The Hollow: A Hercule Poirot Mystery by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Mystery, Thriller, Classics
ISBN: 0062073850
Amazon: B000FCK68E
Publisher: Harper Paperbacks
Published: 2006-10-03T05:00:00+00:00

Fifteen

Hercule Poirot, enjoying a mid-morning cup of chocolate, was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He got up and lifted the receiver.

“’Allo?”

“M. Poirot?”

“Lady Angkatell?”

“How nice of you to know my voice! Am I disturbing you?”

“But not at all. You are, I hope, none the worse for the distressing events of yesterday?”

“No, indeed. Distressing, as you say, but one feels, I find, quite detached. I rang you up to know if you could possibly come over—an imposition, I know, but I am really in great distress.”

“But certainly, Lady Angkatell. Did you mean now?”

“Well, yes, I did mean now. As quickly as you can. That’s very sweet of you.”

“Not at all. I will come by the woods, then?”

“Oh, of course—the shortest way. Thank you so much, dear M. Poirot.”

Pausing only to brush a few specks of dust off the lapels of his coat and to slip on a thin overcoat, Poirot crossed the lane and hurried along the path through the chestnuts. The swimming pool was deserted—the police had finished their work and gone. It looked innocent and peaceful in the soft misty autumn light.

Poirot took a quick look into the pavilion. The platinum fox cape, he noted, had been removed. But the six boxes of matches still stood upon the table by the settee. He wondered more than ever about those matches.

“It is not a place to keep matches—here in the damp. One box, for convenience, perhaps—but not six.”

He frowned down on the painted iron table. The tray of glasses had been removed. Someone had scrawled with a pencil on the table—a rough design of a nightmarish tree. It pained Hercule Poirot. It offended his tidy mind.

He clicked his tongue, shook his head, and hurried on towards the house, wondering at the reason for this urgent summons.

Lady Angkatell was waiting for him at the french windows and swept him into the empty drawing room.

“It was nice of you to come, M. Poirot.”

She clasped his hand warmly.

“Madame, I am at your service.”

Lady Angkatell’s hands floated out expressively. Her wide, beautiful eyes opened.

“You see, it’s all so difficult. The inspector person is interviewing—no, questioning—taking a statement—what is the term they use?—Gudgeon. And really our whole life here depends on Gudgeon, and one does so sympathize with him. Because naturally it is terrible for him to be questioned by the police—even Inspector Grange, who I do feel is really nice and probably a family man—boys, I think, and he helps them with Meccano in the evenings—and a wife who has everything spotless but a little overcrowded….”

Hercule Poirot blinked as Lady Angkatell developed her imaginary sketch of Inspector Grange’s home life.

“By the way his moustache droops,” went on Lady Angkatell, “I think that a home that is too spotless might be sometimes depressing—like soap on hospital nurses’ faces. Quite a shine! But that is more in the country where things lag behind—in London nursing homes they have lots of powder and really vivid lipstick. But I was saying, M. Poirot, that you really must come to lunch properly when all this ridiculous business is over.

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