One
Hercule Poirot was sitting at the breakfast table. At his right hand was a steaming cup ofchocolate. He had always had a sweet tooth. To accompany the chocolate was a brioche. It wentagreeably with chocolate. He nodded his approval. This was from the fourth shop he had tried. Itwas a Danish p?tisserie but infinitely¹ superior to the so-called French one nearby. That had beennothing less than a fraud.
He was satisfied gastronomically². His stomach was at peace. His mind also was at peace,perhaps somewhat too much so. He had finished his Magnum Opus, an analysis of great writers ofdetective fiction. He had dared to speak scathingly of Edgar Allen Poe, he had complained of thelack of method or order in the romantic outpourings of Wilkie Collins, had lauded³ to the skies twoAmerican authors who were practically unknown, and had in various other ways given honourwhere honour was due and sternly withheld⁴ it where he considered it was not. He had seen thevolume through the press, had looked upon the results and, apart from a really incredible numberof printer’s errors, pronounced that it was good. He had enjoyed this literary achievement andenjoyed the vast amount of reading he had had to do, had enjoyed snorting with disgust as he flunga book across the floor (though always remembering to rise, pick it up and dispose of it tidily inthe wastepaper basket) and had enjoyed appreciatively nodding his head on the rare occasionswhen such approval was justified⁵.
And now? He had had a pleasant interlude of relaxation⁶, very necessary after his intellectuallabour. But one could not relax forever, one had to go on to the next thing. Unfortunately he hadno idea what the next thing might be. Some further literary accomplishment⁷? He thought not. Do athing well then leave it alone. That was his maxim⁸. The truth of the matter was, he was bored. Allthis

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