Taken at the Flood

TAKEN AT THE FLOOD

Agatha Christie

There is a tide in the affairs of men,

Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,

Omitted, all the voyage of their life

Is bound in shallows and in miseries.

On such a full sea are we now afloat,

And we must take the current when it serves,

Or lose our ventures.

Prologue

I

In every club there is a club bore. The Coronation Club was no exception; and the fact that an Air Raid was in progress made no difference to normal procedure. Major Porter, late Indian Army, rustled his newspaper and cleared his throat. Every one avoided his eye, but it was no use.

"I see they've got the announcement of Gordon Cloade's death in the Times," he said. "Discreetly put, of course. On Oct. 5th, result of enemy action. No address given. As a matter of fact it was just round the corner from my little place. One of those big houses on top of Campden Hill. I can tell you it shook me up a bit. I'm a Warden, you know. Cloade had only just got back from the States. He'd been over on that Government Purchase business. Got married while he was over there. A young widow - young enough to be his daughter. Mrs Underhay. As a matter of fact I knew her first husband out in Nigeria."

Major Porter paused. Nobody displayed any interest or asked him to continue. Newspapers were held up sedulously in front of faces, but it took more than that to discourage Major Porter. He always had long histories to relate, mostly about people whom nobody knew.

"Interesting," said Major Porter, firmly, his eyes fixed absently on a pair of extremely pointed patent leather shoes - a type of footwear of which he profoundly disapproved. "As I said, I'm a Warden. Funny business this blast. Never know what it's going to do. Blew the basement in and ripped off the roof. First floor practically wasn't touched. Six people in the house. Three servants, married couple and a housemaid, Gordon Cloade, his wife and the wife's brother. They were all down in the basement except the wife's brother - ex- Commando fellow - he preferred his own comfortable bedroom on the first floor - and by jove, he escaped with a few bruises. The three servants were all killed by blast - Gordon Cloade was buried, they dug him out but he died on the way to hospital. His wife was suffering from blast, hadn't got a stitch of clothing on her! but she was alive. They think she'll pull through. She'll be a rich widow - Gordon Cloade must have been worth well over a million."

Again Major Porter paused. His eyes had travelled up from the patent leather shoes - striped trousers - black coat - egg-shaped head and colossal moustaches.

Foreign, of course! That explained the shoes. "Really," thought Major Porter, "what's the club coming to? Can't get away from foreigners even here." This separate train of thought ran alongside his narrative.