Eight I
Hercule Poirot was dictating¹ to his secretary, Miss Lemon.
“And while I much appreciate the honour you have done me, I must regretfully inform youthat…”
The telephone rang. Miss Lemon stretched out a hand for it. “Yes? Who did you say?” She puther hand over the receiver and said to Poirot, “Mrs. Oliver.”
“Ah…Mrs. Oliver,” said Poirot. He did not particularly want to be interrupted² at this moment,but he took the receiver from Miss Lemon. “’Allo,” he said, “Hercule Poirot speaks.”
“Oh, M. Poirot, I’m so glad I got you! I’ve found her for you!”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve found her for you. Your girl! You know, the one who’s committed³ a murder or thinks shehas. She’s talking about it too, a great deal. I think she is off her head. But never mind that now.
Do you want to come and get her?”
“Where are you, chère Madame⁴?”
“Somewhere between St. Paul’s and the Mermaid⁵ Theatre and all that. Calthorpe Street,” saidMrs. Oliver, suddenly looking out of the telephone box in which she was standing⁶. “Do you thinkyou can get here quickly? They’re in a restaurant.”
“They?”
“Oh, she and what I suppose is the unsuitable boyfriend. He is rather nice really, and he seemsvery fond of her. I can’t think why. People are odd⁷. Well, I don’t want to talk because I want to getback again. I followed them, you see. I came into the restaurant and saw them there.”
“Aha? You have been very clever, Madame.”
“No, I haven’t really. It was a pure accident. I mean, I walked into a small café place and therethe girl was, just sitting there.”
“Ah. You had the good fortune then. That is just as important.”

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