charming little bride who was there with her husband. I had never met them before, as Robinson was only a recent acquaintance of Parker’s.
‘Talking of flats,’ she said, ‘have you heard of our piece of luck, Mr Parker? We’ve got a flat—at last! In Montagu Mansions.’
‘Well,’ said Parker, ‘I’ve always said there are plenty of flats—at a price!’
‘Yes, but this isn’t at a price. It’s dirt cheap. Eighty pounds a year!’
‘But—but Montagu Mansions is just off Knightsbridge, isn’t it? Big handsome building. Or are you talking of a poor relation of the same name stuck in the slums somewhere?’
‘No, it’s the Knightsbridge one. That’s what makes it so wonderful.’
‘Wonderful is the word! It’s a blinking miracle. But there must be a catch somewhere. Big premium, I suppose?’
‘No premium!’
‘No prem—oh, hold my head, somebody!’ groaned Parker.
‘But we’ve got to buy the furniture,’ continued Mrs Robinson.
‘Ah!’ Parker bristled up. ‘I knew there was a catch!’
‘For fifty pounds. And it’s beautifully furnished!’
‘I give it up,’ said Parker. ‘The present occupants must be lunatics with a taste for philanthropy.’
Mrs Robinson was looking a little troubled. A little pucker appeared between her dainty brows.
‘It is queer, isn’t it? You don’t think that—that—the place is haunted
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