Third Girl

‘I’m awfully sorry and I really don’t want to be rude, but—’

She breathed an enormous sigh, looked at Poirot, looked away, and suddenly blurted out, ‘You’re too old. Nobody told me you were so old. I really don’t want to be rude but—there it is. You’re too old. I’m really very sorry.’

She turned abruptly and blundered out of the room, rather like a desperate moth in lamplight.

Poirot, his mouth open, heard the bang of the front door.

He ejaculated: ‘Nom d’un nom d’un nom…’

CHAPTER 2 (#u72a82931-120f-55ed-8b72-3c187f977913)

The telephone rang.

Hercule Poirot did not even seem aware of the fact.

It rang with shrill and insistent persistence.

George entered the room and stepped towards it, turning a questioning glance towards Poirot.

Poirot gestured with his hand.

‘Leave it,’ he said.

George obeyed, leaving the room 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?’