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A young lady, soon to be married, is being blackmailed and pleads for Poriot´s help. The blackmailer threatens to send to her future husband an old love letter she wrote. Poirot is determined to find the letter, but will he have to turn to crime to do so?
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Seitenzahl: 17
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
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THE_VEILED_LADY_epub
I had noticed that for some time Poirot had been growing increasingly dissatisfied and restless. We had had no interesting cases of late, nothing on which my little friend could exercise his keen wits and remarkable powers of deduction. This morning he flung down the newspaper with an impatient:
‘Tchah!’ -a favourite exclamation of his which sounded exactly like a cat sneezing.
‘They fear me, Hastings; the criminals of your England they fear me! When the cat is there, the little mice, they come no more to the cheese!’
‘I don’t suppose the greater part of them even know of your existence,’ I said, laughing.
Poirot looked at me reproachfully. He always imagines that the whole world is thinking and talking of Hercule Poirot. He had certainly made a name for himself in London, but I could hardly believe that his existence struck terror into the criminal world.
‘What about that daylight robbery of jewels in Bond Street the other day?’ I asked.
‘A neat coup,’ said Poirot approvingly, ‘though not in my line. Pas de finesse, seuelment de l’audace! A man with a loaded cane smashes the plate-glass window of a jeweller’s shop and grabs a number of precious stones. Worthy citizens immediately seize him; a policeman arrives. He is caught red-handed with the jewels on him. He is marched off to the police, and then it is discovered that the stones are paste. He has passed the real ones to a confederate – one of the aforementioned worthy citizens. He will go to prison - true; but when he comes out, there will be a nice little fortune awaiting him. Yes, not badly imagined. But I could do better than that. Sometimes, Hastings, I regret that I am of such a moral disposition. To work against the law, it would be pleasing, for a change.’
‘Cheer up, Poirot; you know you are unique in your own line.’
‘But what is there on hand in my own line?’
I picked up the paper.
‘Here’s an Englishman mysteriously done to death in Holland,’ I said.
‘They always say that - and later they find that he ate the tinned fish and that his death is perfectly natural.’
