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    Lord Edgware Dies: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Lord Edgware Dies: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Lord Edgware Dies: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
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    Lord Edgware Dies: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

    By Agatha Christie

    4/5

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    When Lord Edgware Dies a most unnatural death, detective Hercule Poirot must solve a most confounding conundrum: if the obvious killer, the slain peer’s spiteful wife, didn’t do it, who did? A classic from the queen of mystery, Agatha Christie.

    When Lord Edgware is found murdered the police are baffled. His estranged actress wife was seen visiting him just before his death and Hercule Poirot himself heard her brag of her plan to “get rid” of him.

    But how could she have stabbed Lord Edgware in his library at exactly the same time she was seen dining with friends? It’s a case that almost proves to be too much for the great Poirot.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateDec 15, 2003
    ISBN9780061748653
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie (1890–1976) is listed in the Guinness Book of World Records as the bestselling novelist of all time. The first recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s Grand Master Award, she published eighty mystery novels and many short story collections and created such iconic fictional detectives as Hercule Poirot, Miss Jane Marple, and Tommy and Tuppence Beresford. She is known around the world as the Queen of Crime.

    Read more from Agatha Christie

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    Reviews for Lord Edgware Dies

    4/5

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    • 4/5
      A typically solid entry in the Christie canon, with Poirot acting typically annoying at times. But there's also a solid mystery and a fair number of plot twists to keep the reader guessing.
    • 3/5
      This is a pleasant cozy mystery. I had read it years ago, and found that I remembered the key clue, and various bits of dialogue and description, but I had it filed in my head as a Josephine Tey book.This is the one with the torn letter, and the murder victim who does impersonations of famous actresses.
    • 3/5
      A good book that I was curious about the entire way through. It didn't seem to hold my attention as well as some of her previous stories, though. On the one hand, I think it would have done better with fewer characters. In the other, the addition of so many people and locations fostered the sense of confusion and ill-ease which Poirot has for most of the story.
    • 3/5
      I also listened to Agatha Christie’s Thirteen at Dinner (originally published as Lord Edgware Dies) narrated by Hugh Fraser who has played Captain Hastings in several of the Agatha Christie’s Poirot TV movies which feature David Suchet as Poirot. It’s a typically complicated Christie plot involving the death of a man whose actress wife, Jane Wilkinson, was seeking a divorce from him. Having been reported at Lord Edgware’s house moments before his death Wilkinson was immediately suspected of his murder by Inspector Jap but proved to have a strong alibi. Even Poirot is confused for some time by the presence of impersonators and liars among the potential suspects but when a second then third murder are committed he finally solves the case.

      I thoroughly enjoyed the plot of this story which wasn’t as dated as some of Christie’s can seem and it’s quite nice to see Poirot humbled for a while. I’ve never liked Inspector Jap terribly much but he doesn’t play a huge role and the rest of the characters are interesting. In particular the character of Jane Wilkinson is quite intriguing as she changes over the course of the book.

      I’ve listened to several Christie stories narrated by David Suchet and thought it might be interesting to compare this book narrated by Fraser, especially as this story is told from Hastings’ point of view. Surprisingly, because the Suchet narrated stories are wonderful, I found this narration comparable in quality and again found myself quickly lost in the story. My rating 3.5/5
    • 4/5
      Very engaging plot though not really original. I liked the ending, which provides an interesting glimpse into the murderer's personality. Proud to say I found out their identity long before the end but that's what happens when you read so much Christie!
    • 4/5
      Jane, an actress, dislikes her husband Lord Edgware. The plot is complicated by another actress, and a variety of suspects for two murders. Poirot eventually solve the puzzle, as ever. Lively, and left me guessing until the end. Very cleverly written.
    • 3/5
      Entertaining, but if you've read it before it's a bit screamingly obvious.
    • 5/5
      I love this book, the twist at the end as to who dunnit is superb and is classic Christie.
    • 4/5
      In which a nasty old man dies at dinner, and everyone’s a suspect.

      This one's a great example of vintage Christie. The pieces are all in place for a fun, elaborate murder mystery with less contrivances than usual (although it does use one of Christie’s favourite standbys, having actors amongst the suspects, which always increases the confusion and/or red herrings). It’s relatively taut and logical, Poirot gets plenty to do, and Hastings makes one of his final appearances. Robert Barnard comments about some of the anti-Semitism that appears briefly, but thankfully it was the end of such an era for Christie’s works.

      Like many Christie books, the title was changed on first publication in the US. Oddly, though, this is a rare occurrence where it is mellowed, becoming "Thirteen at Dinner". (Every title change we’ve seen thus far has introduced a word implying fatality, and I’m not sure why this change was made.)

      Poirot ranking: 16th of 38.
    • 5/5
      A wonderful masterpiece by the Queen of Mystery. Poirot, as always, at his best. The movie rendition of it, although with the wonderful presence of David Suchet, does not capture the deep intricacies of Mrs. Christie’s perfectly woven story. Another must read—and re-read!
    • 2/5
      Also: "Thirteen at Dinner"

      American actress Jane Wilkinson (Lady Edgware) is at the theater, M.Poirot is sitting in front of her, watching a young actress, Carlotta Adams, imitate her, as soon as the actress is finished, Jane giver her an excellent round of applause.....

      Later at dinner Jane loudly announces to the room of diners (M. Poirot being one of them) that she will kill her husband, Lord Edgware, and she proceeds to tell everyone in which manner.... Upon espying M. Poirot, Lady Edgware, leaves her dinner companions & invites M. Poirot up to her room. Once there she entreats M. Poirot to take on her case, entreating Lord Edgware to agree to a divorce so that she may marry again.

      Originally, Jane had planned to marry her co-star Bryan Martin, but now she is planning on marrying Duke Merton....

      Upon discreetly visiting Lord Edgware, M. Poirot is informed that his errand was for naught, as Lord Edgware had indeed agreed to the divorce 6 months previously and what is more notified his wife Jane of his decision via post.

      A dinner party for those on the rise and in need of being in favor with the right people is given.... Originally Jane had opted out of attending, but at the last minute changed her mind. Her dinner partner, not knowing did not attend and there were 13 in attendance at dinner.

      During the dinner Jane receives a mysterious phone call..... but is simultaneously seen in Lord Edgwares home, going into his study by both the butler & Lord Edgware's secretary.....

      In the course of M. Poirot's investigation of the murder, two other people are murdered.....

      Meh... I didn't like the characters and the story seemed to be lacking something.....
    • 3/5
      A BBC radio drama performed by a full cast of actors.Jane Wilkinson was once the toast of Broadway, but now she is better known for her advantageous marriage to Lord Edgware. But the marriage isn’t a happy one, and Lady Edgware has another man in mind. Trouble is that Lord Edgware is adamantly opposed to divorce. Jane asks Hercule Poirot to convince Edgware to grant her a divorce. She even somewhat jokingly admits to Poirot that she’d do anything to end her miserable marriage. Which really complicates matters when Edgware is found stabbed in the neck a day later. Thank heavens that Jane Wilkinson was at a dinner party and everyone there can confirm her alibi. Poirot is, as usual, intent on ferreting out the truth. All these suspects! All these conflicting stories! Colonel Hastings is by his side, but he acts mostly as a foil, asking questions that allow Poirot to expound on his thought processes. And those “little grey cells” get a workout! These mysteries are my go-to comfort food of reading. Christie writes wonderful characters, even if she uses stereotypes that are jarring to modern sensibilities. She’s also very good at crafting intricate plot twists. The BBC radio drama is wonderfully acted, but I was glad I also had a text version of the book. I find it interesting that I hadn’t noticed before how much of the action in these mysteries is handled through dialogue.
    • 4/5
      A beautiful but dim American actress seeks out Hercule Poirot to extricate her from her unfortunate marriage to a cruel member of the English aristocracy so she can marry a less-cruel and richer member of the English aristocracy. She swears that if Poirot can't help her, she'll have to kill Lord Edgware. Lo and behold, Lord Edgware dies and the actress is seen in the vicinity. But with her ironclad alibi, she can't possibly be the murderer. So who done it, and why? A nice puzzle with lots of suspects and a satisfying denouement.
    • 4/5
      Lord Edgware is a cruel man who seems to have a kinky streak in him. His wife is the younger and famous actress Jane Wilkinson, but she left him not long after their marriage and has openly wished for his death so she can remarry. When Edgware obliges, Poirot and Hastings think that Lady Edgware is too lucky and too thrilled.Continuing on with reading A.G. in order of publication. This is one of the more complex plots, with lots of good motives and suspects getting bumped off at a good pace.
    • 2/5
      All in all a routine and rather uninspiring outing for Poirot. Once again we have Hastings by his side, for no conceivable (or at least well explained) reason. We have a plethora of coincidences and Poirot himself running off this way and that with theories that are no more logical than those of the police. And, in the end, I doubt that the police could have arrested the murderer on the evidence Poirot found and I even more doubt that the murderer would have been hung even if found guilty since there was ample room for doubt.
    • 5/5
      Published in the UK in 1933 as LORD EDGWARE DIES and in the US in the same year as THIRTEEN AT DINNER.The edition I read was in a Hamlyn omnibus, published in 1969, pages 191-366, 175 pages.The omnibus, Agatha Christie Crime Collection, also contained 4.50 FROM PADDINGTON, and MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA.Lady Edgware, Jane Wilkinson, is an actress, who has been married to Lord Edgware for about 3 years. The marriage has been a failure and now Lady Edgware wants a divorce. She tells Hercule Poirot her husband has refused to agree to a divorce and she asks Hercule Poirot to try to negotiate one for her. When Poirot and Hastings visit Lord Edgware, he claims that to the contrary he has already sent his wife a letter agreeing the divorce. Poirot reports this back to Lady Edgware who is now over the moon because it means she will be able to marry again, and she already has someone in mind.That night however Lord Edgware is killed and the housekeeper and butler both claim that the perpetrator was Lady Edgware. But was it her or Carlotta Adams, a successful impersonator who has been entertaining London clubs with her impersonations of Lady Edgware? On the same morning that Lord Edgware's body is discovered in his library, Carlotta is discovered dead in her flat from a drugs overdose.The tale LORD EDGWARE DIES is told by Poirot's companion Hastings. He tells us that Hercule Poirot regards the solving of the case of Lord Edgware's death as one of his failures. We learn that Poirot made some serious misjudgements in the case with the result that the murderer of Lord Edgware, Carlotta Adams, and another, very nearly got away with it. And yet, Hastings says, it was Poirot's genius that discovered the truth. Hastings says that he is recounting the case to comply with the wishes of a fascinating lady.LORD EDGWARE DIES is Christie's 13th novel, and marks the 7th appearance of Hercule Poirot in novels. It was published in the year following PERIL AT END HOUSE, a case in which Porot was tricked by a young woman to whom he felt great attraction. If Poirot comes over as capable of making critical mistakes, it is very obvious that Arthur Hastings is a person whose judgement simply cannot be trusted. He is, as Poirot points out, not only unobservant, but also easily misled. Sometimes, when we are seeing things through Hastings' eyes, we need to remember that he is often an unreliable witness.I thought that technically LORD EDGWARE DIES was a shade better than PERIL AT END HOUSE. I had begun to suspect the truth within 50 or so pages of the end, but still really needed Hercule Poirot to explain it all to me.
    • 4/5
      This is one of my favourites in the long Poirot series of Agatha Christie. What I particularly like about this story is that it gives you more insight in the way Poirot thinks about a case and gets to the truth than in the others. It also really gives a lot of interesting settings and information to the reader to allow him/her to try and find the guilty one himself/herself.

      The characters in this book are well gone into and very likable. The world of London's theatre and film actors and the odd comparison with France (Paris) and the USA make it all the more interesting to read.

      Recommended!
    • 5/5
      This was my first Hercule Poirot and it was great! The plot is very clever and has some unexpected twists and turns. I had to discard one suspect after the other because they couldn't have been the murderer due to alibis or got killed themselves. A 'whodunnit' at it's best. Well, it's Agatha Christie...
    • 4/5
      This was clever, and I enjoyed Hastings as usual. My only problem was keeping the male characters Ross, Marsh and Martin clear in my head.
    • 4/5
      Lord Edgware Dies by Agatha Christie was originally published in 1933. It features Hercule Poirot and his friend Arthur Hastings as they originally assist an American actress to get her estranged husband, Lord Edgware, to agree to a divorce, but all too soon are investigating his murder. One murder is soon followed by another and by the end of the book three people have been killed.The book is riddled with suspects and alibis that seem to shift and change with every chapter. This case seems to genuinely puzzle Poirot for most of the book, but eventually an inane remark of Hastings helps him to put all the pieces together. Although I am fairly certain that I read this book many years ago under it’s American title of “Thirteen At Dinner”, I was truly surprised at the final outcome. It is unfortunate that this clever mystery held more than a few examples of antisemitism which I found very distasteful as other than that, I found Lord Edgware Dies to be an inventive and clever mystery.
    • 4/5
      I had suspicions but still didn't figure this one out. Maybe next time
    • 3/5
      Synopsis: Hercule Poirot is asked by an actress for help in convincing her husband to divorce her. Shortly after his visit to the husband, who happily agrees to the divorce, the husband is found dead and the actress is the main suspect though, as far as Poirot can tell, the lady has no apparent motive as her husband had just agreed to the divorce she was desperate for. My Rating:3/5This is a nice solid Poirot. It didn't do anything spectacular but it was a fine Poirot novel. Very middle of the road for me, compared to the others I have read. My favorite thing about this book was the banter between Hastings and Poirot. Hastings was in many of the early books but, from my understanding, few of the later ones and he is a favorite of mine. I love his chemistry with Poirot and their friendship. This was an interesting mystery. I did not guess correctly who the killer was and who the killer was surprised me (in a good way). I really enjoyed the different characters with different motives and the actual murder was complicated and interesting. The clue that Poirot tells us was the piece that brought the puzzle together for him was, for the reader, fair but unfair at the same time and involved an image in the book. I don't love when the clues hinge on an image in the book as I often read audiobooks and, if I had been reading this as an audiobook, I would have missed it because there was not a good way of revealing the clue outside of the image. I think I would recommend those who can read a physical copy of this book do so otherwise the clue isn't something you can guess yourself because it is only in the text as an explanation of the clue. I am also not sure all editions of the book have the illustration with the clue. My biggest issue with this book is one I have with Christie in General. There are many characters and it gets difficult to keep track of everyone. I was sometimes confused as to who was who. If you generally enjoy Christie you will probably have a good time with this book.
    • 3/5
      Maybe I need to stop Agatha Christie for a while and read other authors. Hallmark Mysteries comments on many mystery writers that I have not read recently. Maybe a few American writers would be nice. Christie utilizes the same style in Lord Edgware Dies with characters exchanging places with one another, so much like Shakespeare’s plays. I had not noticed before of Christie’s obsession with dark skinned people and Jews. Christie plummets the Jew’s love of money. I also noticed that Poirot constantly belittles Hastings for his lack of intelligence and his lack of observation skills. I think that if I were Hastings I would return to my wife in South America. Christie mentions Chicago and the prevalence of “hitmen”. This novel seems very pessimistic and dark as compared with prior novels. Poirot missteps many times in this story before his “little grey cells” discover the motive and opportunity of the murders. Yes, Poirot and Japp finally append the killer before more bodies are discovered.
    • 4/5
      Thank goodness Hastings is as baffled as I am despite having been on as many Poirot adventures as I have. Clearly my little grey cells are not as sharp as the brilliant detective's. Christie is at her best: delightful, funny, clever and ever resourceful in her plot twists.I'm very happy to have found this copy surreptitiously hiding in my library. It was a lovely way of whiling away a winter's weekend.
    • 4/5
      This was actually pretty great. I was pleasantly surprised by this one - it's got a good plot, good characters, and some good writing. One star off for the goddamn anti-Semitism because come on.

    Book preview

    Lord Edgware Dies - Agatha Christie

    One

    A THEATRICAL PARTY

    The memory of the public is short. Already the intense interest and excitement aroused by the murder of George Alfred St. Vincent Marsh, fourth Baron Edgware, is a thing past and forgotten. Newer sensations have taken its place.

    My friend, Hercule Poirot, was never openly mentioned in connection with the case. This, I may say, was entirely in accordance with his own wishes. He did not choose to appear in it. The credit went elsewhere—and that is how he wished it to be. Moreover, from Poirot’s own peculiar private point of view, the case was one of his failures. He always swears that it was the chance remark of a stranger in the street that put him on the right track.

    However that may be, it was his genius that discovered the truth of the affair. But for Hercule Poirot I doubt if the crime would have been brought home to its perpetrator.

    I feel therefore that the time has come for me to set down all I know of the affair in black and white. I know the ins and outs of the case thoroughly and I may also mention that I shall be fulfilling the wishes of a very fascinating lady in so doing.

    I have often recalled that day in Poirot’s prim neat little sitting room when, striding up and down a particular strip of carpet, my little friend gave us his masterly and astounding résumé of the case. I am going to begin my narrative where he did on that occasion—at a London theatre in June of last year.

    Carlotta Adams was quite the rage in London at that moment. The year before she had given a couple of matinees which had been a wild success. This year she had had a three weeks’ season of which this was the last night but one.

    Carlotta Adams was an American girl with the most amazing talent for single-handed sketches unhampered by makeup or scenery. She seemed to speak every language with ease. Her sketch of an evening in a foreign hotel was really wonderful. In turn, American tourists, German tourists, middle-class English families, questionable ladies, impoverished Russian aristocrats and weary discreet waiters all flitted across the scene.

    Her sketches went from grave to gay and back again. Her dying Czecho-Slovakian woman in hospital brought a lump to the throat. A minute later we were rocking with laughter as a dentist plied his trade and chatted amiably with his victims.

    Her programme closed with what she announced as Some Imitations.

    Here again, she was amazingly clever. Without makeup of any kind, her features seemed to dissolve suddenly and reform themselves into those of a famous politician, or a well-known actress, or a society beauty. In each character she gave a short typical speech. These speeches, by the way, were remarkably clever. They seemed to hit off every weakness of the subject selected.

    One of her last impersonations was Jane Wilkinson—a talented young American actress well-known in London. It was really very clever. Inanities slipped off her tongue charged with some powerful emotional appeal so that in spite of yourself you felt that each word was uttered with some potent and fundamental meaning. Her voice, exquisitely toned, with a deep husky note in it, was intoxicating. The restrained gestures, each strangely significant, the slightly swaying body, the impression even, of strong physical beauty—how she did it, I cannot think!

    I had always been an admirer of the beautiful Jane Wilkinson. She had thrilled me in her emotional parts, and I had always maintained in face of those who admitted her beauty but declared she was no actress, that she had considerable histrionic powers.

    It was a little uncanny to hear that well-known, slightly husky voice with the fatalistic drop in it that had stirred me so often, and to watch that seemingly poignant gesture of the slowly closing and unclosing hand, and the sudden throw back of the head with the hair shaken back from the face that I realized she always gave at the close of a dramatic scene.

    Jane Wilkinson was one of those actresses who had left the stage on her marriage only to return to it a couple of years later.

    Three years ago she had married the wealthy but slightly eccentric Lord Edgware. Rumour went that she left him shortly afterwards. At any rate eighteen months after the marriage, she was acting for the films in America, and had this season appeared in a successful play in London.

    Watching Carlotta Adams’ clever but perhaps slightly malicious imitation, it occurred to me to wonder how much imitations were regarded by the subject selected. Were they pleased at the notoriety—at the advertisement it afforded? Or were they annoyed at what was, after all, a deliberate exposing of the tricks of their trade? Was not Carlotta Adams in the position of the rival conjurer who says: Oh! this is an old trick! Very simple. I’ll show you how this one’s done!

    I decided that if I were the subject in question, I should be very much annoyed. I should, of course, conceal my vexation, but decidedly I should not like it. One would need great broadmindedness and a distinct sense of humour to appreciate such a merciless exposé.

    I had just arrived at these conclusions when the delightful husky laugh from the stage was echoed from behind me.

    I turned my head sharply. In the seat immediately behind mine, leaning forward with her lips slightly parted, was the subject of the present imitation—Lady Edgware, better known as Jane Wilkinson.

    I realized immediately that my deductions had been all wrong. She was leaning forward, her lips parted, with an expression of delight and excitement in her eyes.

    As the imitation finished, she applauded loudly, laughing and turning to her companion, a tall extremely good-looking man, of the Greek god type, whose face I recognized as one better known on the screen than on the stage. It was Bryan Martin, the hero of the screen most popular at the moment. He and Jane Wilkinson had been starred together in several screen productions.

    Marvellous, isn’t she? Lady Edgware was saying.

    He laughed.

    Jane—you look all excited.

    Well, she really is too wonderful! Heaps better than I thought she’d be.

    I did not catch Bryan Martin’s amused rejoinder. Carlotta Adams had started on a fresh improvisation.

    What happened later is, I shall always think, a very curious coincidence.

    After the theatre, Poirot and I went on to supper at the Savoy.

    At the very next table to ours were Lady Edgware, Bryan Martin and two other people whom I did not know. I pointed them out to Poirot and, as I was doing so, another couple came and took their places at the table beyond that again. The woman’s face was familiar and yet strangely enough, for the moment I could not place it.

    Then suddenly I realized that it was Carlotta Adams at whom I was staring! The man I did not know. He was well-groomed, with a cheerful, somewhat vacuous face. Not a type that I admire.

    Carlotta Adams was dressed very inconspicuously in black. Hers was not a face to command instant attention or recognition. It was one of those mobile sensitive faces that preeminently lend themselves to the art of mimicry. It could take on an alien character easily, but it had no very recognizable character of its own.

    I imparted these reflections of mine to Poirot. He listened attentively, his egg-shaped head cocked slightly to one side whilst he darted a sharp glance at the two tables in question.

    "So that is Lady Edgware? Yes, I remember—I have seen her act. She is belle femme."

    And a fine actress too.

    Possibly.

    You don’t seem convinced.

    "I think it would depend on the setting, my friend. If she is the centre of the play, if all revolves round her—yes, then she could play her part. I doubt if she could play a small part adequately or even what is called a character part. The play must be written about her and for her. She appears to me of the type of women who are interested only in themselves. He paused and then added rather unexpectedly: Such people go through life in great danger."

    Danger? I said, surprised.

    "I have used a word that surprises you, I see, mon ami. Yes, danger. Because, you see, a woman like that sees only one thing—herself. Such women see nothing of the dangers and hazards that surround them—the million conflicting interests and relationships of life. No, they see only their own forward path. And so—sooner or later—disaster."

    I was interested. I confessed to myself that such a point of view would not have struck me.

    And the other? I asked.

    Miss Adams?

    His gaze swept to her table.

    Well? he said, smiling. What do you want me to say about her?

    Only how she strikes you.

    "Mon cher, am I tonight the fortune-teller who reads the palm and tells the character?"

    You could do it better than most, I rejoined.

    "It is a very pretty faith that you have in me, Hastings. It touches me. Do you not know, my friend, that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desires and attitudes? Mais oui, c’est vrai. One makes one’s little judgments—but nine times out of ten one is wrong."

    Not Hercule Poirot, I said, smiling.

    Even Hercule Poirot! Oh! I know very well that you have always a little idea that I am conceited, but, indeed, I assure you, I am really a very humble person.

    I laughed.

    You—humble!

    It is so. Except—I confess it—that I am a little proud of my moustaches. Nowhere in London have I observed anything to compare with them.

    You are quite safe, I said dryly. You won’t. So you are not going to risk judgment on Carlotta Adams?

    Elle est artiste! said Poirot simply. That covers nearly all, does it not?

    Anyway, you don’t consider that she walks through life in peril?

    We all do that, my friend, said Poirot gravely. Misfortune may always be waiting to rush out upon us. But as to your question, Miss Adams, I think, will succeed. She is shrewd and she is something more. You observed without doubt that she is Jewish?

    I had not. But now that he mentioned it, I saw the faint traces of Semitic ancestry. Poirot nodded.

    It makes for success—that. Though there is still one avenue of danger—since it is of danger we are talking.

    You mean?

    Love of money. Love of money might lead such a one from the prudent and cautious path.

    It might do that to all of us, I said.

    That is true, but at any rate you or I would see the danger involved. We could weigh the pros and cons. If you care for money too much, it is only the money you see, everything else is in shadow.

    I laughed at his serious manner.

    Esmeralda, the gipsy queen, is in good form, I remarked teasingly.

    The psychology of character is interesting, returned Poirot unmoved. "One cannot be interested in crime without being interested in psychology. It is not the mere act of killing, it is what lies behind it that appeals to the expert. You follow me, Hastings?"

    I said that I followed him perfectly.

    I have noticed that when we work on a case together, you are always urging me on to physical action, Hastings. You wish me to measure footprints, to analyse cigarette ash, to prostrate myself on my stomach for the examination of detail. You never realize that by lying back in an armchair with the eyes closed one can come nearer to the solution of any problem. One sees then with the eyes of the mind.

    I don’t, I said. When I lie back in an armchair with my eyes closed one thing happens to me and one thing only!

    I have noticed it! said Poirot. It is strange. At such moments the brain should be working feverishly, not sinking into sluggish repose. The mental activity, it is so interesting, so stimulating! The employment of the little grey cells is a mental pleasure. They and they only can be trusted to lead one through fog to the truth….

    I am afraid that I have got into the habit of averting my attention whenever Poirot mentions his little grey cells. I have heard it all so often before.

    In this instance my attention wandered to the four people sitting at the next table. When Poirot’s monologue drew to a close I remarked with a chuckle:

    You have made a hit, Poirot. The fair Lady Edgware can hardly take her eyes off you.

    Doubtless she has been informed of my identity, said Poirot, trying to look modest and failing.

    I think it is the famous moustaches, I said. She is carried away by their beauty.

    Poirot caressed them surreptitiously.

    It is true that they are unique, he admitted. Oh, my friend, the ‘toothbrush’ as you call it, that you wear—it is a horror—an atrocity—a wilful stunting of the bounties of nature. Abandon it, my friend, I pray of you.

    By Jove, I said, disregarding Poirot’s appeal. The lady’s getting up. I believe she’s coming to speak to us. Bryan Martin is protesting, but she won’t listen to him.

    Sure enough, Jane Wilkinson swept impetuously from her seat and came over to our table. Poirot rose to his feet bowing, and I rose also.

    M. Hercule Poirot, isn’t it? said the soft husky voice.

    At your service.

    M. Poirot, I want to talk to you. I must talk to you.

    But certainly, Madame, will you not sit down?

    No, no, not here. I want to talk to you privately. We’ll go right upstairs to my suite.

    Bryan Martin had joined her, he spoke now with a deprecating laugh.

    You must wait a little, Jane. We’re in the middle of supper. So is M. Poirot.

    But Jane Wilkinson was not so easily turned from her purpose.

    Why, Bryan, what does that matter? We’ll have supper sent up to the suite. Speak to them about it, will you? And, Bryan—

    She went after him as he was turning away and appeared to urge some course upon him. He stood out about it, I gathered, shaking his head and frowning. But she spoke even more emphatically and finally with a shrug of the shoulders he gave way.

    Once or twice during her speech to him she had glanced at the table where Carlotta Adams sat, and I wondered if what she were suggesting had anything to do with the American girl.

    Her point gained, Jane came back, radiant.

    We’ll go right up now, she said, and included me in a dazzling smile.

    The question of our agreeing or not agreeing to her plan didn’t seem to occur to her mind. She swept us off without a shade of apology.

    It’s the greatest luck just seeing you here this evening, M. Poirot, she said as she led the way to the lift. It’s wonderful how everything seems to turn out right for me. I’d just been thinking and wondering what on earth I was going to do and I looked up and there you were at the next table, and I said to myself: ‘M. Poirot will tell me what to do.’

    She broke off to say Second Floor to the liftboy.

    If I can be of aid to you— began Poirot.

    I’m sure you can. I’ve heard you’re just the most marvellous man that ever existed. Somebody’s got to get me out of the tangle I’m in and I feel you’re just the man to do it.

    We got out at the second floor and she led the way along the corridor, paused at a door and entered one of the most opulent of the Savoy suites.

    Casting her white fur wrap on one chair, and her small jewelled bag on the table, the actress sank on to a chair and exclaimed:

    "M. Poirot, somehow or other I’ve just got to get rid of my husband!"

    Two

    A SUPPER PARTY

    After a moment’s astonishment Poirot recovered himself!

    But, Madame, he said, his eyes twinkling, getting rid of husbands is not my speciality.

    Well, of course I know that.

    It is a lawyer you require.

    That’s just where you’re wrong. I’m just about sick and tired of lawyers. I’ve had straight lawyers and crooked lawyers, and not one of them’s done me any good. Lawyers just know the law, they don’t seem to have any kind of natural sense.

    And you think I have?

    She laughed.

    I’ve heard that you’re the cat’s whiskers, M. Poirot.

    "Comment? The cat’s whiskers? I do not understand."

    "Well—that you’re it."

    "Madame, I may or may not have brains—as a matter of fact I have—why pretend? But your little affair, it is not my genre."

    I don’t see why not. It’s a problem.

    Oh! a problem!

    And it’s difficult, went on Jane Wilkinson. I should say you weren’t the man to shy at difficulties.

    "Let me compliment you on your insight, Madame. But all the same, me, I do not make the investigations for divorce. It is not pretty—ce métier là."

    My dear man. I’m not asking you to do spying work. It wouldn’t be any good. But I’ve just got to get rid of the man, and I’m sure you could tell me how to do it.

    Poirot paused awhile before replying. When he did, there was a new note in his voice.

    First tell me, Madame, why are you so anxious to ‘get rid’ of Lord Edgware?

    There was no delay or hesitation about her answer. It came swift and pat.

    Why, of course. I want to get married again. What other reason could there be?

    Her great blue eyes opened ingenuously.

    But surely a divorce should be easy to obtain?

    You don’t know my husband, M. Poirot. He’s—he’s— She shivered. I don’t know how to explain it. He’s a queer man—he’s not like other people.

    She paused and then went on.

    He should never have married—anyone. I know what I’m talking about. I just can’t describe him, but he’s—queer. His first wife, you know, ran away from him. Left a baby of three months behind. He never divorced her and she died miserably abroad somewhere. Then he married me. Well—I couldn’t stick it. I was frightened. I left him and went to the States. I’ve no grounds for a divorce, and if I’ve given him grounds for one, he won’t take notice of them. He’s—he’s a kind of fanatic.

    In certain American states you could obtain a divorce, Madame.

    That’s no good to me—not if I’m going to live in England.

    You want to live in England?

    Yes.

    Who is the man you want to marry?

    That’s just it. The Duke of Merton.

    I drew in my breath sharply. The Duke of Merton had so far been the despair of matchmaking mammas. A young man of monkish tendencies, a violent Anglo-Catholic, he was reported to be completely under the thumb of his mother, the redoubtable dowager duchess. His life was austere in the extreme. He collected Chinese porcelain and was reputed to be of aesthetic tastes. He was supposed to care nothing for women.

    I’m just crazy about him, said Jane sentimentally. He’s unlike anyone I ever met, and Merton Castle is too wonderful. The whole thing is the most romantic business that ever happened. He’s so good-looking too—like a dreamy kind of monk.

    She paused.

    "I’m going to give up the stage when I marry.

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