topmost letter from the little pile on the

side of his desk.

Yes, it was exactly as Miss Lemon had

said. A city address --a curt businesslike

unrefined demand. The subject --the kidnapping

of a Pekinese dog. One of those

bulging-eyed, overpampered pets of a rich

woman. Hercule Poirot's lip curled as he

read it.

Nothing unusual about this. Nothing

out of the way or--But yes, yes, in one

14

small detail. Miss Lemon was right. In one

small detail there was something unusual.

Hercule Poirot sat down. He read the

letter slowly and carefully. It was not the

kind of case he wanted, it was not the kind

of case he had promised himself. It was not

in any sense an important case, it was

supremely unimportant. It was not — and

here was the crux of his objection—it

was not a proper Labour of Hercules.

But unfortunately he was curious. . . .

Yes, he was curious. . . .

He raised his voice so as to be heard by

Miss Lemon above the noise of her

typing.

"Ring up this Sir Joseph Hoggin," he

ordered, "and make an appointment for

me to see him at his office as he suggests."

35

As usual. Miss Lemon had been right.

"I'm a plain man, M. Poirot," said Sir

Joseph Hoggin.

Hercule Poirot made a noncommittal

gesture with his right hand. It expressed

(if you chose to take it so) admiration for

the solid worth of Sir Joseph's career and an

appreciation of his modesty in so describing

himself. It could also have conveyed a

15

graceful deprecation of the statement. In

any case it gave no clue to the thought then

uppermost in Hercule Poirot's mind, which

was that Sir Joseph certainly was (using

the term in its more colloquial sense) a very

plain man indeed. Hercule Poirot's eyes

rested critically on the swelling jowl, the

small pig eyes, the bulbous nose and the

close-lipped mouth. The whole general

effect reminded him of someone or something

--but for the moment he could not

recollect who or what it was. A memory

stirred dimly. A long time ago ... in

Belgium . . . something, surely, to do with soap. ...

Sir Joseph was continuing.

"No frills about me. I don't beat about

the bush. Most people, M. Poirot, would

let this business go. Write it off as a bad

debt and forget about it. But that's not

Joseph Hoggin's way. I'm a rich man-and in a manner of speaking two hundred pounds is neither here nor there to me--'9

Poirot interpolated swiftly:

cc! congratulate you."

"Eh ?"

Sir Joseph paused a minute. His small

16

eyes narrowed themselves still more. He

said sharply:

"That's not to say that I'm in the habit

of throwing my money about. What I want

I pay for. But I pay the market price — no

more."

Hercule Poirot said:

"You realise that my fees are high ?"

"Yes, yes. But this," Sir Joseph looked