One

Hercule Poirot was sitting at the breakfast table. At his right hand was asteaming cup of chocolate. He had always had a sweet tooth. To accom-pany the chocolate was a brioche. It went agreeably with chocolate. Henodded his approval. This was from the fourth shop he had tried. It was aDanish p?tisserie but infinitely superior to the so- called French onenearby. That had been nothing less than a fraud.

He was satisfied gastronomically. His stomach was at peace. His mindalso was at peace, perhaps somewhat too much so. He had finished hisMagnum Opus, an analysis of great writers of detective fiction. He haddared to speak scathingly of Edgar Allen Poe, he had complained of thelack of method or order in the romantic outpourings of Wilkie Collins, hadlauded to the skies two American authors who were practically unknown,and had in various other ways given honour where honour was due andsternly withheld it where he considered it was not. He had seen thevolume through the press, had looked upon the results and, apart from areally incredible number of printer’s errors, pronounced that it was good.

He had enjoyed this literary achievement and enjoyed the vast amount ofreading he had had to do, had enjoyed snorting with disgust as he flung abook across the floor (though always remembering to rise, pick it up anddispose of it tidily in the wastepaper basket) and had enjoyed appreciat-ively nodding his head on the rare occasions when such approval was jus-tified.

And now? He had had a pleasant interlude of relaxation, very necessaryafter his intellectual labour. But one could not relax forever, one had to goon to the next thing. Unfortunately he had no idea what the next thingmight be. Some further literary accomplishment? He thought not. Do athing well then leave it alone. That was his maxim. The truth of the matterwas, he was bored. All this strenuous mental activity in which he hadbeen indulging—there had been too much of it. It had got him into badhabits, it had made him restless….

Vexatious! He shook his head and took another sip of chocolate.

The door opened and his well- trained servant, George, entered. Hismanner was deferential and slightly apologetic. He coughed and mur-mured, “A—” he paused, “—a—young lady has called.”

Poirot looked at him with surprise and mild distaste.

“I do not see people at this hour,” he said reprovingly.

“No, sir,” agreed George.

Master and servant looked at each other. Communication was some-times fraught with difficulties for them. By inflexion or innuendo or a cer-tain choice of words George would signify that there was something thatmight be elicited if the right question was asked. Poirot considered whatthe right question in this case might be.

“She is good-looking, this young lady?” he inquired carefully.

“In my view—no, sir, but there is no accounting for tastes.”

Poirot considered his reply. He remembered the slight pause thatGeorge had made before the phrase—young lady. George was a delicatesocial recorder. He had been uncertain of the visitor’s status but had givenher the benefit of the doubt.

“You are of the opinion that she is a young lady rather than, let us say, ayoung person?”

“I think so, sir, though it is not always easy to tell nowadays.” Georgespoke with genuine regret.

“Did she give a reason for wishing to see me?”

“She said—” George pronounced the words with some reluctance, apolo-gising for them in advance as it were, “that she wanted to consult youabout a murder she might have committed.”

Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows rose. “Might have committed? Doesshe not know?”

“That is what she said, sir.”

“Unsatisfactory, but possibly interesting,” said Poirot.

“It might—have been a joke, sir,” said George, dubiously.

“Anything is possible, I suppose,” conceded Poirot, “but one wouldhardly think—” He lifted his cup. “Show her in after five minutes.”

“Yes, sir.” George withdrew.

Poirot finished the last sip of chocolate. He pushed aside his cup androse to his feet. He walked to the fireplace and adjusted his moustachescarefully in the mirror over the chimneypiece. Satisfied, he returned to hischair and awaited the arrival of his visitor. He did not know exactly whatto expect….

He had hoped perhaps for something nearer to his own estimate of fe-male attraction. The outworn phrase “beauty in distress” had occurred tohim. He was disappointed when George returned ushering in the visitor;inwardly he shook his head and sighed. Here was no beauty—and no no-ticeable distress either. Mild perplexity would seem nearer the mark.

“Pha!” thought Poirot disgustedly. “These girls! Do they not even try tomake something of themselves? Well made-up, attractively dressed, hairthat has been arranged by a good hairdresser, then perhaps she mightpass. But now!”

His visitor was a girl of perhaps twenty-odd. Long straggly hair of inde-terminate colour strayed over her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large,bore a vacant expression and were of a greenish blue. She wore whatwere presumably the chosen clothes of her generation. Black high leatherboots, white openwork woollen stockings of doubtful cleanliness, a skimpyskirt, and a long and sloppy pullover of heavy wool. Anyone of Poirot’s ageand generation would have had only one desire. To drop the girl into abath as soon as possible. He had often felt this same reaction walkingalong the streets. There were hundreds of girls looking exactly the same.

They all looked dirty. And yet—a contradiction in terms—this one had thelook of having been recently drowned and pulled out of a river. Such girls,he reflected, were not perhaps really dirty. They merely took enormouscare and pains to look so.

He rose with his usual politeness, shook hands, drew out a chair.

“You demanded to see me, mademoiselle? Sit down, I pray of you.”

“Oh,” said the girl, in a slightly breathless voice. She stared at him.

“Eh bien?” said Poirot.

She hesitated. “I think I’d—rather stand.” The large eyes continued tostare doubtfully.

“As you please.” Poirot resumed his seat and looked at her. He waited.

The girl shuffled her feet. She looked down on them then up again atPoirot.

“You—you are Hercule Poirot?”

“Assuredly. In what way can I be of use to you?”

“Oh, well, it’s rather difficult. I mean—”

Poirot felt that she might need perhaps a little assistance. He said help-fully, “My manservant told me that you wanted to consult me because youthought you ‘might have committed a murder.’ Is that correct?”

The girl nodded. “That’s right.”

“Surely that is not a matter that admits of any doubt. You must knowyourself whether you have committed a murder or not.”

“Well, I don’t know quite how to put it. I mean—”

“Come now,” said Poirot kindly. “Sit down. Relax the muscles. Tell me allabout it.”

“I don’t think—oh dear, I don’t know how to—You see, it’s all so difficult.

I’ve—I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be rude but—well, I think I’dbetter go.”

“Come now. Courage.”

“No, I can’t. I thought I could come and—and ask you, ask you what Iought to do—but I can’t, you see. It’s all so different from—”

“From what?”

“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 sud-denly blurted out, “You’re too old. Nobody told me you were so old. I reallydon’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 des-perate moth in lamplight.

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

He ejaculated: “Nom d’un nom d’un nom….”