The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

seven-thirty? Ah! Now you see. Curtiss! Curtiss has inflamed Clayton's mind with suspicions against his wife and Rich. Curtiss suggests this plan--the visit to Scotland, the concealment in the chest, the final touch of moving the screen. Not so that Clayton can raise the lid a little and get relief--no, so that he, Curtiss, can raise that lid unobserved. The plan is Curtiss', and observe the beauty of it, Hastings. If Rich had observed the screen was out of place and moved it back--well, no harm is done. He can make another plan. Clayton hides in the chest, the mild narcotic that Curtiss had administered takes effect. He sinks into unconsciousness. Curtiss lifts up the lid and

strikes--and the phonograph goes on playing

Walking My Baby Back Home."

I found my voice. "Why? But why?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"Why did a man shoot himself? Why did two Italians fight a duel? Curtiss is of a dark passion-ate temperament. He wanted Marguerita Clayton. With her husband and Rich out of the way, she

would, or so he thought, turn to him."

He added musingly:

"These simple childlike women . . . they are very dangerous. But mon Dieu.t what an artistic masterpiece! It goes to my heart to hang a man like that. I may be a genius myself, but I am capable of recognizing genius in other people. A perfect murder, mon ami. I, Hercule Poirot, say it to you. A perfect murder, tpatant,t''

How Does your

Garden Grow?

Hercule Poirot arranged his letters in a neat pile in front of him. He picked up the topmost letter, studied the address for a moment, then neatly slit the back of the envelope with a little paper knife that he kept on the breakfast table for that express purpose and extracted the contents. Inside was yet another envelope, carefully sealed with purple wax and marked "Private and Confidential."

Hercule Poirot's eyebrows rose a little on his egg-shaped head. He murmured, "Patience! Nous allons arriver!" and once more brought the little paper knife into play. This time the envelope yielded a letter--written in a rather shaky and spiky handwriting. Several words were heavily underlined.

Hercule Poirot unfolded it and read. The letter was headed once again "Private and Confiden tial." On the right-hand side was the address Agatha Christie

--Rosebank, Charman's Green, Bucks--and the date--March twenty-first.

Dear M. Poirot: I have been recommended to you by an old and valued friend of mine who knows the worry and distress I have been in lately. Not that this friend knows the actual circumstances--those I have kept entirely to myself--the matter being strictly private. My friend assures me that you are discretion itself--and that there will be no fear of my being involved in a police matter which, if my suspicions should prove correct, I should very much dislike. But it is of course possible that I am entirely mistaken. I do not feel myself clear-headed enough nowadays--suffering as I do from insomnia and the result of a severe illness last winter--to investigate things for myself. I have neither the means

nor the ability. On the other hand, I must reiterate once more that this is a very delicate

family matter and that for many reasons I may want the whole thing hushed up. If I am once assured of the facts, I can deal with the matter myself and should prefer to do so. I hope that I have made myself clear on this point. If you will undertake this investiga-tion, perhaps you will let me know to the above address?

Yours very truly,

AMELIA BARROWBY.

Poirot read the letter through twice. Again his

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEI$R()W? 55

eyebrows rose slightly. Then he laced it on one side and pr-o, ceeded to the next envelop ¢ in the pile. At ten o clock precisely he eter-d the room

where Miss Lemon, his confidenlial scretary, sat awaiting her instructions for the day. Miss Lemon

was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance. Her general effect was that of a lot of bones flung together at random. She had a passion for order almost equaling that of Poirot aimself; and though capable of thinking, sh nx'er thought unless told to do so. Poirot handed her the morning correspondence' "Have the goodness, mademoiselle, to write refusals couched in correct terms to all (if these." Miss Lemon ran an eye over the vafious letters, scribbling in turn a hieroglyphic n egtch of them. These marks were legible to her al0na and were in a code of her own: "Soft soap"; ,'slap in the face"; "purr purr"; "curt"; anti so on. Having done this, she nodded and looked uP for further instructions. Poirot handed her Amelia Barro*vbY's letter. She extracted it from its double envelope, read it through and looked up inquiringly. "Yes, M. Poirot?" Her pencil hoqeredready over her shorthand pad. "What is your opinion of that letter, Miss Lemon?" With a slight frown Miss Lemt)n l0ut down the

pencil and read through the letter agair.

The contents of a letter meant nothing to Miss Lemon except from the point of vieV of composing an adequate reply. Very occasio0ally her em 56 Agatha Christie