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    Third Girl: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Third Girl: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Third Girl: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Ebook302 pages4 hours

    Third Girl: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

    By Agatha Christie

    3.5/5

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    In this breathtaking Agatha Christie mystery, the Third Girl sharing a London flat with two others announces to Hercule Poirot that she’s a murderer and then disappears. The masterful investigator must figure out whether the missing girl is a criminal, a victim, or merely insane.

    Three young women share a London flat. The first is a coolly efficient secretary. The second is an artist. The third interrupts Hercule Poirot’s breakfast confessing that she is a murderer—and then promptly disappears.

    Slowly, Poirot learns of the rumors surrounding the mysterious third girl, her family, and her disappearance. Yet hard evidence is needed before the great detective can pronounce her guilty, innocent, or insane.…

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateNov 23, 2004
    ISBN9780061753909
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

    Read more from Agatha Christie

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    Reviews for Third Girl

    3.5/5

    592 ratings20 reviews

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    • 3/5
      This Christie is one of the later ones and does not have quite so much sleek sophistication and style as do her earlier works. This one seems more ordinary and approachable - one that is middle class rather than upper class. In any case, it's great fun with all the usual hidden identities and connections that you couldn't possibly see coming.
    • 3/5
      This very late Poirot novel isn't Christie's best. Poirot is visited by a discombombulated-looking girl who blurts out her belief that she's committed a murder, but then runs off. Poirot teams with Ariadne Oliver to track down both the girl, and the truth. The plot here wanders, and although Third Girl clocks in at just 220 pages or so, there's an uncomfortable amount of padding. Christie manages to tie it all together in her inimitable way, but there are so many other great Poirot novels I'd recommend this one only to Christie aficianados.
    • 4/5
      I really did like it, up until the next to last chapter when M. Poirot was sitting in his chair "thinking"... That was boring as Christie liked to confuse her readers w/ Red Herrings.

      A young woman, Norma, is sharing a flat with two others, she is commonly known as "the third girl"... Her father has recently returned from South Africa w/ his new & younger wife, who has had mysterious bouts of gastritis whenever Norma visits.

      Norma is suffering from "madness" and delusions and goes to visit M. Poirot, saying that she believes that she has committed a murder, but abruptly leaves telling M. Poirot, that he is "too old" to help her.

      M. Poirot cadges an invitation to meet Norma's family via Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, who then also becomes involved in the mystery....

      Added into the mix is Norma's great uncle, who is known to M. Poirot from sensitive war "business" and may be missing some very important historical documents, the Uncle's secretary, Norma's boyfriend, Norma's two flat mates, & the upstairs neighbor who has fallen from her balcony to her death.....

      I caught on to a good part of the mystery & who done it. I didn't like or dislike the characters, but this was a good steady read.
    • 2/5
      In which Poirot and Mrs. Oliver pursue an unknown crime, and an unknown perpetrator, and the dreaded young generation.

      No good. It’s always interesting to see Poirot – whose liveliness in the ’20s and ’30s has naturally subsided – having to deal with the ‘modern generation’ but, unfortunately, Christie herself still seems to be dealing with them. As a result, "Third Girl" comes off as unaware and confused about itself. The nature of the mystery uses a number of plot elements from previous novels without every distinguishing it.

      The Suchet adaptation was passable, although far from the best, and that’s not surprising: very little happens in this novel, and what does happen is eminently forgettable. For Christie fans only.

      Poirot ranking: 34th out of 38.
    • 4/5
      From the moment he meets her, the young girl strikes Hercule Poirot as peculiar. In fact, everything about her - from her tousled appearance to her perplexed stare - seems too strange; downright abnormal to him. Yet it's her vague confession to a murder she's not even entirely sure she committed that really throws the little Belgian detective for a loop. In all his years, Monsieur Poirot has never encountered such an unusual child.The mystery becomes even darker and more complicated when he finds out that the odd little duck has suddenly flown the proverbial coop. What's more: No one knows where she may have gone, nor does anyone seem to care that she's missing. So, the question is: Just what's her secret? No one's talking. But Monsieur Poirot suspects that the answer is going to be a killer...Over the past several years, I've actually read a total of eight of Agatha Christie's books - this is the fourth book that I have read in her Hercule Poirot Series. In my opinion, this was certainly an enjoyable read for me, but still incredibly intricate and confusing in parts. This perhaps wasn't Agatha Christie's best book in my opinion, but in typical Agatha Christie style; I was completely in the dark when it came to revealing the 'who-done-it' moment in the story. Overall, I would give this book a B+!
    • 4/5
      Intriguing Christie mystery with Inspector Poirot investigating. Good plot. I liked the ending. It seems cocky Poirot got put in his place a little.
    • 5/5
      I've been a Christie fan since 8th grade and have read them all so many times that I always remember whodunit. Nevertheless, I find them a relaxing and enjoyable read when I'm taking a break from more weighty fiction.This book features two of my favorites- Hercules Poirot and Ariadne Oliver. When a young girl comes to see Poirot and confesses she might have committed a murder before running out claiming he was too old to help her, Poirot is on the case. As he tracks down the identity of the girl and searches for a death that might fit the bill, Mrs. Oliver add bits and pieces of important information that help him solve the case. The final solution is one I never saw coming (the first time I read the book at least)- a very satisfying mystery indeed!
    • 4/5
      Not airtight, but still a nice zippy sleight-of-hand trick. Made all the better by Poirot's pearl-clutching at The Youngs and (rare) display of overt frustration. SHOW US MORE FLESH, MORE BLOOD, POIROT-BOT.
    • 3/5
      Not one of her best for sure, it felt so all over the place! I enjoyed, in a masochistic kind of way I suppose, the constant reminder that the profession of detective is falling into oblivion by the time she writes this (the late 60s) and that probably means that Poirot is going to have to let go at some point. It was interesting to think about the decline of the profession and of Poirot's reputation (nobody from the younger generation has heard of him in this book, and he's described as 'old' by a younger character) but it made me really sad. I'm not sure I want to reach the end.
    • 3/5
      An average mystery but with an above average writer. A book I had actually read before but hadnt realized it.
    • 3/5
      Although some of the loose ends don't bear thinking about this is an enjoyable romp through swinging London with Herculre Poirot and Ariadne Oliver. Christie is playful with putting her pre-war detective into a modern world - "you're too old" from the third girl of the title opens the novel, but by the end Poirots knowledge of the universality of human nature wins through. MUCH better than the butchered TV version.
    • 3/5
      I have mixed feelings about this book. The plot was pretty complex and hard to figure out, and I was surprised by the ending, all of which I love. I enjoy most Christie novels because they are "cozy" mysteries. However, this one was not so cozy. Usually the people in her books act very differently from people today. They act like ladies and gentlemen, with old fashioned manners and style of dress, and are concerned about things like honor and reputation. This novel dealt with young people doing drugs, having affairs, and dressing in the grunge style, and there was a bit of espionage. So while it was entertaining, it was not much of an escape for me.
    • 4/5
      Poirot's breakfast is interrupted one morning by a young girl who thinks she has committed a murder - she then runs away because Poirot is too old to understand. This book is clearly set in the early 60s with the beatnicks and the 'peacocks' and the generation gap. But Poirot, ably assisted by Mrs Oliver, sets out to discover just who this girl is and just who she might have murdered. Interesting plot where once again Christie explores one of her main theme of identity - to say any more would give the plot away.
    • 1/5
      An aging, dithering Christie, writing about an aging, dithering Poirot. She's trying to throw in all sorts of "modern" stuff -- psychiatry and drugs -- and she's out of her depth. He's stitting around and missing connections. I didn't enjoy this one much.
    • 3/5
      Poirot !
      Enough said.
      Love this lil Belgian man.
      Read in 2008.
    • 2/5
      This was not my favorite mystery by Agatha Christie. Poirot seemed to behave uncharacteristically, or not with his usual panache. It did have quite an interesting ending, and I was only partially correct in the conclusions I had come to by the end of the narrative.
    • 1/5

      I've never been much of a fan of Agatha Christie's work; this means that, unlike the case with most of her mystery-writing contemporaries, there are still quite a few of her books I haven't read. So, every once in a while, I treat myself to what would be a trip down Memory Lane were it not for the fact that, never having read the novel before, I don't have the memory in the first place.

      Third Girl is one of the later Poirot novels; as soon as I spotted the copyright date I knew not to expect too much, in that by this stage Christie was not as fully in command of all things as once she might have been (note my polished tact), and it seems that no one at Collins, her longstanding publisher, quite had the courage to tell her so. In fact, I noted only a single out-and-out plot howler (in one chapter Poirot recalls doing something that the preceding chapter's description tells us quite explicitly he did not do) and it doesn't impact anything else in the plot so doesn't matter. I think it was in At Bertram's Hotel, another late-order Christie novel, that one of these little forgetful glitches made the triumphantly revealed solution to the mystery in fact impossible. Third Girl, mercifully, doesn't suffer that problem; what it does suffer is a solution that depends on such a staggering implausibility as to leave one dumbstruck. No one expects Golden Age mysteries to bear more than a passing resemblance to real life; but at the same time you don't expect to be asked to accept something that quite simply couldn't happen in the world. In this instance, the artifice is that a young woman -- the "third girl" of the title -- has not noticed over a period of months that one of her two flatmates, both of them supposedly about her own age, is actually her hated stepmother with a wig on.

      Some of the events along the path that leads to this calamitous revelation are entertaining in a slight way, so the couple of days I spent with the book weren't entirely wasted. Hm. I'm probably just saying that because this is supposed to be the season of good will . . .

    • 3/5
      This is certainly not Agatha Christie's best book. Of course, that doesn't mean it's a bad story. Just not as entertaining as some of her other novels.

      First of all, probably because I was able to guess some solutions myself. Although they are unbelievable, they are not that difficult to guess. Especially when you know Christie's other books and tropes she likes. This is not a big problem but it takes some joy from the final reveal.

      Secondly, the whole story somehow didn't pull me in like some others. I can't really say why. But somehow I wasn't interested in this story that much. Several times I had the opportunity to read it quickly to the end if I devote some time to it and instead took up something else, read another book.

      I think it's a good book to read on the go or on the beach, when there is a lot going on around us and we are not fully focused on the book, or when we do not want something overly complicated. It's quite a nice story that, despite my problems, can be read easily and quickly.
    • 3/5
      Feb. 2021 reread:While the basis of the plot was ingenious, Christie's comments about life in the mid-1960s England felt dated and, to be frank, somewhat of the disgruntled elder who disliked the culture & attitudes of the youth of the time. But on the plus side, I always enjoy when Ariadne Oliver is a major character.
    • 3/5
      It's the mid-sixties and girls have become so independent these days. Young Norma has a flashy boyfriend her father and stepmother don't approve of, but as Norma is rarely under their roof, there isn't a lot they can do about it. Norma has moved into a London flat with two other girls, oh, and she has bouts of forgetfulness where she ends up in possession of a weapon of some kind or other and can't recall what has occurred. Must be all those drugs.Christie has created a complex mystery here for Poirot, along with mystery writing friend Mrs. Oliver, to figure out. It's difficult for two reasons: no one is sure if there has been a crime committed until well into the story and this is one of the few books in which Christie doesn't give the reader pertinent information until the crime is solved. Still a good read, but hearing Poirot talking about mods or rockers and counter-culture drugs is sort of...weird?

    Book preview

    Third Girl - Agatha Christie

    One

    Hercule Poirot was sitting at the breakfast table. At his right hand was a steaming cup of chocolate. He had always had a sweet tooth. To accompany the chocolate was a brioche. It went agreeably with chocolate. He nodded his approval. This was from the fourth shop he had tried. It was a Danish pâtisserie but infinitely superior to the so-called French one nearby. That had been nothing less than a fraud.

    He was satisfied gastronomically. His stomach was at peace. His mind also was at peace, perhaps somewhat too much so. He had finished his Magnum Opus, an analysis of great writers of detective fiction. He had dared to speak scathingly of Edgar Allen Poe, he had complained of the lack of method or order in the romantic outpourings of Wilkie Collins, had lauded to the skies two American authors who were practically unknown, and had in various other ways given honour where honour was due and sternly withheld it where he considered it was not. He had seen the volume through the press, had looked upon the results and, apart from a really incredible number of printer’s errors, pronounced that it was good. He had enjoyed this literary achievement and enjoyed the vast amount of reading he had had to do, had enjoyed snorting with disgust as he flung a book across the floor (though always remembering to rise, pick it up and dispose of it tidily in the wastepaper basket) and had enjoyed appreciatively nodding his head on the rare occasions when such approval was justified.

    And now? He had had a pleasant interlude of relaxation, very necessary after his intellectual labour. But one could not relax forever, one had to go on to the next thing. Unfortunately he had no idea what the next thing might be. Some further literary accomplishment? He thought not. Do a thing well then leave it alone. That was his maxim. The truth of the matter was, he was bored. All this strenuous mental activity in which he had been indulging—there had been too much of it. It had got him into bad habits, it had made him restless….

    Vexatious! He shook his head and took another sip of chocolate.

    The door opened and his well-trained servant, George, entered. His manner was deferential and slightly apologetic. He coughed and murmured, A— he paused, —a—young lady has called.

    Poirot looked at him with surprise and mild distaste.

    I do not see people at this hour, he said reprovingly.

    No, sir, agreed George.

    Master and servant looked at each other. Communication was sometimes fraught with difficulties for them. By inflexion or innuendo or a certain choice of words George would signify that there was something that might be elicited if the right question was asked. Poirot considered what the right question in this case might be.

    She is good-looking, this young lady? he inquired carefully.

    In my view—no, sir, but there is no accounting for tastes.

    Poirot considered his reply. He remembered the slight pause that George had made before the phrase—young lady. George was a delicate social recorder. He had been uncertain of the visitor’s status but had given her the benefit of the doubt.

    You are of the opinion that she is a young lady rather than, let us say, a young person?

    I think so, sir, though it is not always easy to tell nowadays. George spoke with genuine regret.

    Did she give a reason for wishing to see me?

    She said— George pronounced the words with some reluctance, apologising for them in advance as it were, that she wanted to consult you about a murder she might have committed.

    Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows rose. "Might have committed? Does she not know?"

    That is what she said, sir.

    Unsatisfactory, but possibly interesting, said Poirot.

    It might—have been a joke, sir, said George, dubiously.

    Anything is possible, I suppose, conceded Poirot, but one would hardly think— He lifted his cup. Show her in after five minutes.

    Yes, sir. George withdrew.

    Poirot finished the last sip of chocolate. He pushed aside his cup and rose to his feet. He walked to the fireplace and adjusted his moustaches carefully in the mirror over the chimneypiece. Satisfied, he returned to his chair and awaited the arrival of his visitor. He did not know exactly what to expect….

    He had hoped perhaps for something nearer to his own estimate of female attraction. The outworn phrase beauty in distress had occurred to him. He was disappointed when George returned ushering in the visitor; inwardly he shook his head and sighed. Here was no beauty—and no noticeable distress either. Mild perplexity would seem nearer the mark.

    Pha! thought Poirot disgustedly. These girls! Do they not even try to make something of themselves? Well made-up, attractively dressed, hair that has been arranged by a good hairdresser, then perhaps she might pass. But now!

    His visitor was a girl of perhaps twenty-odd. Long straggly hair of indeterminate colour strayed over her shoulders. Her eyes, which were large, bore a vacant expression and were of a greenish blue. She wore what were presumably the chosen clothes of her generation. Black high leather boots, white openwork woollen stockings of doubtful cleanliness, a skimpy skirt, and a long and sloppy pullover of heavy wool. Anyone of Poirot’s age and generation would have had only one desire. To drop the girl into a bath as soon as possible. He had often felt this same reaction walking along the streets. There were hundreds of girls looking exactly the same. They all looked dirty. And yet—a contradiction in terms—this one had the look of having been recently drowned and pulled out of a river. Such girls, he reflected, were not perhaps really dirty. They merely took enormous care and pains to look so.

    He rose with his usual politeness, shook hands, drew out a chair.

    You demanded to see me, mademoiselle? Sit down, I pray of you.

    Oh, said the girl, in a slightly breathless voice. She stared at him.

    Eh bien? said Poirot.

    She hesitated. I think I’d—rather stand. The large eyes continued to stare doubtfully.

    As you please. Poirot resumed his seat and looked at her. He waited. The girl shuffled her feet. She looked down on them then up again at Poirot.

    "You—you are Hercule Poirot?"

    Assuredly. In what way can I be of use to you?

    Oh, well, it’s rather difficult. I mean—

    Poirot felt that she might need perhaps a little assistance. He said helpfully, My manservant told me that you wanted to consult me because you thought you ‘might have committed a murder.’ Is that correct?

    The girl nodded. That’s right.

    Surely that is not a matter that admits of any doubt. You must know yourself whether you have committed a murder or not.

    Well, I don’t know quite how to put it. I mean—

    Come now, said Poirot kindly. Sit down. Relax the muscles. Tell me all about it.

    I don’t think—oh dear, I don’t know how to—You see, it’s all so difficult. I’ve—I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to be rude but—well, I think I’d better go.

    Come now. Courage.

    No, I can’t. I thought I could come and—and ask you, ask you what I ought to do—but I can’t, you see. It’s all so different from—

    From what?

    I’m awfully sorry and I really don’t want to be rude, but—

    She breathed an enormous sigh, looked at Poirot, looked away, and suddenly blurted out, "You’re too old. Nobody told me you were so old. I really don’t want to be rude but—there it is. You’re too old. I’m really very sorry."

    She turned abruptly and blundered out of the room, rather like a desperate moth in lamplight.

    Poirot, his mouth open, heard the bang of the front door.

    He ejaculated: Nom d’un nom d’un nom….

    Two

    I

    The telephone rang.

    Hercule Poirot did not even seem aware of the fact.

    It rang with shrill and insistent persistence.

    George entered the room and stepped towards it, turning a questioning glance towards Poirot.

    Poirot gestured with his hand.

    Leave it, he said.

    George obeyed, leaving the room again. The telephone continued to ring. The shrill irritating noise continued. Suddenly it stopped. After a minute or two, however, it commenced to ring again.

    "Ah Sapristi! That must be a woman—undoubtedly a woman."

    He sighed, rose to his feet and came to the instrument.

    He picked up the receiver. ’Allo, he said.

    Are you—is that M. Poirot?

    I, myself.

    It’s Mrs. Oliver—your voice sounds different. I didn’t recognise it at first.

    "Bonjour, Madame—you are well, I hope?"

    Oh, I’m all right. Ariadne Oliver’s voice came through in its usual cheerful accents. The well-known detective story writer and Hercule Poirot were on friendly terms.

    It’s rather early to ring you up, but I want to ask you a favour.

    Yes?

    It is the annual dinner of our Detective Authors’ Club; I wondered if you would come and be our Guest Speaker this year. It would be very very sweet of you if you would.

    When is this?

    Next month—the twenty-third.

    A deep sigh came over the telephone.

    Alas! I am too old.

    Too old? What on earth do you mean? You’re not old at all.

    You think not?

    Of course not. You’ll be wonderful. You can tell us lots of lovely stories about real crimes.

    And who will want to listen?

    Everyone. They—M. Poirot, is there anything the matter? Has something happened? You sound upset.

    Yes, I am upset. My feelings—ah, well, no matter.

    But tell me about it.

    Why should I make a fuss?

    Why shouldn’t you? You’d better come and tell me all about it. When will you come? This afternoon. Come and have tea with me.

    Afternoon tea, I do not drink it.

    Then you can have coffee.

    It is not the time of day I usually drink coffee.

    Chocolate? With whipped cream on top? Or a tisane. You love sipping tisanes. Or lemonade. Or orangeade. Or would you like decaffeinated coffee if I can get it—

    "Ah ça, non, par example! It is an abomination."

    One of those sirops you like so much. I know, I’ve got half a bottle of Ribena in the cupboard.

    What is Ribena?

    Black currant flavour.

    Indeed, one has to hand it to you! You really do try, Madame. I am touched by your solicitude. I will accept with pleasure to drink a cup of chocolate this afternoon.

    Good. And then you’ll tell me all about what’s upset you.

    She rang off.

    II

    Poirot considered for a moment. Then he dialled a number. Presently he said: Mr. Goby? Hercule Poirot here. Are you very fully occupied at this moment?

    Middling, said the voice of Mr. Goby. Middling to fair. But to oblige you, Monsieur Poirot, if you’re in a hurry, as you usually are—well, I wouldn’t say that my young men couldn’t manage mostly what’s on hand at present. Of course good boys aren’t as easy to get as they used to be. Think too much of themselves nowadays. Think they know it all before they’ve started to learn. But there! Can’t expect old heads on young shoulders. I’ll be pleased to put myself at your disposal, M. Poirot. Maybe I can put one or two of the better lads on the job. I suppose it’s the usual—collecting information?

    He nodded his head and listened whilst Poirot went into details of exactly what he wanted done. When he had finished with Mr. Goby, Poirot rang up Scotland Yard where in due course he got through to a friend of his. When he in turn had listened to Poirot’s requirements, he replied,

    "Don’t want much, do you? Any murder, anywhere. Time, place and victim unknown. Sounds a bit of a wild goose chase, if you ask me, old boy. He added disapprovingly, You don’t seem really to know anything!"

    III

    At 4:15 that afternoon Poirot sat in Mrs. Oliver’s drawing room sipping appreciatively at a large cup of chocolate topped with foaming whipped cream which his hostess had just placed on a small table beside him. She added a small plate full of langue de chats biscuits.

    "Chère Madame, what kindness." He looked over his cup with faint surprise at Mrs. Oliver’s coiffure and also at her new wallpaper. Both were new to him. The last time he had seen Mrs. Oliver, her hairstyle had been plain and severe. It now displayed a richness of coils and twists arranged in intricate patterns all over her head. Its prolific luxury was, he suspected, largely artificial. He debated in his mind how many switches of hair might unexpectedly fall off if Mrs. Oliver was to get suddenly excited, as was her wont. As for the wallpaper….

    These cherries—they are new? he waved a teaspoon. It was, he felt, rather like being in a cherry orchard.

    Are there too many of them, do you think? said Mrs. Oliver. So hard to tell beforehand with wallpaper. Do you think my old one was better?

    Poirot cast his mind back dimly to what he seemed to remember as large quantities of bright coloured tropical birds in a forest. He felt inclined to remark Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose, but restrained himself.

    And now, said Mrs. Oliver, as her guest finally replaced his cup on its saucer and sat back with a sigh of satisfaction, wiping remnants of foaming cream from his moustache, "what is all this about?"

    That I can tell you very simply. This morning a girl came to see me. I suggested she might make an appointment. One has one’s routine, you comprehend. She sent back word that she wanted to see me at once because she thought she might have committed a murder.

    "What an odd thing to say. Didn’t she know?"

    "Precisely! C’est inouï! so I instructed George to show her in. She stood there! She refused to sit down. She just stood there staring at me. She seemed quite half-witted. I tried to encourage her. Then suddenly she said that she’d changed her mind. She said she didn’t want to be rude but that—(what do you think?)—but that I was too old.…"

    Mrs. Oliver hastened to utter soothing words. "Oh well, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half dead. They’ve no sense, girls, you must realise that."

    It wounded me, said Hercule Poirot.

    Well, I shouldn’t worry about it, if I were you. Of course it was a very rude thing to say.

    "That does not matter. And it is not only my feelings. I am worried. Yes, I am worried."

    Well, I should forget all about it if I were you, advised Mrs. Oliver comfortably.

    "You do not understand. I am worried about this girl. She came to me for help. Then she decided that I was too old. Too old to be of any use to her. She was wrong of course, that goes without saying, and then she just ran away. But I tell you that girl needs help."

    I don’t suppose she does really, said Mrs. Oliver soothingly. Girls make a fuss about things.

    "No. You are wrong. She needs help."

    You don’t think she really has committed a murder?

    Why not? She said she had.

    Yes, but— Mrs. Oliver stopped. "She said she might have, she said slowly. But what can she possibly mean by that?"

    Exactly. It does not make sense.

    Who did she murder or did she think she murdered?

    Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

    And why did she murder someone?

    Again Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

    Of course it could be all sorts of things. Mrs. Oliver began to brighten as she set her ever prolific imagination to work. She could have run over someone in her car and not stopped. She could have been assaulted by a man on a cliff and struggled with him and managed to push him over. She could have given someone the wrong medicine by mistake. She could have gone to one of those purple pill parties and had a fight with someone. She could have come to and found she had stabbed someone. She—

    "Assez, madame, assez!"

    But Mrs. Oliver was well away.

    She might have been a nurse in the operating theatre and administered the wrong anaesthetic or— she broke off, suddenly anxious for clearer details. What did she look like?

    Poirot considered for a moment.

    An Ophelia devoid of physical attraction.

    Oh dear, said Mrs. Oliver. "I can almost see her when you say that. How queer."

    She is not competent, said Poirot. That is how I see her. She is not one who can cope with difficulties. She is not one of those who can see beforehand the dangers that must come. She is one of whom others will look round and say ‘we want a victim. That one will do.’

    But Mrs. Oliver was no longer listening. She was clutching her rich coils of hair with both hands in a gesture with which Poirot was familiar.

    Wait, she cried in a kind of agony. Wait!

    Poirot waited, his eyebrows raised.

    You didn’t tell me her name, said Mrs. Oliver.

    She did not give it. Unfortunate, I agree with you.

    Wait! implored Mrs. Oliver, again with the same agony. She relaxed her grip on her head and uttered a deep sigh. Hair detached itself from its bonds and tumbled over her shoulders, a super imperial coil of hair detached itself completely and fell on the floor. Poirot picked it up and put it discreetly on the table.

    Now then, said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly restored to calm. She pushed in a hairpin or two, and nodded her head while she thought. Who told this girl about you, M. Poirot?

    No one, so far as I know. Naturally, she had heard about me, no doubt.

    Mrs. Oliver thought that naturally was not the word at all. What was natural was that Poirot himself was sure that everyone had always heard of him. Actually large numbers of people would only look at you blankly if the name of Hercule Poirot was mentioned, especially the younger generation. But how am I going to put that to him, thought Mrs. Oliver, in such a way that it won’t hurt his feelings?

    I think you’re wrong, she said. Girls—well, girls and young men—they don’t know very much about detectives and things like that. They don’t hear about them.

    Everyone must have heard about Hercule Poirot, said Poirot, superbly.

    It was an article of belief for Hercule Poirot.

    But they are all so badly educated nowadays, said Mrs. Oliver. "Really, the only people whose names they know are pop singers, or groups, or disc jockeys—that sort of thing. If you need someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist—well, then, I mean you would ask someone—ask who’s the right person to go to? And then the other person says—‘My dear, you must go to that absolutely wonderful man in Queen Anne’s Street, twists your legs three times round your head and you’re cured,’ or ‘All my diamonds were stolen, and Henry would have been furious, so I couldn’t go to the police, but there’s a simply uncanny detective, most discreet, and he got them back for me and Henry never knew a thing.’—That’s the way it happens all the time. Someone sent that girl to you."

    I doubt it very much.

    "You wouldn’t know until you were told. And you’re going to be told now. It’s only just come to me. I sent that girl to you."

    Poirot stared. You? But why did you not say so at once?

    "Because it’s only just come to me—when you spoke about Ophelia—long wet-looking hair, and rather plain. It seemed a description of someone I’d actually seen. Quite lately. And then it came to me who it was."

    Who is she?

    I don’t actually know her name, but I can easily find out. We were talking—about private detectives and private eyes—and I spoke about you and some of the amazing things you had done.

    And you gave her my address?

    No, of course I didn’t. I’d no idea she wanted a detective or anything like that. I thought we were just talking. But I’d mentioned the name several times, and of course it would be easy to look you up in the telephone book and just come along.

    Were you talking about murder?

    "Not that I can remember. I don’t even know how we came to be talking about detectives—unless, yes, perhaps it was she who started the subject…."

    Tell me then, tell me all you can—even if you do not know her name, tell me all you know about her.

    "Well, it was last weekend. I was staying with the Lorrimers. They don’t come into it except that they took me over to some friends of theirs for drinks. There were several people there—and I didn’t enjoy myself much because, as you know, I don’t really like drink, and so people have to find a soft drink for me which is rather a bore for them. And then people say things to me—you know—how much they like my books, and how they’ve been longing to meet me—and it all makes me feel hot and bothered and rather silly. But I manage to cope more or less. And they say how much they love my awful detective Sven Hjerson. If they knew how I hated him! But my publisher always says I’m not to say so. Anyway, I suppose the talk about detectives in real life grew out of all that, and I talked a bit about you, and this girl was standing around listening. When

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