II

At half past eleven the following morning, Hercule Poirot’s telephone rang.

“ ’Allo? ’Allo?”

“Hallo, that you, Poirot?”

“Oui, c’est moi.”

“Japp speaking here. Remember we came home last night through Bardsley Gardens Mews?”

“Yes?”

“And that we talked about how easy it would be to shoot a person with all those squibs andcrackers and the rest of it going?off?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, there was a suicide¹ in that mews. No. 14. A young widow—Mrs.?Allen. I’m goinground there now. Like to come?”

“Excuse me, but does someone of your eminence², my dear friend, usually get sent to a caseof suicide?”

“Sharp fellow³. No—he doesn’t. As a matter of fact our doctor seems to think there’ssomething funny about this. Will you come? I kind of feel you ought⁴ to be in on it.”

“Certainly I will come. No. 14, you say?”

“That’s right.”

 

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