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    Yellow Iris: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Yellow Iris: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Yellow Iris: A Hercule Poirot Short Story
    Ebook34 pages21 minutes

    Yellow Iris: A Hercule Poirot Short Story

    By Agatha Christie

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    An alarming telephone call, in which the phrases “it’s life and death” and “the table with the yellow irises” are whispered, causes Hercule Poirot to rush to the luxuriant restaurant Jardin des Cygnes, desperate to stop an impending murder and find the person behind the voice on the phone. After bumping into an old acquaintance, he is invited to join a dinner party in full swing. But, just as the dancing and champagne are overflowing, a morbid announcement is made and the lights go out. By the time the lights come back on, everything has changed….

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateSep 27, 2011
    ISBN9780062129550
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

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      Book preview

      Yellow Iris - Agatha Christie

      Yellow Iris

      A Hercule Poirot Short Story

      by Agatha Christie

      Contents

      Cover

      Title Page

      Yellow Iris

      About the Author

      Related Products

      Copyright

      About the Publisher

      Yellow Iris

      ‘Yellow Iris’ was first published in The Strand, July 1937.

      Hercule Poirot stretched out his feet towards the electric radiator set in the wall. Its neat arrangement of red hot bars pleased his orderly mind.

      ‘A coal fire,’ he mused to himself, ‘was always shapeless and haphazard! Never did it achieve the symmetry.’

      The telephone bell rang. Poirot rose, glancing at his watch as he did so. The time was close on half past eleven. He wondered who was ringing him up at this hour. It might, of course, be a wrong number.

      ‘And it might,’ he murmured to himself with a whimsical smile, ‘be a millionaire newspaper proprietor, found dead in the library of his country house, with a spotted orchid clasped in his left hand and a page torn from a cookbook pinned to his breast.’

      Smiling at the pleasing conceit, he lifted the receiver.

      Immediately a voice spoke – a soft husky woman’s voice with a kind of desperate urgency about it.

      ‘Is that M. Hercule Poirot? Is that M. Hercule Poirot?’

      ‘Hercule Poirot speaks.’

      ‘M. Poirot – can you come at once – at once – I’m in danger – in great danger – I know it …’

      Poirot said sharply:

      ‘Who are you? Where are you speaking from?’

      The voice came more faintly but with an even

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