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- Herausgeber: BookThug
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
Mr Roger Havering asks Poirot to investigate the murder of his uncle at his hunting lodge in Derbyshire. With Hercule Poirot confined to his home due to a severe flu, the good Hastings will take charge of the investigation of the crime committed several kilometers away from London. The clues seem a bit confusing, and although Hasting fails to hit the nail on the head, Poirot will guide him as he receives his adventuring companion's telegrams.
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Seitenzahl: 23
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020
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Chapter 1
“After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.” Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows, his head muffled in a woolen shawl, and was slowly sipping a particularly noxious tisane which I had prepared according to his directions. His eye rested with pleasure upon a neatly graduated row of medicine bottles which adorned the mantelpiece.
“Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evil-doers! Figure to yourself, mon ami, that I have a little paragraph to myself in Society Gossip. But yes! Here it is! ‘Go it - criminals - all out! Hercule Poirot - and believe me, girls, he’s some Hercules! - our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on you. ‘Cause why? ‘Cause he’s got la grippe himself’!”
I laughed.
“Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this time.”
“That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret.” Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.
“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see Monsieur Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do - and with all that quite the gentleman - I brought up ‘is card.” She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “Mr Roger Havering,” I read. Poirot motioned with his head towards the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth “Who’s Who.” Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.
“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.”
“H’m!” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at the Frivolity - only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook.
I remember she married some young man about town just before the War.”
“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what our visitor’s particular little trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”
Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smart appearance. His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently laboring under great agitation.
“Captain Hastings? You are Monsieur Poirot’s partner, I understand. It is imperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I responded. “Poirot is ill in bed - influenza.” His face fell.
“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”
“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”
“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, was foully murdered last night.”
“Here in London?”
