Two

IThe 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 questioningglance towards Poirot.

Poirot gestured with his hand.

“Leave it,” he said.

George obeyed, leaving the room again. The telephone continued toring. The shrill irritating noise continued. Suddenly it stopped. After aminute 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 atfirst.”

“Bonjour, Madame—you are well, I hope?”

“Oh, I’m all right.” Ariadne Oliver’s voice came through in its usualcheerful accents. The well- known detective story writer and HerculePoirot 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 ifyou would come and be our Guest Speaker this year. It would be very verysweet 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 storiesabout real crimes.”

“And who will want to listen?”

“Everyone. They—M. Poirot, is there anything the matter? Has some-thing 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. Whenwill 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 sippingtisanes. Or lemonade. Or orangeade. Or would you like decaffeinated cof-fee if I can get it—”

“Ah ?a, non, par example! It is an abomination.”

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

“What is Ribena?”

“Black currant flavour.”

“Indeed, one has to hand it to you! You really do try, Madame. I amtouched by your solicitude. I will accept with pleasure to drink a cup ofchocolate this afternoon.”

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

She rang off.