"I did. Will you be so good as to light

the fire ?"

She went out and came back again

immediately with paper and sticks. She

knelt down in front of the big Victorian

grate and began to lay a fire.

Hercule Poirot continued to stamp his

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feet, swing his arms and blow on his

fingers.

He was annoyed. His car --an expensive

Messarro Gratz--had not behaved with

that mechanical perfection which he expected

of a car. His chauffeur, a young

man who enjoyed a handsome salary, had

not succeeded in putting things right. The

car had staged a final refusal in a secondary

road a mile and a half from anywhere with

a fall of snow beginning. Hercule Poirot,

wearing his usual patent leather shoes, had

been forced to walk that mile and a half

to reach the riverside village of Hartly

Dene --a village which, though showing

every sign of animation in summertime,

was completely moribund in winter. The

Black Swan had registered something like

dismay at the arrival of a guest. The landlord

had been almost eloquent as he

pointed out that the local garage could

supply a car in which the gentleman could

continue his journey.

Hercule Poirot repudiated the suggestion.

His Latin thrift was offended. Hire a car ?

He already had a car--a large car--an

expensive car. In that car and no other he

proposed to continue his journey back to

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town. And in any case, even if repairs to it

could be quickly effected, he was not going

on in this snow until next morning. He

demanded a room, a fire and a meal.

Sighing, the landlord showed him to the

room, sent the maid to supply the fire and

then retired to discuss with his wife the

problem of the meal.

An hour later, his feet stretched out

towards the comforting blaze, Hercule

Poirot reflected leniently on the dinner he

had just eaten. True, the steak had been

both tough and full of gristle, the brusselssprouts

had been large, pale, and definitely

watery, the potatoes had had hearts

of stone. Nor was there much to be said

for the portion of stewed apple and custard

which had followed. The cheese had been

hard, and the biscuits soft. Nevertheless, thought Hercule Poirot, looking graciously at the leaping flames, and sipping delicately

at a cup of liquid mud euphemistically

called coffee, it was better to be full than empty, and after tramping snowbound lanes in patent leather shoes, to sit in front

of a fire was Paradise!

There was a knock on the door and the

chambermaid appeared.

104

"Please, sir, the man from the garage is

here and would like to see you."

Hercule Poirot replied amiably:

"Let him mount."

The girl giggled and retired. Poirot

reflected kindly that her account of him to

her friends would provide entertainment

for many winter days to come.

There was another knock --a different

knock --and Poirot called:

"Come in."

He looked up with approval at the