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Poirot said very softly:
“She will not get away with it.”
“Our hands are tied, I tell you!”
“Yours may be—mine are not!”
“Good old Poirot! Then you are going on with it?”
“Mais oui—to the death.”
“Well, don’t let it be your death, old boy! If this business goes on as it has begun someone will probably send you a poisoned tarantula by post!”
As he replaced the receiver, Poirot said to himself:
“Now, why did I use that melodramatic phrase—‘to the death?’ Vraiment, it is absurd!”
III
The letter came by evening post. It was typewritten except for the signature.
Dear M. Poirot (it ran),
I should be greatly obliged if you would call upon me some time tomorrow. I may have a commission for you. I suggest twelve thirty, at my house in Chelsea. If this is inconvenient to you, perhaps you would telephone my secretary? I apologize for giving you such short notice.
Yours sincerely,
Alistair Blunt.
Poirot smoothed out the letter and read it a second time. At that moment the telephone rang.
Hercule Poirot occasionally indulged in the fancy that he knew by the ring of his telephone bell what kind of message was impending.
On this occasion he was at once quite sure that the call was significant. It was not a wrong number—not one of his friends.
He got up and took down the receiver. He said in his polite, foreign voice:
“’Allo?”
An impersonal voice said: “What number are you, please?”
“This is Whitehall 7272.”
There was a pause, a click, and then a voice spoke. It was a woman’s voice.
“M. Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Hercule Poirot?”
“Yes.”
“M. Poirot, you have either already received—or will shortly receive, a letter.”
“Who is speaking?”
“It is not necessary that you should know.”
