The Hunter’s Lodge Case
The famous “little gray cells” of the great detective Poirotfunction admirably in solving what at first seems a particularlypuzzling murder mystery.
“After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not diethis time.”
Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark asshowing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first suffererfrom the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sittingup in bed, propped up with pillows.
“Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myselfagain, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure toyourself, mon ami, that I have a little paragraph to myself inSociety Gossip. But yes! Here it is!
“‘Go it, criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot,—and believe me, girls,he’s some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip onyou. ’Cause why? ’Cause he’s got la grippe himself!’”
I laughed.
“Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. Andfortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest duringthis time.”
“That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill mewith any regret.”
Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.
“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you,Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quitethe gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.”
She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read.
Poirot motioned with his head toward the bookcase, and I obedientlypulled forth the “Who’s Who.” Poirot took it from me and scanned thepages rapidly.
“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughterof William Crabb.”
“H’m,” I said. “I rather fancy that’s the girl who used to act at theFrivolity—only she called herself Zoe Carrisbrook. I remember shemarried some young man about town just before the war.”
“Would it interest you, Hastings, to go down and hear what ourvisitor’s particular trouble is? Make him all my excuses.”
Roger Havering was a man of about forty, well set up and of smartappearance.
His face, however, was haggard, and he was evidently laboring undergreat agitation.
“Captain Hastings? You are M. Poirot’s partner, I understand. It isimperative that he should come with me to Derbyshire today.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” I replied. “Poirot is ill inbed—influenza.”
His face fell.
“Dear me, that is a great blow to me.”
“The matter on which you want to consult him is serious?”
“My God, yes! My uncle, the best friend I have in the world, wasfoully murdered last night.”
“Here in London?”
“No, in Derbyshire. I was in town and received a telegram from my wifethis morning. Immediately upon its receipt I determined to come roundand beg M. Poirot to undertake the case.”
“If you will excuse me a minute,” I said, struck by a sudden idea.
I rushed upstairs, and in few brief words acquainted Poirot with thesituation. He took any further words out of my mouth.
“I see—I see. You want to go yourself, is it not so? Well, why not?You should know my methods by now. All I ask is that you should reportto me fully every day, and follow implicitly any instructions I maywire you.”