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    Curtain: Poirot's Last Case: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Curtain: Poirot's Last Case: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
    Curtain: Poirot's Last Case: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition
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    Curtain: Poirot's Last Case: A Hercule Poirot Mystery: The Official Authorized Edition

    By Agatha Christie

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    The legendary detective saves his best for last as he races to apprehend a five-time killer before the final curtain descends in Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case, the last book Agatha Christie published before her death.

    The crime-fighting careers of Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings have come full circle—they are back once again in the rambling country house in which they solved their first murder together.

    Both Hercule Poirot and Great Styles have seen better days—but, despite being crippled with arthritis, there is nothing wrong with the great detective and his “little gray cells.” However, when Poirot brands one of the seemingly harmless guests a five-time murderer, some people have their doubts. But Poirot alone knows he must prevent a sixth murder before the curtain falls.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherHarperCollins
    Release dateOct 3, 2006
    ISBN9780061741005
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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    Reviews for Curtain

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    • 4/5
      In which two old friends are reunited, to solve their last crime at the place they solved their first…

      Like "Sleeping Murder" - the last Marple published, if not necessarily the chronological end to her tales – "Curtain" was written in World War II as a back-up, and finally published shortly before Dame Agatha’s death, when it was clear she would write no more novels. As such, it is one one level a welcome return to form after the previous books in the Poirot series – such as "Elephants Can Remember" - which fail to impress on any level. It’s also one of her most shocking twists, and a book that brings a powerful and definite end to the tales of Poirot and Hastings. By returning them to Styles – the site of their first case in "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" fifty-four years earlier – Hastings and Poirot, the former a widower and the latter crippled, come full circle. The mystery is well put together, although the focus on our investigators means that there is less characterisation than usual for the suspects.

      "Curtain" is a most unusual Christie novel, and an even more unusual Poirot one. At the same time, though, it follows logically from the maturation of both writer and character. (Poirot, that is. Hastings doesn’t seem to have evolved much in the last half-century.) The fact that Christie wrote this in the ’40s, before the developments of Poirot’s life, has both positive and negative traits. It’s surprisingly in keeping with the changing tone of Poirot’s later novels (and should make for a marvellous end to the Suchet series – God willing – given the direction they went with Series Twelve), but of course, there are questions of chronology, and the age of the characters, since thirty years’ worth of novels and the real world had intervened.

      If we’re being technical, this is the best book of the 1970s (it seems a little unfair, but – if not – our choices are pretty dire). It’s a classic, but a pity about the vague depictions of some of the suspects. I'll give "Curtain" a generous 4 stars, but I would recommend new readers choose earlier volumes first!

      Poirot ranking: 11th out of 38
    • 4/5
      Poirot and Hastings return to Styles, the scene of their first investigation, for what is Poirot's last case. This book has an ingenuious plot, which I don't want to give away. Christie wrote this book and kept it back so that it could be released after her death, or when she was ready to stop writing Poirot stories, and she was right to do so. I believe that one of her main concerns was to stop other authors writing Poirot stories after her death, and I hope that the Christie Estate doesn't follow the examples set by the Estates of Ian Fleming, Enid Blyton and Douglas Adams.
    • 3/5
      I always enjoy Agatha Christie's writing, no matter how I find the plot, so I enjoyed this story, even though I found the solution to the mystery far-fetched, even to my credulous mind. At least I got the pleasure of reading how Poirot met his end...
    • 4/5
      ...Poor old Poirot, he was a great detective! I didn't want to read this one because I knew it was Poirot's final case and I didn't want to see him die, however, now that I have read it, I'm glad I did! I love Agatha Christie and she didn't dissapoint with "Curtain." Like always, she kept me guessing until the very end- although I was sure I knew who did it with each new clue, only to be proven wrong once again. While the beginning is a little slow, once the shooting and fighting start everything picks up and snowballs! My only critisism is with Hastings. He's very much in his own little world and kinda stuck up, which at times annoyed me. Other than that, however, if you're an Agatha fan, you'll certainly enjoy this one!FAVORITE QUOTES: Why the worst type of man can always be relied upon to please and interest the nicest of women has long been a problem beyone me. I knew instinctively that Allerton was a rotter- and nine men out of ten would have agreed with me. Whereas nine women or possibly the whole ten would have fallen for him immediately. // It's an idea of mine, you know, that about eighty per cent of the human race ought to be eliminated. We'd get on much better without them. // People are too afraid of responsibility. They'll take responsibility where a dog is concerned- why not with a human being? // "Truth," he said, "is seldom appreciated. And yet it saves a lot of time and a lot of inaccurate speech."
    • 4/5
      And so it ends. I spent most of my year reading almost all of the Poirot books in chronological order of publication so this feels so much like the end of an era. Now it's a matter of rereading not for the great reveal but for the psychology and the words chosen. I was surprised to see Hastings in this but it's very much a book wrapped in nostalgia for a time long gone (even more so now) and memories not quite forgotten. The case itself was good, though not as great as, say, Murder on the Orient Express (which I think is the ideal case) and Christie could have spent more time saying goodbye, but she was never one for being sentimental. I quite missed that, if I'm honest, the end is so abrupt, there's no epilogue, anything that could give you a clue as to the status of this book. Reading those books was a great adventure and one of the highlights of my reading life. I'll miss those characters dearly.
    • 5/5
      totally unexpected and sad and marvellous!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    • 4/5
      This is the last of the Poirot mysteries. Christie wrote it years before her death with instructions that it be published after her death to help ensure that no one else continued writing Poirot stories. Of course we all know how well that worked with Sherlock Holmes.
    • 3/5
      Hercule Poirot "detecting his own death" (Inspector Japp in the _The ABC Murders_) in this, his last, mysterious affair at Styles. Christie apparently had this book stashed in a vault waiting for her to let it be published just prior to her own death. Poirot is afflicted with self-doubt and commits himself to protecting Hastings.
    • 5/5
      Published in 1975, and supposedly written about 35 years earlier, which puts it at the beginning of World War II, apparently during the blitz.Hastings, as narrator, makes his first appearance since DUMB WITNESS. In fact he has married, brought up four children, and then buried his wife. The timeline of Hastings' life doesn't quite fit real time so it is one of those things we don't look at too closely. His daughter Judith is one of the characters in the story, and seems to be in her early twenties.Poirot, crippled with arthritis, a shadow of his former self, and confined to a wheel chair, brings Hastings to Styles to assist in the apprehension of X who has already been involved in five murders. He hopes they will be able to prevent another murder. Poirot constantly tells Hastings that his mind, his little grey cells, is not impaired, just his body, and he needs Hastings to be the mobile one. However he refuses to tell Hastings who he has identified as X, and this puts him at quite a disadvantage. Poirot finds Hastings as frustrating to work with as he always has, and they do not manage to prevent more murders occurring. It is not for four months after the last murder that Hastings finds out the truth.Even without the title the reader knows this is the final curtain for Poirot.I don't actually think that I have read CURTAIN before and so the ending comes as a real surprise. I am not sure it fits with the Poirot I know from books that were written after this one. In many ways CURTAIN is a very black pessimistic book, fitting with the mood of the world when it was written.The novel is relatively short, similar to earlier novels.At the end of the Kindle version there is an interesting essay by Sir Charles Osborne in which he discusses the decision taken to finally publish the novel, and the impact that it had on the Christie reading public.
    • 4/5
      I didn't guess it. This is Poirot's last case and a fairly satisfying end to the series. In it he confronts the perfect criminal. I really don't remember much about the other Poirots I read, but his loyal sidekick, Hastings, is very obviously an unreliable narrator in this one. I'm not convinced that all the other people that I had thought "done it" could be absolutely ruled out; they all had means and opportunity (in my telling of the back story) and could have had motives. But the book's explanation also works. My primary uneasiness about the story is that the crossword puzzle answer to "'Jealousy is a green-eyed monster,' this person said" is five letters and "Iago" is only four.
    • 4/5
      I enjoy most Agatha Christie books, this was a fine mystery as well. Memorable, though not my favorite Poirot. I do not keep Christie books on my shelves because there are too many of them and although fun, there isn't much more to them for me.
    • 5/5
      When we think of a murder mystery we think of a plot where a detective finds out who killed whom, with what and possibly where. None of this applies to this masterpiece mystery. Although known as the second novel Agatha Christie ever wrote, it is one of the last ones published. Agatha Christie herself claimed she wanted to save the book until she had finished a lot more other detective novels. After reading the book you might agree that she was most likely too nervous to release this type of plot onto the world, and with good reason. She would in her life be berated by readers and other crime novelists for her 'unorthodox' murder mechanisms and approaches. In fact Dorothy Sayers threatened to kick her out of the Detection Club for her plot in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Christie's main offense was allegedly not providing enough information for the readers to figure out for themselves who dunnit. This novel, Curtain, is no exception, except that the plot in this novel is so subtle and intricate that even if all information was explicitly provided people would most likely still be up in arms over it. Without giving too much away, Christie found a means of committing murder that can not under any circumstance be blamed on the killer.In Curtain, we meet famed detective Hercule Poirot one last and final time. In a message, which leaves nothing to speculation as to Poirot's health, the great detective summons his old friend Hastings to the house where it all began. The large mansion has since changed ownership and is now a lovely bed and breakfast with modern conveniences. Like before, and this time announced early on by Poirot, the hotel will be host to a murderer. Again without giving away too much about the plot it can be said that this is one of the most unorthodox methods by which any murderer has operated. In fact it is the way by which the murderer kills and more importantly gets away with it, which is the best part of the novel and its most controversial part.Christie early on defined for herself two principles by which her Belgian detective approached a case. First of all Poirot would solve all crimes by means of psychology and not for example by using an analysis of cigarette ashes. Second, it was extremely important to Poirot that the innocent should not suffer or be blamed for something they had not done. Out of all the novels she wrote, Curtain actually honors those both those principles. In other works it could be argued that Poirot also used cigarette ashes and circumstantial evidence, but not in this one, this one is all psychology. Perhaps yet another reason she was hesitant to release the book into the critical hands of her readers.Agatha Christie liked unorthodox plots, to her credit. But she had one weakness, which makes this novel even more difficult to get into. Her characters have always been rather flat and boilerplate. She usually introduces a grand old lady of the house who's irresistibly beautiful and eternally tragic. There's always a colonel or captain somewhere who just got back from safari or a war. This does not make a good combination with a plot that is highly logical and mechanical and contrary to other novels she wrote this one is on the extreme side of mechanical writing. How then to think about a book such as this? Should the rating reflect the genius of plotting and logic or should the work be judged solely on its character development and emotional depth? It's hard to say but I feel I need to reward the tremendous originality of the novel and slightly overlook the sentimental aspects.
    • 5/5
      The final Hercule Poirot novel, Agatha Christie's Curtain brings things full circle, with Poirot and Captain Hastings returning to Styles (the scene of their first murder investigation) to attempt to prevent a second murder in that ill house. This time, the killer is far more ingenious and cunning, compelled to kill but with no connection to his victims and a clear suspect for every crime. An ailing Poirot needs Hastings' assistance to stop this, his most diabolical adversary.Christie ended her long run of Poirot stories with a masterpiece, breaking one of the cardinal rules of classic detective fiction, though in a manner that satisfies her audience. Curtain is permeated with a sense of nostalgia, evoking Poirot's long career and reminding Christie's readers why he remains such a mainstay of detective fiction while simultaneously giving him a fitting sendoff.
    • 5/5
      Poirot's last case and what a case it is! Morals and values are pitted against the murder - a grand book for all who know Poirot!
    • 5/5
      I didn't want to see Poirot die, but if he has to die, this is the way for him to go. Hunting a criminal with his best friend Hastings. It definitely reminds me of the "death" of Sherlock Holmes pursuing his greatest enemy, Moriarty. The plot was complex, and there are many reasons to suspect everyone of murder. And it has a satisfying ending. Any Poirot fan will want to read this since it brings back lots of Poirot/Hastings memories and ties up some loose ends.
    • 3/5
      Gelezen toen ik 16 was, viel erg in de smaak
    • 5/5
      A good (though sad ) ending to the career of Hercule Poirot.
    • 5/5
      This is Poirot’s last case, and it ends where it all began. His mind is sharp until the last, and he is still educating Hastings in the way true detectives should think. A fitting way to finish Poirot’s career, it is still sad to see it come to an end. Well written, fans of Christie will find it fascinating.
    • 3/5
      Hadn't read an Agatha Christie Novel since the '80’s, so thought I’d revisit an old favourite. This was probably not the best book to revisit with if I wanted to figure out why I was hooked on her writing back then to begin with. Whether it's fair or not, I expected this novel to somehow be better than all the others that came before it. For me it came short, not to say that it disappointed. It did fill the spot for an easy to read murder mystery, so I’ll give it props on that.
    • 4/5
      Ringen bliver sluttet, da Arthur Hastings og Hercule Poirot mødes igen på Styles Court. Kaptajn Hastings er enkemand men datteren Judith på 21 år er der. Hastings har tre andre voksne børn, men hans hoved kan stadig drejes af piger med kastanjebrunt hår. Poirot er blevet gammel og fysisk svag, men han har en ide om at der er en meget snedig femdobbelt morder tilstede. Poirot ved hvem det er og også at morderen er så snedig at loven aldrig kan ramme ham. Selv om Hastings er på vagt, sker en vådeskudsulykke - eller var det et drabsforsøg - for næsen af ham, men offeret overlever. Så er Hastings selv lige ved at slå en Don Juan type ved navn Allerton ihjel, men han besinder sig. Til sidst dør Judiths arbejdsgivers kone Mrs Franklin. Ligsynet siger selvmord og Judith og Dr Franklin kan gifte sig, men Hastings mistanke er vakt.Så bliver Norton fundet skudt i sin seng og kort efter bliver Poirot fundet død.Hastings er i dyb krise, men nogle måneder efter får han tilsendt et notat fra Poirot, der forklarer sagen. Norton var en rænkemager, der ved sin tale og gerning i det skjulte opmuntrede til mord. Mrs Franklin var dog et rent uheld for Norton, for egentlig var det hende selv, der forsøgte at myrde sin mand, men det fik Hastings ved rent held forpurret.Poirot havde erkendt at Norton var umulig at få dømt eller blot tiltalt efter gældende lov og derfor var han nødt til selv at slå Norton ihjel. Efterfølgende fjernede han sin hjertemedicin og afventede indkaldelsen til den højeste dommer.Udmærket afslutning på Poirots gerninger
    • 4/5
      Classic Agatha Christie, with twists and turns you don't expect, but still the ending isn't totally a surprise because at least once or more, you anticipated who was the killer. In this case, there is a surprise twist at the end. I don't know if I've just read so much of her work that I can anticipate her, or if the clues were obvious, or maybe I read this before (I don't remember this one) and subconsciously remembered at least part of the ending. Overall, a fun, quick read, ideal for a time when you don't want to have to think too hard. The characters are standard archetypes and that makes it even more enjoyable since it usually isn't the archetype you would most expect that commits the murder.
    • 5/5
      “Curtain” is an apt title for this Poirot mystery, as it is his last case.The setting is a country house called “Styles,” the site of his first case and where he met the person he would partner with on many cases — Arthur Hastings. This makes for a full circle of Poirot’s life. The story is told by Hastings.Poirot is in bad health and has asked Hastings to meet at Styles. Among the guests at Styles is Hastings’ daughter, who is working with a research doctor. There is the retired colonel and his sharped tongued wife who runs the guest home; the research doctor and his invalided wife and her nurse; three single men and a single woman — among them is a murderer.The murderer has struck in five instances and five locations, and will probably strike again. Poirot intends to stop the murdererIt is a traditional Christie mystery, with locked room, people roaming the halls after all have gone to bed, secrets and atmosphere. It is the twists and turns and red herrings that are unexpected.
    • 1/5
      Mind Blowing. Have not seen any one like Agatha Christie ...Truly would be the all time best writer for psychological crime thrillers!
    • 5/5
      Curtain, the last case for Hercule Poirot takes place at Styles, the manor where Agatha Christie first introduced the funny little Belgian detective who makes use of his little gray cells. With him is a widowed Captain Hastings who has returned to England from Argentina. I loved how Christie brought the series full circle giving Poirot a worthy send-off. This mystery also references other cases that Poirot solved during his career weaving the past and present into the twisting storyline. As always, the interactions between Hastings and Poirot are entertaining and induce a chuckle here and there. The narrative kept my husband and I engaged as we tried to figure out just whodunit. I agree with my husband that with Curtain, no more Poirot is sad. But I found the way Christie tied up the long-running series to be a fitting end for Poirot. As always, Hugh Fraser’s narration is delightful — there can never be another Poirot for us.For diehard Poirot fans, Curtain is a must read. But if you are new to him or haven’t read many of the books in the series, please save this one for later. Give yourself many Poirot moments before the final curtain.Highly Recommended.Audience: adults.Genre: classic mystery.(I purchased the audiobook from Audible. All opinions expressed are mine alone.)

    Book preview

    Curtain - Agatha Christie

    One

    I

    Who is there who has not felt a sudden startled pang at reliving an old experience, or feeling an old emotion?

    I have done this before. . . .

    Why do those words always move one so profoundly?

    That was the question I asked myself as I sat in the train watching the flat Essex landscape outside.

    How long ago was it that I had taken this selfsame journey? Had felt (ridiculously) that the best of life was over for me! Wounded in that war that for me would always be the war—the war that was wiped out now by a second and a more desperate war.

    It had seemed in 1916 to young Arthur Hastings that he was already old and mature. How little had I realized that, for me, life was only then beginning.

    I had been journeying, though I did not know it, to meet the man whose influence over me was to shape and mould my life. Actually, I had been going to stay with my old friend, John Cavendish, whose mother, recently remarried, had a country house named Styles. A pleasant renewing of old acquaintanceships, that was all I had thought it, not foreseeing that I was shortly to plunge into all the dark embroilments of a mysterious murder.

    It was at Styles that I had met again that strange little man, Hercule Poirot, whom I had first come across in Belgium.

    How well I remembered my amazement when I had seen the limping figure with the large moustache coming up the village street.

    Hercule Poirot! Since those days he had been my dearest friend, his influence had moulded my life. In company with him, in the hunting down of yet another murderer, I had met my wife, the truest and sweetest companion any man could have had.

    She lay now in Argentine soil, having died as she would have wished, with no long drawn out suffering, or feebleness of old age. But she had left a very lonely and unhappy man behind her.

    Ah! If I could go back—live life all over again. If this could have been that day in 1916 when I first travelled to Styles . . . What changes had taken place since then! What gaps amongst the familiar faces! Styles itself had been sold by the Cavendishes. John Cavendish was dead, though his wife, Mary (that fascinating enigmatical creature), was still alive, living in Devonshire. Laurence was living with his wife and children in South Africa. Changes—changes everywhere.

    But one thing, strangely enough, was the same. I was going to Styles to meet Hercule Poirot.

    How stupefied I had been to receive his letter, with its heading Styles Court, Styles, Essex.

    I had not seen my old friend for nearly a year. The last time I had seen him I had been shocked and saddened. He was now a very old man, and riddled with arthritis. He had gone to Egypt in the hopes of improving his health, but had returned, so his letter told me, rather worse than better. Nevertheless, he wrote cheerfully. . . .

    II

    And does it not intrigue you, my friend, to see the address from which I write? It recalls old memories, does it not? Yes, I am here, at Styles. Figure to yourself, it is now what they call a guest house. Run by one of your so British old Colonels—very old school tie and Poonar. It is his wife, bien entendu, who makes it pay. She is a good manage, that one, but the tongue like vinegar, and the poor Colonel, he suffers much from it. If it were me I would take a hatchet to her!

    I saw their advertisement in the paper, and the fancy took me to go once again to the place which first was my home in this country. At my age one enjoys reliving the past.

    Then figure to yourself, I find here a gentleman, a baronet who is a friend of the employer of your daughter. (That phrase it sounds a little like the French exercise, does it not?)

    Immediately I conceive a plan. He wishes to induce the Franklins to come here for the summer. I in my turn will persuade you and we shall be all together, en famille. It will be most agreeable. Therefore, mon cher Hastings, dépêchez-vous, arrive with the utmost celerity. I have commanded for you a room with bath (it is modernized now, you comprehend, the dear old Styles) and disputed the price with Mrs. Colonel Luttrell until I have made an arrangement très bon marché.

    The Franklins and your charming Judith have been here for some days. It is all arranged, so make no histories.

    A bientôt,

    Yours always, Hercule Poirot

    The prospect was alluring, and I fell in with my old friend’s wishes without demur. I had no ties and no settled home. Of my children, one boy was in the Navy, the other married and running the ranch in the Argentine. My daughter Grace was married to a soldier and was at present in India. My remaining child, Judith, was the one whom secretly I had always loved best, although I had never for one moment understood her. A queer, dark, secretive child, with a passion for keeping her own counsel, which had sometimes affronted and distressed me. My wife had been more understanding. It was, she assured me, no lack of trust or confidence on Judith’s part, but a kind of fierce compulsion. But she, like myself, was sometimes worried about the child. Judith’s feelings, she said, were too intense, too concentrated, and her instinctive reserve deprived her of any safety valve. She had queer fits of brooding silence and a fierce, almost bitter power of partisanship. Her brains were the best of the family and we gladly fell in with her wish for a university education. She had taken her B.Sc. about a year ago, and had then taken the post of secretary to a doctor who was engaged in research work connected with tropical disease. His wife was somewhat of an invalid.

    I had occasionally had qualms as to whether Judith’s absorption in her work, and devotion to her employer, were not signs that she might be losing her heart, but the businesslike footing of their relationship assured me.

    Judith was, I believed, fond of me, but she was very undemonstrative by nature, and she was often scornful and impatient of what she called my sentimental and outworn ideas. I was, frankly, a little nervous of my daughter!

    At this point my meditations were interrupted by the train drawing up at the station of Styles St. Mary. That at least had not changed. Time had passed it by. It was still perched up in the midst of fields, with apparently no reason for existence.

    As my taxi passed through the village, though, I realized the passage of years. Styles St. Mary was altered out of all recognition. Petrol stations, a cinema, two more inns and rows of council houses.

    Presently we turned in at the gate of Styles. Here we seemed to recede again from modern times. The park was much as I remembered it, but the drive was badly kept and much overgrown with weeds growing up over the gravel. We turned a corner and came in view of the house. It was unaltered from the outside and badly needed a coat of paint.

    As on my arrival all those years ago, there was a woman’s figure stooping over one of the garden beds. My heart missed a beat. Then the figure straightened up and came towards me, and I laughed at myself. No greater contrast to the robust Evelyn Howard could have been imagined.

    This was a frail elderly lady, with an abundance of curly white hair, pink cheeks, and a pair of cold pale blue eyes that were widely at variance with the easy geniality of her manner, which was frankly a shade too gushing for my taste.

    It’ll be Captain Hastings now, won’t it? she demanded. And me with my hands all over dirt and not able to shake hands. We’re delighted to see you here—the amount we’ve heard about you! I must introduce myself. I’m Mrs. Luttrell. My husband and I bought this place in a fit of madness and have been trying to make a paying concern of it. I never thought the day would come when I’d be a hotel keeper! But I’ll warn you, Captain Hastings, I’m a very businesslike woman. I pile up the extras all I know how.

    We both laughed as though at an excellent joke, but it occurred to me that what Mrs. Luttrell had just said was in all probability the literal truth. Behind the veneer of her charming old lady manner, I caught a glimpse of flint-like hardness.

    Although Mrs. Luttrell occasionally affected a faint brogue, she had no Irish blood. It was a mere affectation.

    I enquired after my friend.

    Ah, poor little M. Poirot. The way he’s been looking forward to your coming. It would melt a heart of stone. Terribly sorry I am for him, suffering the way he does.

    We were walking towards the house and she was peeling off her gardening gloves.

    And your pretty daughter, too, she went on. What a lovely girl she is. We all admire her tremendously. But I’m old-fashioned, you know, and it seems to me a shame and a sin that a girl like that, that ought to be going to parties and dancing with young men, should spend her time cutting up rabbits and bending over a microscope all day. Leave that sort of thing to the frumps, I say.

    Where is Judith? I asked. Is she somewhere about?

    Mrs. Luttrell made what children call a face.

    Ah, the poor girl. Sheh’s cooped up in tat studio place down at the bottom of the garden. Dr. Franklin rents it from me and he’s had it all fitted up. Hutches of guinea pigs he’s got there, the poor creatures, and mice and rabbits. I’m not sure that I like all this science, Captain Hastings. Ah, here’s my husband.

    Colonel Luttrell had just come round the corner of the house. He was a very tall, attenuated old man, with a cadaverous face, mild blue eyes and a habit of irresolutely tugging at his little white moustache.

    He had a vague, rather nervous manner.

    Ah, George, here’s Captain Hastings arrived.

    Colonel Luttrell shook hands. You came by the five—er—forty, eh?

    What else should he have come by? said Mrs. Luttrell sharply. And what does it matter anyway? Take him up and show him his room, George. And then maybe he’d like to go straight to M. Poirot—or would you rather have tea first?

    I assured her that I did not want tea and would prefer to go and greet my friend.

    Colonel Luttrell said, Right. Come along. I expect—er—they’ll have taken your things up already—eh, Daisy?

    Mrs. Luttrell said tartly, That’s your business, George. I’ve been gardening. I can’t see to everything.

    No, no, of course not. I—I’ll see to it, my dear.

    I followed him up the front steps. In the doorway we encountered a grey-haired man, slightly built, who was hurrying out with a pair of field glasses. He limped, and had a boyish eager face. He said, stammering slightly: There’s a pair of n-nesting blackcaps down by the sycamore.

    As we went into the hall, Luttrell said, That’s Norton. Nice fellow. Crazy about birds.

    In the hall itself, a very big man was standing by the table. He had obviously just finished telephoning. Looking up he said, I’d like to hang, draw and quarter all contractors and builders. Never get anything done right, curse ’em.

    His wrath was so comical and so rueful, that we both laughed. I felt very attracted at once towards the man. He was very good-looking, though a man well over fifty, with a deeply tanned face. He looked as though he had led an out-of-doors life, and he looked, too, the type of man that is becoming more and more rare, an Englishman of the old school, straightforward, fond of out-of-doors life, and the kind of man who can command.

    I was hardly surprised when Colonel Luttrell introduced him as Sir William Boyd Carrington. He had been, I knew, Governor of a province in India, where he had been a signal success. He was also renowned as a first-class shot and big game hunter. The sort of man, I reflected sadly, that we no longer seemed to breed in these degenerate days.

    Aha, he said. "I’m glad to meet in the flesh that famous personage mon ami Hastings. He laughed. The dear old Belgian fellow talks about you a lot, you know. And then, of course, we’ve got your daughter here. She’s a fine girl."

    I don’t suppose Judith talks about me much, I said, smiling.

    No, no, far too modern. These girls nowadays always seem embarrassed at having to admit to a father or mother at all.

    Parents, I said, are practically a disgrace.

    He laughed. Oh, well—I don’t suffer that way. I’ve no children, worse luck. Your Judith is a very good-looking wench, but terribly highbrow. I find it rather alarming. He picked up the telephone receiver again. Hope you don’t mind, Luttrell, if I start damning your exchange to hell. I’m not a patient man.

    Do ’em good, said Luttrell.

    He led the way upstairs and I followed him. He took me along the left wing of the house to a door at the end, and I realized that Poirot had chosen for me the room I had occupied before.

    There were changes here. As I walked along the corridor some of the doors were open and I saw that the old-fashioned large bedrooms had been partitioned off so as to make several smaller ones.

    My own room, which had not been large, was unaltered save for the installation of hot and cold water, and part of it had been partitioned off to make a small bathroom. It was furnished in a cheap modern style which rather disappointed me. I should have preferred a style more nearly approximating to the architecture of the house itself.

    My luggage was in my room and the Colonel explained that Poirot’s room was exactly opposite. He was about to take me there when a sharp cry of George echoed up from the hall below.

    Colonel Luttrell started like a nervous horse. His hand went to his lips.

    I—I—sure you’re all right? Ring for what you want—

    George.

    Coming, my dear, coming.

    He hurried off down the corridor. I stood for a moment looking after him. Then, with my heart beating slightly faster, I crossed the corridor and rapped on the door of Poirot’s room.

    Two

    Nothing is so sad, in my opinion, as the devastation wrought by age.

    My poor friend. I have described him many times. Now to convey to you the difference. Riddled with arthritis, he propelled himself about in a wheeled chair. His once plump frame had fallen in. He was a thin little man now. His face was lined and wrinkled. His moustache and hair, it is true, were still of a jet black colour, but candidly, though I would not for the world have hurt his feelings by saying so to him, this was a mistake. There comes a moment when hair dye is only too painfully obvious. There had been a time when I had been surprised to learn that the blackness of Poirot’s hair came out of a bottle. But now the theatricality was apparent and merely created the impression that he wore a wig and had adorned his upper lip to amuse the children!

    Only his eyes were the same as ever, shrewd and twinkling, and now—yes, undoubtedly—softened with emotion.

    "Ah, mon ami Hastings—mon ami Hastings. . . ."

    I bent my head and, as was his custom, he embraced me warmly.

    "Mon ami Hastings!"

    He leaned back, surveying me with his head a little to one side.

    "Yes, just the same—the straight back, the broad shoulders, the grey of the hair—très distingué. You know, my friend, you have worn well. Les femmes, they still take an interest in you? Yes?"

    Really, Poirot, I protested. Must you—

    "But I assure you, my friend, it is a test—it is the test. When the very young girls come and talk to you kindly, oh so kindly—it is the end! ‘The poor old man,’ they say, ‘we must be nice to him. It must be so awful to be like that.’ But you, Hastings—vous êtes encore jeune. For you there are still possibilities. That is right, twist your moustache, hunch your shoulders—I see it is as I say—you would not look so self-conscious otherwise."

    I burst out laughing. You really are the limit, Poirot. And how are you yourself?

    Me, said Poirot with a grimace. "I am a wreck. I am a ruin. I cannot walk. I am broken and twisted. Mercifully I can still feed myself, but otherwise I have to be attended to like a

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