Copyright
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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First published in Great Britain by
Collins 1956
Copyright © 1956 Agatha Christie Ltd.
All rights reserved.
Ebook Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422258
Version: 2019-03-29
The moral right of the author is asserted
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Source ISBN: 9780007556878
Ebook Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422258
Version: 2019-03-29
To Peggy and Humphrey Trevelyan
Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
E-Book Extras
About Agatha Christie
The Agatha Christie Collection
I
It was Miss Lemon, Poirot’s efficient secretary, who took the telephone call.
Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said without emphasis, ‘Trafalgar 8137.’
Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His fingers beat a meditative soft tattoo on the edge of the table. In his head he continued to compose the polished periods of the letter he had been dictating.
Placing her hand over the receiver, Miss Lemon asked in a low voice:
‘Will you accept a personal call from Nassecombe, Devon?’
Poirot frowned. The place meant nothing to him.
‘The name of the caller?’ he demanded cautiously.
Miss Lemon spoke into the mouthpiece.
‘Air-raid?’ she asked doubtingly. ‘Oh, yes – what was the last name again?’
Once more she turned to Hercule Poirot.
‘Mrs Ariadne Oliver.’
Hercule Poirot’s eyebrows shot up. A memory rose in his mind: windswept grey hair…an eagle profile…
He rose and replaced Miss Lemon at the telephone.
‘Hercule Poirot speaks,’ he announced grandiloquently.
‘Is that Mr Hercules Porrot speaking personally?’ the suspicious voice of the telephone operator demanded.
Poirot assured her that that was the case.
‘You’re through to Mr Porrot,’ said the voice.
Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto which caused Poirot hastily to shift the receiver a couple of inches farther from his ear.
‘M. Poirot, is that really you?’ demanded Mrs Oliver.
‘Myself in person, Madame.’
‘This is Mrs Oliver. I don’t know if you’ll remember me –’
‘But of course I remember you, Madame. Who could forget you?’
‘Well, people do sometimes,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Quite often, in fact. I don’t think that I’ve got a very distinctive personality. Or perhaps it’s because I’m always doing different things to my hair. But all that’s neither here nor there. I hope I’m not interrupting you when you’re frightfully busy?’
‘No, no, you do not derange me in the least.’
‘Good gracious – I’m sure I don’t want to drive you out of your mind. The fact is, I need you.’
‘Need
