he cross it and go on to Leicester Square and spend the evening at a cinema? Frowning slightly, he shook his head. The cinema, more often than not, enraged him by the looseness of its plots—the lack of logical continuity in the argument—even the photography which, raved over by some, to Hercule Poirot seemed often no more than the portrayal of scenes and objects so as to make them appear totally different from what they were in reality.
Everything, Hercule Poirot decided, was too artistic nowadays. Nowhere was there the love of order and method that he himself prized so highly. And seldom was there any appreciation of subtlety. Scenes of violence and crude brutality were the fashion, and as a former police officer, Poirot was bored by brutality. In his early days, he had seen plenty of crude brutality. It had been more the rule than the exception. He found it fatiguing, and unintelligent.
‘The truth is,’ Poirot reflected as he turned his steps homeward, ‘I am not in tune with the modern world. And I am, in a superior way, a slave as other men are slaves. My work has enslaved me just as their work enslaves them. When the hour of leisure arrives, they have nothing with which to fill their leisure. The retired financier takes up golf, the little merchant puts bulbs in his garden, me, I eat. But there it is, I come round to it again. One can only eat three times a day. And in between are the gaps.’
He passed a newspaper-seller and scanned the bill.
‘Result of McGinty Trial. Verdict.’
It stirred no interest in him. He recalled vaguely a small paragraph in the papers. It had not been an interesting murder. Some wretched old woman knocked on the head for a few pounds. All part of the senseless crude brutality of these days.
Poirot turned into the courtyard of his block of flats. As always his heart swelled in approval. He was proud of his home. A splendid symmetrical building. The lift took him up to the third floor where he had a large luxury flat with impeccable chromium fittings, square armchairs, and severely rectangular ornaments. There could truly be said not to be a curve in the place.
As he opened the door with his latchkey and stepped into the square, white lobby, his manservant, George, stepped softly to meet him.
‘Good evening, sir. There is a—gentleman waiting to see you.’
He relieved Poirot deftly of his overcoat.
‘Indeed?’ Poirot was aware of that very slight pause before the word gentleman. As a social snob, George was an expert.
‘What is his name?’
‘A Mr Spence, sir.’
‘Spence.’ The name, for the moment, meant nothing to Poirot. Yet he knew that it should do so.
Pausing for a moment before the mirror to adjust his moustaches to a state of perfection, Poirot opened the door of the sitting-room and entered. The man sitting in one of the big square armchairs got up.
‘Hallo, M. Poirot, hope you remember me. It’s a long time…Superintendent Spence.’
‘But of course.’ Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
Superintendent Spence of the Kilchester Police. A very interesting case that had been…As Spence had said, a long time ago now…
Poirot pressed his guest with refreshments. A grenadine? Crème de Menthe? Benedictine? Crème de Cacao?…
At this moment George entered with a tray on which was a whisky bottle and a siphon. ‘Or beer if you prefer it, sir?’ he murmured to the visitor.
Superintendent Spence’s large red face lightened.
‘Beer for me,’ he said.
Poirot was left to wonder once more at the accomplishments of George. He himself had had no idea that there was beer in the flat and it seemed incomprehensible to him that it could be preferred to a sweet liqueur.
When Spence had his foaming tankard, Poirot poured himself out a tiny glass of gleaming green crème de menthe.
‘But it is charming of you to look me up,’ he said. ‘Charming. You have come up from—?’
‘Kilchester. I’ll be retired in about six months. Actually, I was due for retirement eighteen months ago. They asked me to stop on and I did.’
‘You were wise,’ said Poirot with feeling. ‘You were very wise…’
‘Was I? I wonder. I’m not so sure.’
‘Yes, yes, you were wise,’ Poirot insisted. ‘The long hours of ennui, you have no conception of them.’
‘Oh, I’ll have plenty to do when I retire. Moved into a new house last year, we did. Quite a bit of garden and shamefully neglected. I haven’t been able to get down to it properly yet.’
‘Ah yes, you are one of those who garden. Me, once I decided to live in the country and grow vegetable marrows. It did not succeed. I have not the temperament.’
‘You should have seen one of my marrows last year,’ said Spence with enthusiasm. ‘Colossal! And my roses. I’m keen on roses. I’m going to have—’
He broke off.
‘That’s not what I came to talk about.’
‘No, no, you came to see an old acquaintance—it was kind. I appreciate it.’
‘There’s more to it than that, I’m afraid, M. Poirot. I’ll be honest. I want something.’
Poirot murmured delicately:
‘There is a mortgage, possibly, on your house? You would like a loan—’
Spence interrupted in a horrified voice:
‘Oh, good Lord, it’s not money! Nothing of that kind.’
Poirot waved his hands in graceful apology.
‘I demand your pardon.’
‘I’ll tell you straight out—it’s damned cheek what I’ve come for. If you send me away with a flea in my ear I shan’t be surprised.’
‘There will be no flea,’ said Poirot. ‘But continue.’
‘It’s the McGinty case. You’ve read about it, perhaps?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘Not with attention. Mrs McGinty—an old woman in a shop or a house. She is dead, yes. How did she die?’
Spence stared at him.
‘Lord!’ he said. ‘That takes me back. Extraordinary. And I never thought of it until now.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing. Just a game. Child’s game. We used to play it when we were kids. A lot of us in a row. Question and answer all down the line. “Mrs McGinty’s dead!” “How did she die?” “Down on one knee just like I.” And then the next question, “Mrs McGinty’s dead.” “How did she die?” “Holding her
