III
The letter came by evening post. It was typewritten except for the signature.
Dear M. Poirot (it ran),
I should be greatly obliged if you would call upon me some time tomorrow. I
may have a commission for you. I suggest twelve thirty, at my house in Chelsea. If
this is inconvenient¹ to you, perhaps you would telephone my secretary? I
apologize for giving you such short notice.
Yours sincerely,
Alistair Blunt.
Poirot smoothed out the letter and read it a second time. At that moment the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot occasionally indulged in the fancy that he knew by the ring of his telephone bell
what kind of message was impending².
On this occasion he was at once quite sure that the call was significant. It was not a wrong
number—not one of his friends.
He got up and took down the receiver. He said in his polite, foreign voice:
“’Allo?”
An impersonal³ voice said: “What number are you, please?”
“This is Whitehall 7272.”
There was a pause, a click, and then a voice spoke⁴. It was a woman’s voice.
“M. Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Poirot, you have either already received—or will shortly receive, a letter.”
“Who is speaking?”
“It is not necessary that you should know.”
“Very well. I have received, Madame, eight letters and three bills by the evening post.”
“Then you know which letter I mean. You will be wise, M. Poirot, to refuse the commission
you have been offered.”
“That, Madame, is a matter I shall decide myself.”
The voice said coldly:
“I am warning you, M. Poirot. Your interference will no longer be tolerated. Keep out of this
business.”
“And if I do not keep out of it?”
“Then we shall take steps to see that your interference is no longer to be feared….”
“That is a threat, Madame!”
“We are only asking you to be sensible … It is for your own good.”
“You are very magnanimous!”
“You cannot alter the course of events and what has been arranged. So keep out of what doesn’t

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