But what had she meant by it ? Had she

meant London's Underground Railways?

Or were her words to be taken in a religious

sense ? Surely, even if her own way of life

made Hell the most plausible destination

for her after this life, surely --surely her

Russian courtesy would not suggest that

Hercule Poirot was necessarily bound for

the same place ?

424

No, she must have meant something

quite different. She must have meant--Hercule Poirot was brought up short against bewilderment. What an intriguing, what an unpredictable woman! A lesser woman might have shrieked "The Ritz" or "Claridgey. But Vera Rossakoff had cried poignantly and impossibly: "Hell!33

Poirot sighed. But he was not defeated.

In his perplexity he took the simplest and

most straightforward course on the following

morning, he asked his secretary. Miss

Lemon.

Miss Lemon was unbelievably ugly and

incredibly efficient. To her Poirot was

nobody in particular --he was merely her

employer. She gave him excellent service. Her private thoughts and dreams were concentrated on a new filing system which she

was slowly perfecting in the recesses of her

mind.

"Miss Lemon, may I ask you a question

?33

"Of course, M. Poirot." Miss Lemon

took her fingers off the typewriter keys and

waited attentively.

"If a friend asked you to meet her --or

him --in Hell, what would you do ?33

425

Miss Lemon, as usual, did not pause.

She knew, as the saying goes, all the

answers.

"It would be advisable, I think, to ring

up for a table," she said.

Hercule Poirot stared at her in a stupefied

fashion.

He said, staccato^ "You --would --ring

--up --for --a table ?"

Miss Lemon nodded and drew the

telephone towards her.

"Tonight ?" she asked, and taking assent

for granted since he did not speak, she

dialled briskly.

"Temple Bar 14578 ? Is that Hell ? Will

you please reserve a table for two. M. Hercule

Poirot. Eleven o'clock."

She replaced the receiver and her fingers

hovered over the keys of her typewriter. A

slight --a very slight look of impatience

was discernible upon her face. She had

done her part, the look seemed to say, surely her employer could now leave her to get on with what she was doing ?

But Hercule Poirot required explanations.

"What is it, then, this Hell ?" he demanded.

426

Miss Lemon looked slightly surprised.

"Oh didn't you know, M. Poirot ? It's a

night club --quite new and very much the

rage at present--run by some Russian

woman, I believe. I can fix up for you to

become a member before this evening

quite easily."

Whereupon, having wasted (as she made

obvious) quite time enough. Miss Lemon

broke into a perfect fusillade of efficient

typing.

At eleven that evening Hercule Poirot

passed through a doorway over which a

Neon sign discreetly showed one letter

at a time. A gentleman in red tails received

him and took from him his coat.

A gesture directed him to a flight of wide