“Yes.”
Mr. Satterthwaite was silent a moment or two. He was very intrigued. Finally he ventured:
“You see a definite reason for going down to Hamborough Close?”
Slowly, Poirot shook his head.
“No,” he said. “As far as I can see, there is no reason at all. But, all the same, I fancy I shall go.”
Two
Hercule Poirot sat in the corner of a first-class carriage speeding through the English countryside.
Meditatively he took from his pocket a neatly folded telegram, which he opened and reread:
Take four-thirty from St. Pancras instruct guard have express stopped at Whimperley.
Chevenix-Gore.
He folded up the telegram again and put it back in his pocket.
The guard on the train had been obsequious. The gentleman was going to Hamborough Close? Oh, yes, Sir Gervase Chevenix-Gore’s guests always had the express stopped at Whimperley. “A special kind of prerogative, I think it is, sir.”
Since then the guard had paid two visits to the carriage—the first in order to assure the traveller that everything would be done to keep the carriage for himself, the second to announce that the express was running ten minutes late.
The train was due to arrive at 7:50, but it was exactly two minutes past eight when Hercule Poirot descended on to the platform of the little country station and pressed the expected half crown into the attentive guard’s hand.
There was a whistle from the engine, and the Northern Express began to move once more. A tall chauffeur in dark green uniform stepped up to Poirot.
“Mr. Poirot? For Hamborough Close?”
He picked up the detective’s neat valise and led the way out of the station. A big Rolls was waiting. The chauffeur held the door open for Poirot to get in, arranged a sumptuous fur rug over his knees, and they drove off.
After some ten minutes of cross-country driving, round sharp corners and down country lanes, the car turned in at a wide gateway flanked with huge stone griffons.
They drove through a park and up to the house. The door of it was opened as they drew up, and a butler of imposing proportions showed himself upon the front step.
“Mr. Poirot? This way, sir.”
He led the way along the hall and threw open a door halfway along it on the right.
“Mr. Hercule Poirot,” he announced.
The room contained a number of people in evening dress, and as Poirot walked in his quick eyes perceived at once that his appearance was not expected. The eyes of all present rested on him in unfeigned surprise.
Then a tall woman, whose dark hair was threaded with grey, made an uncertain advance towards him.
Poirot bowed over her hand.
“My apologies, madame,” he said. “I fear that my train was late.”
“Not at all,” said Lady Chevenix-Gore vaguely. Her eyes still stared at him in a puzzled fashion. “Not at all, Mr.—er—I didn’t quite hear—”
“Hercule Poirot.”
He said the name clearly and distinctly.
Somewhere behind him he heard a sudden sharp intake of breath.