II
“I’ve finished my letters,” said Blunt, appearing later in the morning. “Now, M. Poirot, I’m going
to show you my garden.”
The two men went out together and Blunt talked eagerly of his hobby.
The rock garden, with its rare alpine¹ plants, was his greatest joy and they spent some time there
while Blunt pointed² out certain minute and rare species.
Hercule Poirot, his feet encased in his best patent leather shoes, listened patiently, shifting his
weight tenderly from one foot to the other and wincing³ slightly as the heat of the sun caused the
illusion that his feet were gigantic puddings!
His host strolled on, pointing out various plants in the wide border. Bees were humming and
from near at hand came the monotonous⁴ clicking of a pair of shears⁵ trimming a laurel hedge.
It was all very drowsy⁶ and peaceful.
Blunt paused at the end of the border, looking back. The clip of the shears was quite close by,
though the clipper was concealed⁷ from view.
“Look at the vista⁸ down from here, Poirot. The Sweet Williams are particularly fine this year. I
don’t know when I’ve seen them so good—and those are Russell lupins. Marvellous colours.”
Crack! The shot broke the peace of the morning. Something sang angrily through the air.
Alistair Blunt turned bewildered to where a faint thread of smoke was rising from the middle of
the laurels⁹.
There was a sudden outcry of angry voices, the laurels heaved as two men struggled together. A
high-pitched American voice sang out

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