Third Girl

Long straggly hair of indeterminate colour strayed over her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large, bore a vacant expression and were of a greenish blue.

She wore what were presumably the chosen clothes of her generation. Black high leather boots, white openwork woollen stockings of doubtful cleanliness, a skimpy skirt, and a long and sloppy pullover of heavy wool. Anyone of Poirot's age and generation would have had only one desire. To drop the girl into a bath as soon as possible. He had often felt this same reaction walking along the streets.

There were hundreds of girls looking exactly the same. They all looked dirty.

And yet - a contradiction in terms - this one had the look of having been recently drowned and pulled out of a river. Such girls, he reflected, were not perhaps really dirty. They merely took enormous care 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 to stare 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 at Poirot.

"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 helpfully, "My manservant told me that you wanted to consult me because you thought 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 know yourself 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 all about 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'd better go." "Come now. Courage." "No, I can't. I thought I could come and - and ask you, ask you what I ought 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 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: "Non (fun nom cfun nom…"

Chapter Two

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 contined 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 pa, par exemple? It is an abomination."

"One of those sirups you like so much.