Five
HERCULE POIROT RECEIVES A LETTER
The events which I have just narrated were not, of course, known to me until a long time afterwards. But by questioning various members of the family in detail, I have, I think, set them down accurately enough.
Poirot and I were only drawn into the affair when we received Miss Arundell’s letter.
I remember the day well. It was a hot, airless morning towards the end of June.
Poirot had a particular routine when opening his morning correspondence. He picked up each letter, scrutinized it carefully and neatly slit the envelope open with his paper cutter. Its contents were perused and then placed in one of four piles beyond the chocolate pot. (Poirot always drank chocolate for breakfast—a revolting habit.) All this with a machinelike regularity!
So much was this the case that the least interruption of the rhythm attracted one’s attention.
I was sitting by the window, looking out at the passing traffic. I had recently returned from Argentina and there was something particularly exciting to me in being once more in the roar of London.
Turning my head, I said with a smile:
“Poirot, I—the humble Watson—am going to hazard a deduction.”
“Enchanted, my friend. What is it?”
I struck an attitude and said pompously:
“You have received this morning one letter of particular interest!”
“You are indeed the Sherlock Holmes! Yes, you are perfectly right.”
I laughed.
“You see, I know your methods, Poirot. If you read a letter through twice it must mean that it is of special interest.”
“You shall judge for yourself, Hastings.”
With a smile my friend tendered me the letter in question.
I took it with no little interest, but immediately made a slight grimace. It was written in one of those old-fashioned spidery handwritings, and it was, moreover, crossed on two pages.
“Must I read this, Poirot?” I complained.
“Ah, no, there is no compulsion. Assuredly not.”
“Can’t you tell me what it says?”
“I would prefer you to form your own judgement. But do not trouble if it bores you.”
“No, no, I want to know what it’s all about,” I protested.
My friend remarked drily:
“You can hardly do that. In effect, the letter says nothing at all.”
Taking this as an exaggeration I plunged without more ado into the letter.
M. Hercule Poirot.
Dear Sir,
After much doubt and indecision, I am writing (the last word was crossed out and the letter went on) I am emboldened to write to you in the hope that you may be able to assist me in a matter of a strictly private nature. (The words strictly private were underlined three times.) I may say that your name is not unknown to me. It was mentioned to me by a Miss Fox of Exeter, and although Miss Fox was not herself acquainted with you, she mentioned that her brother-in-law’s sister (whose name I cannot, I am sorry to say, recall) had spoken of your kindness and discretion in the highest terms (highest terms underlined once). I did not inquire, of course, as to the nature (nature underlined) of the inquiry you had conducted on her behalf, but I understood from Miss Fox that it was of a painful and confidential nature (last four words underlined heavily).