Ten DESMOND
Two days later, as Hercule Poirot drank his morning chocolate, he read at the same time a letterthat had been among his correspondence that morning. He was reading it now for the second time.
The handwriting was a moderately good one, though it hardly bore the stamp of maturity¹.
Dear Monsieur Poirot,
I am afraid you will find this letter of mine somewhat peculiar², but I believe itwould help if I mentioned a friend of yours. I tried to get in touch with her to askher if she would arrange for me to come and see you, but apparently³ she had lefthome. Her secretary—I am referring to Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the novelist—hersecretary seemed to say something about her having gone on a safari⁴ in EastAfrica. If so, I can see she may not return for some time. But I’m sure she wouldhelp me. I would indeed like to see you so much. I am badly in need of advice ofsome kind.
Mrs. Oliver, I understand, is acquainted with my mother, who met her at aliterary luncheon⁵ party. If you could give me an appointment to visit you one dayI should be very grateful. I can suit my time to anything you suggested. I don’tknow if it is helpful at all but Mrs. Oliver’s secretary did mention the word“elephants.” I presume this has something to do with Mrs. Oliver’s travels inEast Africa. The secretary spoke⁶ as though it was some kind of password. I don’treally understand this but perhaps you will. I am in a great state of worry andanxiety and I would be very grateful if you could see me.
Yours truly,
Desmond Burton-Cox.
“Nom d’un petit bonhomme!” said Hercule Poirot.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said George.
“A mere⁷ ejaculation,” said Hercule Poirot. “There are some things, once they have invaded yourlife, which you find very difficult to get rid of again. With me it seems to be a question ofelephants.”
He left the breakfast table, summoned his faithful secretary, Miss Lemon, handed her the letterfrom Desmond Cox and gave her directions to arrange an appointment with the writer of the letter.

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