Three
In a flat in London the telephone bell rang. The owner of the flat, Hercule Poirot, stirred in hischair. Disappointment attacked him. He knew before he answered it what it meant. His friendSolly, with whom he had been going to spend the evening, reviving their never- endingcontroversy about the real culprit in the Canning Road Municipal Baths murder, was about to saythat he could not come. Poirot, who had collected certain bits of evidence in favour of his ownsomewhat far-fetched theory, was deeply disappointed. He did not think his friend Solly wouldaccept his suggestions, but he had no doubt that when Solly in his turn produced his own fantasticbeliefs, he himself, Hercule Poirot, would just as easily be able to demolish² them in the name ofsanity, logic³, order and method. It was annoying, to say the least of it, if Solly did not come thisevening. But it is true that when they had met earlier in the day, Solly had been racked with achesty cough and was in a state of highly infectious catarrh.
“He had a nasty cold,” said Hercule Poirot, “and no doubt, in spite of the remedies that I havehandy here, he would probably have given it to me. It is better that he should not come. Tout⁴ demême,” he added, with a sigh, “it will mean that now I shall pass a dull evening.”
Many of the evenings were dull now, Hercule Poirot thought. His mind, magnificent as it was(for he had never doubted that fact) required stimulation⁵ from outside sources. He had never beenof a philosophic⁶ cast of mind. There were times when he almost regretted that he had not taken tothe study of theology instead of going into the police force in his early days. The number of angelswho could dance on the point of a needle; it would be interesting to feel that that mattered and toargue passionately⁷ on the point with one’s colleagues.
His manservant, George, entered the room.
“It was Mr. Solomon Levy⁸, sir.”
“Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot.

分享到：