He had been severe with ce cher Hastings on this point, and now here he was, behaving much ashis friend might have done, obsessed with beautiful women, crimes of passion, jealousy, hatred,and all the other romantic causes of murder! He wanted to know about it all. He wanted to knowwhat Major Rich was like, and what his manservant, Burgess, was like, and what MargharitaClayton was like (though that, he thought, he knew) and what the late Arnold Clayton had beenlike (since he held that the character of the victim was of the first importance in a murder case),and even what Commander McLaren, the faithful friend, and Mr. and Mrs. Spence, the recentlyacquired acquaintances, were like.

And he did not see exactly how he was going to gratify his curiosity!

He reflected on the matter later in the day.

Why did the whole business intrigue him so much? He decided, after reflection, that it wasbecause - as the facts were related - the whole thing was more or less impossible! Yes, there was aEuclidean flavor.

Starting from what one could accept, there had been a quarrel between two men. Cause,presumably, a woman. One man killed the other in the heat of rage. Yes, that happened - though itwould be more acceptable if the husband had killed the lover. Still - the lover had killed thehusband, stabbed him with a dagger (?), somehow a rather unlikely weapon. Perhaps Major Richhad had an Italian mother? Somewhere - surely - there should be something to explain the choiceof a dagger as a weapon. Anyway, one must accept the dagger (some papers called it a stiletto!). Itwas to hand and was used. The body was concealed in the chest. That was common sense andinevitable. The crime had not been premeditated, and as the valet was returning at any moment,and four guests would be arriving before very long, it seemed the only course indicated.

The party is held, the guests depart, the manservant is already gone - and - Major Rich goes tobed!

To understand how that could happen, one must see Major Rich and find out what kind of a manacts in that way.

Could it be that, overcome with horror at what he had done and the long strain of an eveningtrying to appear his normal self, he had taken a sleeping pill of some kind or a tranquilizer whichhad put him into a heavy slumber which lasted long beyond his usual hour of waking? Possible.

Or was it a case, rewarding to a psychologist, where Major Rich's feeling of subconscious guiltmade him want the crime to be discovered?

To make up one's mind on that point one would have to see Major Rich. It all came back to -The telephone rang. Poirot let it ring for some moments, until he realized that Miss Lemon afterbringing him his letters to sign, had gone home some time ago, and that George had probably goneout.

He picked up the receiver.

"M. Poirot?"

"Speaking!"

"Oh how splendid." Poirot blinked slightly at the fervor of the charming female voice. "It's AbbieChatterton.""Ah, Lady Chatterton. How can I serve you?""By coming over as quickly as you can right away to a simply frightful cocktail party I am giving.

Not just for the cocktail party - it's for something quite different really. I need you. It's absolutelyvital. Please, please, please don't let me down! Don't say you can't manage it."Poirot had not been going to say anything of the kind. Lord Chatterton, apart from being a peer ofthe realm and occasionally making a very dull speech in the House of Lords, was nobody inparticular. But Lady Chatterton was one of the brightest jewels in what Poirot called le hautémonde. Everything she did or said was news. She had brains, beauty, originality, and enoughvitality to activate a rocket to the moon.

She said again: "I need you. Just give that wonderful moustache of yours a lovely twirl, andcome!"It was not quite so quick as that. Poirot had first to make a meticulous toilet. The twirl to themoustaches was added and he then set off.

The door of Lady Chatterton's delightful house in Cheriton Street was ajar and a noise as ofanimals mutinying at the zoo sounded from within. Lady Chatterton, who was holding twoambassadors, an international rugger player, and an American evangelist in play, neatly jettisonedthem with the rapidity of sleight of hand and was at Poirot's side.

"M. Poirot, how wonderful to see you! No, don't have that nasty Martini. I've got somethingspecial for you - a kind of sirop that the sheikhs drink in Morocco. It's in my own little roomupstairs."She led the way upstairs and Poirot followed her. She paused to say over her shoulder: "I didn'tput these people off, because it's absolutely essential that no one should know there's anythingspecial going on here, and I've promised the servants enormous bonuses if not a word leaks out.

After all, one doesn't want one's house besieged by reporters. And, poor darling, she's beenthrough so much already."Lady Chatterton did not stop at the first-floor landing; instead she swept on up to the floor above.

Gasping for breath and somewhat bewildered, Hercule Poirot followed.

Lady Chatterton paused, gave a rapid glance downwards over the banisters, and then flung open adoor, exclaiming as she did so: "I've got him, Margharita! I've got him! Here he is!"She stood aside in triumph to let Poirot enter, then performed a rapid introduction.

"This is Margharita Clayton. She's a very, very dear friend of mine. You'll help her, won't you?

Margharita, this is that wonderful Hercule Poirot. He'll do just everything you want - you will,won't you, dear M. Poirot?"And without waiting for the answer which she obviously took for granted (Lady Chatterton hadnot been a spoiled beauty all her life for nothing), she dashed out of the door and down the stairs,calling back rather indiscreetly, "I've got to go back to all these awful people."The woman who had been sitting in a chair by the window rose and came towards him. He wouldhave recognized her even if Lady Chatterton had not mentioned her name. Here was that wide,that very wide brow, the dark hair that sprang away from it like wings, the grey eyes set far apart.

She wore a close-fitting high-necked gown of dull black that showed up the beauty of her bodyand the magnolia-whiteness of her skin. It was an unusual face rather than a beautiful one - one ofthose oddly proportioned faces that one sometimes sees in an Italian primitive. There was abouther a kind of medieval simplicity - a strange innocence that could be, Poirot thought, moredevastating than any voluptuous sophistication. When she spoke it was with a kind of childlikecandor.