Chapter 1
An Unwelcome Visitor
Poirot and I were debating the relative merits of turkey and duck, and which should feature in our Christmas luncheon, when there came a knock at the door of his Whitehaven Mansions drawing room. “Enter!” he said.
I was grateful for the pause. It would give me time to consider whether I had done all I could and might now reasonably concede defeat. I had been making the case for turkey, but the truth was that I preferred duck. A strong belief in the importance of tradition had compelled me to argue against my own personal taste. Since Poirot was the one who would be hosting our Christmas festivities, he should probably be allowed to have his way—this was the conclusion I reached as George, Poirot’s valet, leaned somewhat awkwardly into the room.
“I apologize for the interruption, sir, but a lady is here to see you. She has no appointment but says it is a matter of the utmost importance. She believes it cannot wait, not even until tomorrow.”
“I can leave—” I said, half out of my chair.
“No, no, Catchpool. Stay. I am not inclined to receive an unexpected visitor this afternoon. I have noticed that, since the American stock market unpleasantness, most people are unable to measure accurately the urgency of their predicament.”
We at Scotland Yard had noticed the same thing, I told him.
“They come to my door insisting that they must have the help of Hercule Poirot.Eh bien, I listen patiently, and usually there is nothing more than an easily resolvable misunderstanding—a trivial altercation with a business associate or something of that nature. Nothing to confound or delight the little grey cells.”
“Yes. Trifles are magnified and viewed as disasters,” I said, thinking of the woman who had barged into my office two weeks earlier, demanding that I investigate the “robbery” of her spectacles. She telephoned the next day to tell me that the unknown miscreant had replaced them in the pocket of her gardening coat; in other words, she had deposited them there herself and forgotten all about it. “Please consider the matter closed,” she had said briskly, unaware that this had been my resolution from the moment I first laid eyes upon her.
I felt satisfaction swell in my chest as it did each time I reminded myself that I was a mere two days into a two-week holiday from my job at Scotland Yard.
“What shall I tell Mrs. Surtees?” George asked Poirot. “That is the name of your visitor: Enid Surtees.”
As he repeated the name, I found myself wishing I wereelsewhere. Something inside my chest had tightened.Enid Surtees. How extraordinary: I had no idea who she was, but I was absolutely certain that I wanted George to give her her marching orders. Had I heard mention of her somewhere? A feeling of dread had come upon me. It was warm in Poirot’s drawing room as it always was, yet the back of my neck was suddenly cold, as if something had breathed a chill over me.
I stayed in my chair. Nothing, after all, had happened. One thing was beyond doubt: I did not know a woman by the name of Enid Surtees.
“Show her in, Georges,” said Poirot. Once the valet had left the room, he said, “It was your evident reluctance that decided the matter in her favor, Catchpool. She is known to you,n’est-ce pas?”
“No.”
“Ah. Now I am curious. Your face tells a different story. Well, we shall soon see. Perhaps you have broken another young woman’s heart.” He chuckled.
“I have broken no women’s hearts, ever.”
“Mais ce n’est pas vrai.What about Fee Spring? She—”
“Some women break their own hearts quite... unilaterally,” I said. “If heart-breaking is an active pursuit, I can assure you that I have never deliberately engaged in it.”
“Ah. That is what you think, is it, my friend?”
“A few amiable chats with a waitress—nothing more, and unavoidable if one wishes to be served coffee in her establishment—and she takes it upon herself, without any encouragement, to—”
My summation for the defense was interrupted by a knock from George. The door opened and a woman walked in, wrapped in a navy blue woolen hat, coat and scarf. Efficiently, she began to divest herself of all three. George scooped them up from the arm of the sofa and retreated, closing the drawing-room door behind him.
My mouth must have dropped open. I could not help making an undignified noise that no letters of the alphabet can adequately convey.
Poirot rose to his feet and extended a hand, which was promptly shaken by the infuriating wretch of an intruder. (Did I know her? Oh, I knew her, all right!)
“Good afternoon, Madame Surtees.”
She was tall and bony, with gold-colored hair, a square, pale face and piercingly bright blue eyes. She looked, to quote her own favored refrain line, “not a day older than sixty—because I have always avoided the sun, you see, Edward. You should think about doing the same, or your face and neck will be as leathery as your father’s by the time you are forty.” In fact she was much closer to seventy than sixty. She would celebrate her seventieth birthday in March the following year.
Her name was not Enid Surtees.
“Hello, Mother,” I said.
“Pardon?” said Poirot. “La mère?” He turned from me to her. “You are—?”
