Twenty-eight

COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE

II arrived at Crowdean at eleven o’clock at night, five days later. I went tothe Clarendon Hotel, got a room, and went to bed. I’d been tired the nightbefore and I overslept. I woke up at a quarter to ten.

I sent for coffee and toast and a daily paper. It came and with it a largesquare note addressed to me with the words BY HAND in the top left-handcorner.

I examined it with some surprise. It was unexpected. The paper wasthick and expensive, the superscription neatly printed.

After turning it over and playing with it, I finally opened it.

Inside was a sheet of paper. Printed on it in large letters were the words:

CURLEW HOTEL 11:30

ROOM 413

(Knock three times)

I stared at it, turned it over in my hand—what was all this?

I noted the room number—413—the same as the clocks. A coincidence?

Or not a coincidence.

I had thoughts of ringing the Curlew Hotel. Then I thought of ringingDick Hardcastle. I didn’t do either.

My lethargy was gone. I got up, shaved, washed, dressed and walkedalong the front to the Curlew Hotel and got there at the appointed time.

The summer season was pretty well over now. There weren’t manypeople about inside the hotel.

I didn’t make any inquiries at the desk. I went up in the lift to the fourthfloor and walked along the corridor to No. 413.

I stood there for a moment or two: then, feeling a complete fool, Iknocked three times….

A voice said, “Come in.”

I turned the handle, the door wasn’t locked. I stepped inside andstopped dead.

I was looking at the last person on earth I would have expected to see.

Hercule Poirot sat facing me. He beamed at me.

“Une petite surprise, n’est-ce pas?” he said. “But a pleasant one, I hope.”

“Poirot, you old fox,” I shouted. “How did you get here?”

“I got here in a Daimler limousine—most comfortable.”

“But what are you doing here?”

“It was most vexing. They insisted, positively insisted on the redecora-tion of my apartment. Imagine my difficulty. What can I do? Where can Igo?”

“Lots of places,” I said coldly.

“Possibly, but it is suggested to me by my doctor that the air of the seawill be good for me.”

“One of those obliging doctors who finds out where his patient wants togo, and advises him to go there! Was it you who sent me this?” I bran-dished the letter I had received.

“Naturally—who else?”

“Is it a coincidence that you have a room whose number is 413?”

“It is not a coincidence. I asked for it specially.”

“Why?”

Poirot put his head on one side and twinkled at me.

“It seemed to be appropriate.”

“And knocking three times?”

“I could not resist it. If I could have enclosed a sprig of rosemary itwould have been better still. I thought of cutting my finger and putting abloodstained fingerprint on the door. But enough is enough! I might havegot an infection.”

“I suppose this is second childhood,” I remarked coldly. “I’ll buy you aballoon and a woolly rabbit this afternoon.”

“I do not think you enjoy my surprise. You express no joy, no delight atseeing me.”

“Did you expect me to?”

“Pourquoi pas? Come, let us be serious, now that I have had my littlepiece of foolery. I hope to be of assistance. I have called up the chief con-stable who has been of the utmost amiability, and at this moment I awaityour friend, Detective Inspector Hardcastle.”

“And what are you going to say to him?”

“It was in my mind that we might all three engage in conversation.”

I looked at him and laughed. He might call it conversation—but I knewwho was going to do the talking.

Hercule Poirot!