years ago still makes you chuckle, and
this, for me, is true of what Poirot said to me at some
point later on that day: “It is hard for even the most
ingenious detective to know what to do if his desire is
to be free of Signor Lazzari. If one’s praise of his
hotel is insufficient, he stays by one’s side and
supplements it with his own; if one’s praise is
fulsome and lengthy, he stays to listen.”
Poirot’s efforts were eventually successful, and he
finally managed to persuade Lazzari to leave him to
his own devices in Room 238. He walked over to the
door that the hotel manager had left open, closed it,
and sighed with relief. How much easier it was to
think clearly when there was no babble of voices.
He made straight for the window. An open
window, he thought as he stared out of it. The
murderer might have opened it to escape after killing
Richard Negus. He could have climbed down a tree.
Why escape thus? Why not simply leave the room
in the expected way, using the corridor? Perhaps the
killer heard voices outside Negus’s room and did not
want to risk being seen. Yes, that was a possibility.
And yet when he strolled up to the front desk to leave
his note announcing his three murders, he risked being
seen. More than seen—he risked being caught in the
act of leaving incriminating evidence.
Poirot looked down at the body on the floor. No
gleam of metal between the lips. Richard Negus alone
of the three victims had the cufflink right at the back
of his mouth. It was an anomaly. Too many things
about this room were anomalous. For this reason,
Poirot decided he would search Room 238 first. He
was . . . Yes, there was no virtue in denying it—he
was suspicious of this room. Of the three, it was his
least favorite. There was something disorganized
about it, something a little unruly.
Poirot stood beside Negus’s body and frowned.
Even by his exacting standards, one open window
was not enough to render a room chaotic, so what was
it that was giving him this impression? He looked
around, turning in a slow circle. No, he must be
mistaken. Hercule Poirot was not often wrong, but it
did happen very occasionally, and this must be one
such instance, because 238 was an undeniably tidy
room. There was no mess or muddle. It was as tidy as
Harriet Sippel’s room and Ida Gransbury’s.
“I shall shut the window and see if that makes a
difference,” said Poirot to himself. He did so and
surveyed the territory anew. Something was still not
right. He did not like Room 238. He would not have
felt comfortable if he had arrived at the Bloxham
Hotel and been shown to this . . .
Suddenly the problem leapt out at him, putting an
abrupt end to his meditations. The fireplace! One of
the tiles was not aligned correctly. It was not straight;
it jutted out. A loose tile; Poirot could not sleep in a
room with such a thing. He eyed the body of Richard
Negus. “If I were in the condition that you are in, oui,
but not otherwise,” he said to it.
His only thought as he bent to touch the tile was
that he might straighten it and push it back in so that it
was flush with the others. To spare future guests the
torment of knowing that there was something amiss in
the room and being unable to work out what it was—
what a service that would be! And to Signor Lazzari
also!
When Poirot touched it, the tile fell clean out, and
something else fell with it: a key with a number on it:
238. “ Sacre tonnerre, ” Poirot whispered. “So the
thorough search was not so thorough after all.”
Poirot replaced the key where he had found it, then
set about inspecting the rest of the room, inch by inch.
He discovered nothing else of interest, so he
proceeded to Room 317 and then to Room 121, which
was where I found him when I returned from my
errands with exciting news of my own.
Poirot being Poirot, he insisted on telling me his
news first, about his finding of the key. All I can
this, for me, is true of what Poirot said to me at some
point later on that day: “It is hard for even the most
ingenious detective to know what to do if his desire is
to be free of Signor Lazzari. If one’s praise of his
hotel is insufficient, he stays by one’s side and
supplements it with his own; if one’s praise is
fulsome and lengthy, he stays to listen.”
Poirot’s efforts were eventually successful, and he
finally managed to persuade Lazzari to leave him to
his own devices in Room 238. He walked over to the
door that the hotel manager had left open, closed it,
and sighed with relief. How much easier it was to
think clearly when there was no babble of voices.
He made straight for the window. An open
window, he thought as he stared out of it. The
murderer might have opened it to escape after killing
Richard Negus. He could have climbed down a tree.
Why escape thus? Why not simply leave the room
in the expected way, using the corridor? Perhaps the
killer heard voices outside Negus’s room and did not
want to risk being seen. Yes, that was a possibility.
And yet when he strolled up to the front desk to leave
his note announcing his three murders, he risked being
seen. More than seen—he risked being caught in the
act of leaving incriminating evidence.
Poirot looked down at the body on the floor. No
gleam of metal between the lips. Richard Negus alone
of the three victims had the cufflink right at the back
of his mouth. It was an anomaly. Too many things
about this room were anomalous. For this reason,
Poirot decided he would search Room 238 first. He
was . . . Yes, there was no virtue in denying it—he
was suspicious of this room. Of the three, it was his
least favorite. There was something disorganized
about it, something a little unruly.
Poirot stood beside Negus’s body and frowned.
Even by his exacting standards, one open window
was not enough to render a room chaotic, so what was
it that was giving him this impression? He looked
around, turning in a slow circle. No, he must be
mistaken. Hercule Poirot was not often wrong, but it
did happen very occasionally, and this must be one
such instance, because 238 was an undeniably tidy
room. There was no mess or muddle. It was as tidy as
Harriet Sippel’s room and Ida Gransbury’s.
“I shall shut the window and see if that makes a
difference,” said Poirot to himself. He did so and
surveyed the territory anew. Something was still not
right. He did not like Room 238. He would not have
felt comfortable if he had arrived at the Bloxham
Hotel and been shown to this . . .
Suddenly the problem leapt out at him, putting an
abrupt end to his meditations. The fireplace! One of
the tiles was not aligned correctly. It was not straight;
it jutted out. A loose tile; Poirot could not sleep in a
room with such a thing. He eyed the body of Richard
Negus. “If I were in the condition that you are in, oui,
but not otherwise,” he said to it.
His only thought as he bent to touch the tile was
that he might straighten it and push it back in so that it
was flush with the others. To spare future guests the
torment of knowing that there was something amiss in
the room and being unable to work out what it was—
what a service that would be! And to Signor Lazzari
also!
When Poirot touched it, the tile fell clean out, and
something else fell with it: a key with a number on it:
238. “ Sacre tonnerre, ” Poirot whispered. “So the
thorough search was not so thorough after all.”
Poirot replaced the key where he had found it, then
set about inspecting the rest of the room, inch by inch.
He discovered nothing else of interest, so he
proceeded to Room 317 and then to Room 121, which
was where I found him when I returned from my
errands with exciting news of my own.
Poirot being Poirot, he insisted on telling me his
news first, about his finding of the key. All I can
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