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First published in Great Britain by
Collins 1947
Copyright © 1947 Agatha Christie Ltd.
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Ebook Edition 2010 ISBN: 9780007422418
Version: 2018-04-09
Hercule Poirotâs flat was essentially modern in its furnishings. It gleamed with chromium. Its easy-chairs, though comfortably padded, were square and uncompromising in outline.
On one of these chairs sat Hercule Poirot, neatlyâin the middle of the chair. Opposite him, in another chair, sat Dr Burton, Fellow of All Souls, sipping appreciatively at a glass of Poirotâs Château Mouton Rothschild. There was no neatness about Dr Burton. He was plump, untidy, and beneath his thatch of white hair beamed a rubicund and benign countenance. He had a deep wheezy chuckle and the habit of covering himself and everything round him with tobacco ash. In vain did Poirot surround him with ashtrays.
Dr Burton was asking a question.
âTell me,â he said. âWhy Hercule?â
âYou mean, my Christian name?â
âHardly a Christian name,â the other demurred. âDefinitely pagan. But why? Thatâs what I want to know. Fatherâs fancy? Motherâs whim? Family reasons? If I remember rightlyâthough my memory isnât what it wasâyou had a brother called Achille, did you not?â
Poirotâs mind raced back over the details of Achille Poirotâs career. Had all that really happened?
âOnly for a short space of time,â he replied.
Dr Burton passed tactfully from the subject of Achille Poirot.
âPeople should be more careful how they name their children,â he ruminated. âIâve got godchildren. I know. Blanche, one of âem is calledâdark as a gypsy! Then thereâs Deirdre, Deirdre of the Sorrowsâsheâs turned out merry as a grig. As for young Patience, she might as well have been named Impatience and be done with it! And Dianaâwell, Dianaââ the old classical scholar shuddered. âWeighs twelve stone nowâand sheâs only fifteen! They say itâs puppy fatâbut it doesnât look that way to me. Diana! They wanted to call her Helen, but I did put my foot down there. Knowing what her father and mother looked like! And her grandmother for that matter! I tried hard for Martha or Dorcas or something sensibleâbut it was no goodâwaste of breath. Rum people, parentsâ¦â
He began to wheeze gentlyâhis small fat face crinkled up.
Poirot looked at him inquiringly.
âThinking of an imaginary conversation. Your mother and the late Mrs Holmes, sitting sewing little garments or knitting: âAchille, Hercule, Sherlock, Mycroftâ¦ââ
Poirot failed to share his friendâs amusement.
âWhat I understand you to mean is, that in physical appearance I do not resemble a Hercules?â
Dr Burtonâs eyes swept over Hercule Poirot, over his small neat person attired in striped trousers, correct black jacket and natty bow tie, swept up from his patent leather shoes to his egg-shaped head and the immense moustache that adorned his upper lip.
âFrankly, Poirot,â said Dr Burton, âyou donât! I gather,â he added, âthat youâve never had much time to study the Classics?â
âThat is so.â
âPity. Pity. Youâve missed a lot. Everyone should be made to study the Classics if I had my way.â
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
âEh bien, I have got on very well without them.â
âGot on! Got on! Itâs not a question of getting on. Thatâs the wrong view altogether. The Classics arenât a ladder leading to quick success like a modern correspondence course! Itâs not a manâs working hours that are importantâitâs his leisure hours. Thatâs the mistake we all make. Take yourself now, youâre getting on, youâll be wanting to get out of things, to take things easyâwhat are you going to do then with your leisure hours?â
Poirot was ready with his reply.
âI am going to attendâseriouslyâto the cultivation of vegetable marrows.â