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FOREWORD
Hercule Poirot's flat was essentially modern in its furnishings. It gleamed with chromium. Its easy-chairs, though comfortably padded, were square and uncompromising in outline.
On one of these chairs sat Hercule Poirot, neatly—^in the middle of the chair. Opposite him, in another chair, sat Dr. Burton, Fellow of All Souls, sipping appreciatively at a glass of Poirot's Château Mouton Rothschild. There was no neatness about Dr. Burton. He was plump, untidy, and beneath his thatch of white hair beamed a rubicund and benign countenance. He had a deep wheezy chuckle and the habit of covering himself and everything round him with tobacco ash. In vain did Poirot surround him with ash-trays.
Dr. Burton was asking a question.
" TeU me," he said. " Why Hercule ? "
" You mean, my Christian name ? "
" Hardly a Christian name," the other demurred. " Definitely pagan. But why ? That's what I want to know. Father's fancy ? Mother's whim ? Family reasons ? If I remember rightly—though my memory isn't what it was— you had a brother called Achille, did you not ? "
Poirot's mind raced back over the details of AchiUe Poirot's career. Had all that really happened ?
" Only for a short space of time," he replied.
Dr. Burton passed tactfully from the subject of AchiUe Poirot.
" People should be more careful how they name their children," he ruminated. " I've got godchildren. I know. Blanche, one of 'em is called—dark as a gipsy ! Then there's Deirdre, Deirdre of the Sorrows—she's turned out merry as a grig. As for young Patience, she might as well have been named Impatience and be done with it ! And Diana—^well,
Diana-" the old Classical scholar shuddered. "Weighs
twelve stone now—and she's only fifteen ! They say it's puppy fat—^but it doesn't look that way to me. Diana ! They