LITMIR.BIZ

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again. The telephone continued to ring. The shrill irritating noise continued. Suddenly it stopped. After a minute or two, however, it commenced to ring again.

      ‘Ah Sapristi! That must be a woman—undoubtedly a woman.’

      He sighed, rose to his feet and came to the instrument.

      He picked up the receiver. ‘’Allo,’ he said.

      ‘Are you—is that M. Poirot?’

      ‘I, myself.’

      ‘It’s Mrs Oliver—your voice sounds different. I didn’t recognise it at first.’

      ‘Bonjour, Madame—you are well, I hope?’

      ‘Oh, I’m all right.’ Ariadne Oliver’s voice came through in its usual cheerful accents. The well-known detective story writer and Hercule Poirot were on friendly terms.

      ‘It’s rather early to ring you up, but I want to ask you a favour.’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘It is the annual dinner of our Detective Authors’ Club; I wondered if you would come and be our Guest Speaker this year. It would be very very sweet of you if you would.’

      ‘When is this?’

      ‘Next month—the twenty-third.’

      A deep sigh came over the telephone.

      ‘Alas! I am too old.’

      ‘Too old? What on earth do you mean? You’re not old at all.’

      ‘You think not?’

      ‘Of course not. You’ll be wonderful. You can tell us lots of lovely stories about real crimes.’

      ‘And who will want to listen?’

      ‘Everyone. They—M. Poirot, is there anything the matter? Has something happened? You sound upset.’

      ‘Yes, I am upset. My feelings—ah, well, no matter.’

      ‘But tell me about it.’

      ‘Why should I make a fuss?’

      ‘Why shouldn’t you? You’d better come and tell me all about it. When will you come? This afternoon. Come and have tea with me.’

      ‘Afternoon tea, I do not drink it.’

      ‘Then you can have coffee.’

      ‘It is not the time of day I usually drink coffee.’

      ‘Chocolate? With whipped cream on top? Or a tisane. You love sipping tisanes. Or lemonade. Or orangeade. Or would you like decaffeinated coffee if I can get it—’

      ‘Ah ça, non, par exemple! It is an abomination.’

      ‘One of those sirops you like so much. I know, I’ve got half a bottle of Ribena in the cupboard.’

      ‘What is Ribena?’

      ‘Blackcurrant flavour.’

      ‘Indeed, one has to hand it to you! You really do try, Madame. I am touched by your solicitude. I will accept with pleasure to drink a cup of chocolate this afternoon.’

      ‘Good. And then you’ll tell me all about what’s upset you.’

      She rang off.

      Poirot considered for a moment. Then he dialled a number. Presently he said: ‘Mr Goby? Hercule Poirot here. Are you very fully occupied at this moment?’

      ‘Middling,’ said the voice of Mr Goby. ‘Middling to fair. But to oblige you, Monsieur Poirot, if you’re in a hurry, as you usually are—well, I wouldn’t say that my young men couldn’t manage mostly what’s on hand at present. Of course good boys aren’t as easy to get as they used to be. Think too much of themselves nowadays. Think they know it all before they’ve started to learn. But there! Can’t expect old heads on young shoulders. I’ll be pleased to put myself at your disposal, M. Poirot. Maybe I can put one or two of the better lads on the job. I suppose it’s the usual—collecting information?’

      He nodded his head and listened whilst Poirot went into details of exactly what he wanted done. When he had finished with Mr Goby, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard where in due course he got through to a friend of his. When he in turn had listened to Poirot’s requirements, he replied,

      ‘Don’t want much, do you? Any murder, anywhere. Time, place and victim unknown. Sounds a bit of a wild goose chase, if you ask me, old boy.’ He added disapprovingly, ‘You don’t seem really to know anything!’

      At 4.15 that afternoon Poirot sat in Mrs Oliver’s drawing-room sipping appreciatively at a large cup of chocolate topped with foaming whipped cream which his hostess had just placed on a small table beside him. She added a small plate full of langue de chats biscuits.

      ‘Chère Madame, what kindness.’ He looked over his cup with faint surprise at Mrs Oliver’s coiffure and also at her new wallpaper. Both were new to him. The last time he had seen Mrs Oliver, her hair style had been plain and severe. It now displayed a richness of coils and twists arranged in intricate patterns all over her head. Its prolific luxury was, he suspected, largely artificial. He debated in his mind how many switches of hair might unexpectedly fall off if Mrs Oliver was to get suddenly excited, as was her wont. As for the wallpaper…

      ‘These cherries—they are new?’ he waved a teaspoon. It was, he felt, rather like being in a cherry orchard.

      ‘Are there too many of them, do you think?’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘So hard to tell beforehand with wallpaper. Do you think my old one was better?’

      Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember as large quantities of bright coloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt inclined to remark ‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,’ but restrained himself.

      ‘And now,’ said Mrs Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on its saucer and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foaming cream from his moustache, ‘what is all this about?’

      ‘That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. I suggested she might make an appointment. One has one’s routine, you comprehend. She sent back word that she wanted to see me at once because she thought she might have committed a murder.’

      ‘What an odd thing to say. Didn’t she know?’

      ‘Precisely! C’est inouï! so I instructed George to show her in. She stood there! She refused to sit down. She just stood there staring at me. She seemed quite half-witted. I tried to encourage her. Then suddenly she said that she’d changed her mind. She said she didn’t want to be rude but that—(what do you think?)—but that I was too old…’

      Mrs Oliver hastened to utter soothing words. ‘Oh well, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half dead. They’ve no sense, girls, you must realise that.’

      ‘It wounded me,’ said Hercule Poirot.

      ‘Well, I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a very rude thing to say.’

      ‘That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, I am worried.’

      ‘Well, I should forget all about it if I were you,’ advised Mrs Oliver comfortably.

      ‘You do not understand. I am worried about this girl. She came to me for help. Then she decided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use to her. She was wrong of course, that goes without saying, and then she just ran away. But I tell you that girl needs help.’

      ‘I don’t suppose she does really,’ said Mrs Oliver soothingly. ‘Girls make a fuss about things.’

      ‘No. You are wrong. She needs help.’

      ‘You don’t

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