“You are answering the letter?” I asked.
“Oui, mon ami.”
The room was silent except for the scratching of Poirot’s pen. It was a hot, airless morning. A smell of dust and tar came in through the window.
Poirot rose from his desk, the completed letter in his hand. He opened a drawer and drew out a little square box. From this he took out a stamp. Moistening this with a little sponge he prepared to affix it to the letter.
Then suddenly he paused, stamp in hand, shaking his head with vigour.
“Non!” he exclaimed. “That is the wrong thing I do.” He tore the letter across and threw it into the wastepaper basket.
“Not so must we tackle this matter! We will go, my friend.”
“You mean to go down to Market Basing?”
“Precisely. Why not? Does not one stifle in London today? Would not the country air be agreeable?”
“Well, if you put it like that,” I said. “Shall we go in the car?”
I had acquired a secondhand Austin.
“Excellent. A very pleasant day for motoring. One will hardly need the muffler. A light overcoat, a silk scarf—”
“My dear fellow, you’re not going to the North Pole!” I protested.
“One must be careful of catching the chill,” said Poirot sententiously.
“On a day like this?”
Disregarding my protests, Poirot proceeded to don a fawn-coloured overcoat and wrap his neck up with a white silk handkerchief. Having carefully placed the wetted stamp face downwards on the blotting paper to dry, we left the room together.
Six
WE GO TO LITTLEGREEN HOUSE
I don’t know what Poirot felt like in his coat and muffler but I myself felt roasted before we got out of London. An open car in traffic is far from being a refreshing place on a hot summer’s day.
Once we were outside London, however, and getting a bit of pace on the Great West Road my spirits rose.
Our drive took us about an hour and a half, and it was close upon twelve o’clock when we came into the little town of Market Basing. Originally on the main road, a modern bypass now left it some three miles to the north of the main stream of traffic and in consequence it had kept an air of old-fashioned dignity and quietude about it. Its one wide street and ample market square seemed to say, “I was a place of importance once and to any person of sense and breeding I am still the same. Let this modern speeding world dash along their newfangled road; I was built to endure in a day when solidarity and beauty went hand in hand.”
There was a parking area in the middle of the big square, though there were only a few cars occupying it. I duly parked the Austin, Poirot divested himself of his superfluous garments, assured himself that his moustaches were in their proper condition of symmetrical flamboyance and we were then ready to proceed.
For once in a way our first tentative inquiry did not meet with the usual response, “Sorry, but I’m a stranger in these parts.” It would seem indeed probable that there were no strangers in Market Basing! It had that effect! Already, I felt, Poirot and myself (and especially Poirot) were somewhat noticeable. We tended to stick out from the mellow background of an English market town secure in its traditions.
“Littlegreen House?” The man, a burly, ox-eyed fellow, looked us over thoughtfully. “You go straight up the High Street and you can’t miss it. On your left. There’s no name on the gate, but it’s the first big house after the bank.” He repeated again, “You can’t miss it.”
His eyes followed us as we started on our course.
“Dear me,” I complained. “There is something about this place that makes me feel extremely conspicuous. As for you, Poirot, you look positively exotic.”
“You think it is noticed that I am a foreigner—yes?”
“The fact cries aloud to heaven,” I assured him.
“And yet my clothes are made by an English tailor,” mused Poirot.
“Clothes are not everything,” I said. “It cannot be denied, Poirot, that you have a noticeable personality. I have often wondered that it has not hindered you in your career.”