Twelve
The premises¹ of Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter were typical of an old-fashioned firm of theutmost respectability. The hand of time had made itself felt. There were no more Harrisons and nomore Leadbetters. There was a Mr. Atkinson and a young Mr. Cole, and there was still Mr. JeremyFullerton, senior partner.
A lean, elderly man, Mr. Fullerton, with an impassive face, a dry, legal voice, and eyes thatwere unexpectedly shrewd. Beneath his hand rested a sheet of notepaper, the few words on whichhe had just read. He read them once again, assessing their meaning very exactly. Then he looked atthe man whom the note introduced to him.
“Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” He made his own assessment² of the visitor. An elderly man, aforeigner, very dapper in his dress, unsuitably attired³ as to the feet in patent leather shoes whichwere, so Mr. Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for him. Faint lines of pain were alreadyetching themselves round the corners of his eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and recommended tohim by, of all people, Inspector⁴ Henry Raglan, C.I.D., and also vouched⁵ for by SuperintendentSpence (retired), formerly⁶ of Scotland Yard.
“Superintendent Spence, eh?” said Mr. Fullerton.
Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had done good work in his time, had been highly thought ofby his superiors. Faint memories flashed across his mind. Rather a celebrated⁷ case, morecelebrated actually than it had showed any signs of being, a case that had seemed cut and dried. Ofcourse! It came to him that his nephew Robert had been connected with it, had been JuniorCounsel. A psychopathic killer⁸, it had seemed, a man who had hardly bothered to try and defendhimself, a man whom you might have thought really wanted to be hanged (because it had meanthanging at that time). No fifteen years, or indefinite number of years in prison. No. You paid thefull penalty—and more’s the pity they’ve given it up, so Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind.

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