‘Well, it’s like this. There’s Peter Gaye who’s a young Atom Scientist and he’s suspected of being in the pay of the Communists, and he’s married to this girl, Joan Blunt, and his first wife’s dead, but she isn’t, and she turns up because she’s a secret agent, or perhaps not, I mean she may really be a hiker – and the wife’s having an affair, and this man Loyola turns up either to meet Maya, or to spy upon her, and there’s a blackmailing letter which might be from the housekeeper, or again it might be the butler, and the revolver’s missing, and as you don’t know who the blackmailing letter’s to, and the hypodermic syringe fell out at dinner, and after that it disappeared…’

Mrs Oliver came to a full stop, estimating correctly Poirot’s reaction.

‘I know,’ she said sympathetically. ‘It sounds just a muddle, but it isn’t really – not in my head – and when you see the synopsis leaflet, you’ll find it’s quite clear.

‘And, anyway,’ she ended, ‘the story doesn’t really matter, does it? I mean, not to you. All you’ve got to do is to present the prizes – very nice prizes, the first’s a silver cigarette case shaped like a revolver – and say how remarkably clever the solver has been.’

Poirot thought to himself that the solver would indeed have been clever. In fact, he doubted very much that there would be a solver. The whole plot and action of the Murder Hunt seemed to him to be wrapped in impenetrable fog.

‘Well,’ said Captain Warburton cheerfully, glancing at his wrist-watch, ‘I’d better be off to the printers and collect.’

Mrs Oliver groaned.

‘If they’re not done –’

‘Oh, they’re done all right. I telephoned. So long.’

He left the room.

Mrs Oliver immediately clutched Poirot by the arm and demanded in a hoarse whisper:

‘Well?’

‘Well – what?’

‘Have you found out anything? Or spotted anybody?’

Poirot replied with mild reproof in his tones:

‘Everybody and everything seems to me completely normal.’

‘Normal?’

‘Well, perhaps that is not quite the right word. Lady Stubbs, as you say, is definitely subnormal, and Mr Legge would appear to be rather abnormal.’

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said Mrs Oliver impatiently. ‘He’s had a nervous breakdown.’

Poirot did not question the somewhat doubtful wording of this sentence but accepted it at its face value.

‘Everybody appears to be in the expected state of nervous agitation, high excitement, general fatigue, and strong irritation, which are characteristic of preparations for this form of entertainment. If you could only indicate –’

‘Sh!’ Mrs Oliver grasped his arm again. ‘Someone’s coming.’

It was just like a bad melodrama, Poirot felt, his own irritation mounting.

The pleasant mild face of Miss Brewis appeared round the door.