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Agatha Christie

“How would you know that I should hear anything? There have been some developments, eh? The brave Giraud, he has made an arrest? Or even arrests perhaps? Ah, but I will make him look foolish, that one! But where are you taking me, my friend? Do we not go to the hotel? It is necessary that I attend to my mustaches—they are deplorably limp from the heat of traveling. Also, without doubt, there is dust on my coat. And my tie, that I must rearrange.”

I cut short his remonstrances.

“My dear Poirot—never mind all that. We must go to the villa at once. There has been another murder!

I have frequently been disappointed when fancying that I was giving news of importance to my friend. Either he has known it already or he has dismissed it as irrelevant to the main issue—and in the latter case events have usually proved him justified. But this time I could not complain of missing my effect. Never have I seen a man so flabbergasted. His jaw dropped. All the jauntiness went out of his bearing. He stared at me open-mouthed.

“What is that you say? Another murder? Ah, then, I am all wrong. I have failed. Giraud may mock himself at me—he will have reason!”

“You did not expect it, then?”

“I? Not the least in the world. It demolishes my theory—it ruins everything—it—ah, no!” He stopped dead, thumping himself on the chest. “It is impossible. I cannot be wrong! The facts, taken methodically and in their proper order, admit of only one explanation. I must be right! I am right!”

“But then—”

He interrupted me.

“Wait, my friend. I must be right, therefore this new murder is impossible unless—unless—oh, wait, I implore you. Say no word—”

He was silent for a moment or two, then, resuming his normal manner, he said in a quiet, assured voice.

“The victim is a man of middle age. His body was found in the locked shed near the scene of the crime and had been dead at least forty-eight hours. And it is most probable that

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