Twenty-two COLIN LAMB’S NARRATIVE¹ I

“So you have returned,” said Hercule Poirot.
He placed a bookmarker carefully to mark his place in the book he was reading. This time a cupof hot chocolate stood on the table by his elbow. Poirot certainly has the most terrible taste indrinks! For once he did not urge me to join him.
“How are you?” I asked.
“I am disturbed. I am much disturbed. They make the renovations, the redecorations, even thestructural alteration² in these flats.”
“Won’t that improve them?”
“It will improve them, yes—but it will be most vexatious to me. I shall have to disarrangemyself. There will be a smell of paint!” He looked at me with an air of outrage³.
Then, dismissing his difficulties with a wave of his hand, he asked:
“You have had the success, yes?”
I said slowly: “I don’t know.”
“Ah—it is like that.”
“I found out what I was sent to find out. I did not find the man himself. I myself do not knowwhat was wanted. Information? Or a body?”
“Speaking of bodies, I read the account of the adjourned⁴ inquest at Crowdean. Wilful⁵ murder bya person or persons unknown. And your body has been given a name at last.”
I nodded.
“Harry Castleton, whoever he may be.”
“Identified by his wife. You have been to Crowdean?”
“Not yet. I thought of going down tomorrow.”
“Oh, you have some leisure time?”
“Not yet. I’m still on the job. My job takes me there—” I paused a moment and then said: “Idon’t know much about what’s been happening while I’ve been abroad—just the mere⁶ fact ofidentification—what do you think of it?”
Poirot shrugged⁷ his shoulders.
“It was to be expected.”

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