I don't think there's a seaside town in the south of England as charming as Saint-Loup, so it's only fitting that it's called the "Queen of Watertowns".Arriving here, tourists will naturally think of it.In my impression, the coast of Cornwall is as charming as the seaside of the south of France. I told this idea to my friend Hercule Poirot.After hearing this, he said: "That's what it said on the menu in the dining car yesterday, my friend, so it's not your invention." "Don't you agree with that statement?" He smiled absently, without answering.I asked again.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Hastings. I'm thinking of going elsewhere. I was thinking of that distant place you just mentioned." "South of France?" "Yes, I was thinking last winter, I was there last winter, and the case..." I remember now.There was a murder on the blue train in the south of France last winter.The case was complicated and mysterious, but it was detected by Poirot.He was always so prudent and astute, and always infallible. "If only I had been with you then!" I regretted deeply. "I think so too," said Poirot. "If you were here, your experience would be of great use to me."

I watched him sideways, and experience tells me that his compliments are not to be trusted, but this time he was quite serious, but I knew what he was doing. "Especially your fascinating imaginations and speculations, Hastings," he went on thoughtfully, "a man always likes a change. Sometimes I condescend to have a discussion with my excellent valet, George. problem, but he has no imagination." This passage is simply out of bounds. "Tell me, Poirot," I said, "don't you want to go back to your old job? This idle life..." "It suits me very well, my friend. Laying on the beach in the sun - what could be more leisurely and comfortable? Taking a swift retreat from a finished summit - what could be more grandiose? People like that Talking about me: 'Look, there is Hercule Poirot - a great, unparalleled man! There has never been one before, and there will be no one since!' So I am satisfied, and I ask no more Yes. I am humble and content!"

I've never used words like "humble" to describe myself.It seems my friend's self-boasting has not diminished with age.He leaned back on the back of the chair, twitched his mustache in various postures that he thought were extremely graceful, and made a self-absorbed "uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu...... We sat on the small balcony of the hotel.This is the largest hotel in Saint-Loup, located on a promontory overlooking the vast sea.Under the small balcony is the hotel's garden, which is full of palm trees.The sea was a deep blue and pleasing to the eye, and the sky was cloudless.The August sun shone single-mindedly with all the heat it possessed (a rarity in England).The buzzing of the bees is calming to listen to - all that is too good to be true.

We just got here last night, intending to stay here for a week.If the fine weather continues, our vacation will be perfect. I picked up the morning newspaper that had fallen from my hands and looked at it.The political situation is worrying, and there are troubles in China again.One message detailed a rumored urban hoax.In a word, there is nothing exciting in the newspapers. "There is a very strange disease called 'parrot disease'." I said and turned over the newspaper. "Very strange," replied Poirot. "Look, two more people have died of this disease in Leeds."

"It's a pity." I turned the page again. "There's still no word on the circumnavigation of the pilot, Captain Seton. These guys are brave. His amphibious plane called the Albatros must be a great invention. It would be too bad if he went west. But there may be some hope that he may have landed on some island in the Pacific Ocean." "Perhaps there are cannibals in the Solomon Islands, are there?" asked Poirot with a smile. "The pilot must have been a fine lad. Such a feat is, after all, a credit to us Brits." "Yes, you can take comfort in your failure," said Poirot.

"I, I'm not saying..." My friend deftly diverted from my defense by declaring: "I'm not some unlucky dual-purpose plane like Seton's. I'm a cosmopolitan. I've always admired the English, as you know. They're always meticulous, for example, even when they read the newspapers. It’s not missing a word, and it’s very thorough.” I continued to browse the political news. "The Minister of the Interior is having a hard time!" I laughed. Poirot listened and said: "Poor man, he's got his troubles. Ah, yes, he's still trying to make ends meet."

I looked at him puzzled. Smiling, Poirot took from his pocket a roll of mail bound with a rubber band, and from it he took out a letter and handed it to me. "I should have received the letter yesterday," he said. I read the letter again, and I couldn't help being happy and excited. "Poirot," I exclaimed, "that is the highest compliment I can pay you." "Do you think so, my friend?" "He was flattering on your talents." "He's right," said Poirot, modestly looking away. "He's asking you to help him with these problems, and it's a personal request."

"Yes, but you need not repeat the letter to me. You must know, my dear Hastings, that I have read the letter myself." "Not good," I sighed. "That means our vacation is over." "No, no, take your time—that's not the case at all." "But the Home Affairs Minister said things were on the line." "He may be right or he may not be. Politicians are always jumpy. I saw it with my own eyes in the House of Commons in Paris..." "Yes, yes. But, Poirot, we must be ready to start, right? The express train for London leaves at twelve o'clock, and the next one..."

"Calm down, Hastings, calm down, I beg you. Why, always so impulsive, it's raining every wind. We're not going to London to-day, and we're not going to-morrow!" "But the Minister's request..." "I have nothing to do with it. I'm not part of your police force, Hastings. He asked me to work as a consultant detective, and I declined." "You refused?" "Of course. I wrote him a very courteous letter apologizing and telling him I had become a desolate ruin. I was retired, old and finished." "You are not finished, no!" I shouted excitedly.

Poirot patted my knee. "Ah, my faithful friend, of course you have a point. Those little gray cells in my brain are still useful, and I am as alert as ever. But after retirement, my friend, I am a retired man after all. I'm not one of those famous actors who take a dozen curtain calls to cheering audiences after a play is over. I say it with the most generous gesture of all: Give young people a chance Show your skills. Though I doubt they have anything to show for it, who knows? Maybe they'll be able to, at least to deal with the minister's dull cases." "But, Poirot, the Minister paid you a compliment after all." "I, oh--I don't do that. The Minister of the Interior is a man of senses. Of course he knows that if I help him, all problems will be solved. It's a pity he's not lucky, Hercule Poe Lo's done the last case of his life." I watched him silently, regretting in my heart that he was so stubborn.Wouldn't his reputation, already famous throughout Europe, be given a brighter luster by solving the case entrusted to him by the Minister?However, I cannot help admiring his firm attitude. Suddenly I remembered the aggressive method and said: "I don't think you are afraid, are you? The words in the letter can even move God." "No," he replied, "nobody can shake Hercule Poirot." "Is it impossible, Poirot?" "Indeed, my friend. 'Impossible' is not a word to be used carelessly. Actually, I don't mean that I would ignore a bullet if it hit the wall around me. People are people." I laughed.A small stone had just hit the steps beneath our feet as he spoke.His quick associations amuse me.He stooped to pick it up, and went on: "Yes, a man is always a man. Although sometimes like a dog that sleeps soundly and sweetly, he wakes up when he barks. That's what you have a proverb about." "That's right," I said, "if someone's doing something under your watch, even if you're retired, it's going to be bad luck for that guy." He nodded, but absently. Suddenly for no apparent reason he stood up and went down the steps into the garden.At this moment a girl was hurrying towards us in the garden.This was a very charming girl. When she walked up to Poirot, Poirot was looking somewhere, but he accidentally tripped over a tree root and fell heavily to the ground.I hurried over to help him up with the girl.Though I have all my thoughts on my friend, I also feel--do I not?People can see just as well without eyes sometimes—the girl had dark brown hair and big dark blue eyes with a mischievous expression on her face. "I'm so sorry," stammered Poirot. "You're very kind, Mademoiselle, I'm very sorry—oh, my foot hurts badly. Oh, no, no, nothing, just a twisted ankle." Just a moment, and it'll be all right in a few minutes. But if you'll help me, Hastings, and this good lady... well, I'd be ashamed to ask this lady to help me." One by one we helped the nagging old man up the steps and seated him in a chair.I suggested seeing a doctor right away, but he was adamantly against it. "It's all right, I tell you. It's just a sprained ankle. It hurts for a while and everything will be fine." He frowned, grinning. "Look, I'll forget about this bad thing in a while." Erjing. Miss, I am very grateful to you. Please sit down for a while, please." The girl sat down. "There's nothing to be thankful for!" she said, "but I always think I ought to see a doctor." "Miss, I assure you you don't need to bother the doctor. You're better than the doctor here." The girl laughed and said: "That's interesting." "How about some cocktails?" I suggested. "Now is the time for some cocktails." "Then—" she said vaguely, "I'm all covered." "OK?" "Okay, the unsweetened one." When I came back from ordering drinks, I found that Poirot and the girl had already had a very speculative conversation. "Does it not occur to you, Hastings," said he, "that the house on the headland, which we have just admired, belongs to this lady." "Really?" I said.I can't recall a time when I praised the house, in fact I almost never noticed that there was a house there. "It looks strangely eerie and lonely." "It's called Cliff House," said the girl, "and I like it very much. But it's an old, run-down house, and it's getting dilapidated every day." "You are the only descendant of an ancient family, madam?" "Oh, not much of a family. But we Buckleys have lived here for two or three hundred years. When my brother died three years ago, I was the sole heir to the Buckley family." "How dreary! You live alone in that house?" "Well, I'm out a lot. But the house is always full when I'm not." "It's pretty trendy, and somehow I always have this image in my head of you in that house, surrounded by haunting ghosts, sitting in the depths of the mysterious old house." "How strange, how did you come up with such a picture? No, there are no ghosts. If there are, they must be some kind ghosts. I survived three times in three days. So I think there must be some ghosts His divine power is protecting me." Poirot stretched himself up in his chair. "Survived death? That would be interesting, miss." "Oh, it's nothing spectacular, just accidents, you know." She turned to avoid a passing wasp. "These damned wasps! There must be a nest for them around here." "Ah, these bees and wasps and all—don't you like them, miss? You've been stung by them, I suppose?" "Not really. But hate the vile way they fly right next to your face." "There's one in the hat," said Poirot, "that's what you English say." Then the cocktails arrived.We raised our glasses, exchanged the usual silly toasts, and toasted. "I should be at the hotel, really," said Miss Buckley. "I guess they're looking for me." Poirot cleared his throat and put down his glass. "Well, it would be nice to have a nice cup of chocolate!" he murmured, "but in England one doesn't make that kind of drink. But there are some English habits that are pleasing to the eye. Like Say, girls have a strange way of wearing their hats, and how convenient it is to wear them..." The girl looked at him and said: "I just don't understand what you're talking about. Isn't it bad to wear a hat like that?" "You're asking because you're young, too young, miss. But I've seen it more in the old-fashioned way: the hair combed high and strong, the hat on Pin it tightly to your hair in all directions." With his hands on his head, he showed how to use the pins to firmly clamp the hat and hair together. "That's so uncomfortable!" "I don't think so," said Poirot.But what he said shows that he has a thorough understanding of the disadvantages of that kind of hair hat, "but once the wind blows, you will suffer. The hat that is going to fly away relies on those pins to catch your hair tightly, Makes you feel like you're having a migraine." Miss Buckley took off her fedora hat and set it aside, saying: "It will be easy to take off the hat now." "That's why I was deeply touched, and the words were simple and elegant." Poirot said, bending slightly. I looked at her with great interest.Her tousled dark brown hair made her look mischievous.In fact, her whole body is mischievous.Small face, rich expression, just like a cat face flower.Those big dark blue eyes, and other charms that can only be understood but cannot be expressed in words, all have a soul-stirring charm.But when I saw the dark circles under her eyes, I wondered if it might be a sign of frivolity. The place where we sit is relatively lonely.Most people sit on the front balcony.The big balcony is right on the cliff by the sea.Now a red-faced man appeared there. He swayed from side to side as he walked, his hands were half clenched, and his face was full of joy and carefree. It was obvious at a glance that he was a sailor. "I don't know where she's gone," he said, so loudly that we could hear him, "Nick! Nick!" Miss Buckley stood up. "I know they're waiting. Good boy—George! Here I am!" "Freddy's going crazy for a drink. Come on, girl!" As he spoke, he glanced at Poirot curiously. He probably thought that Poirot was not at all like Nick's other friends. How could he talk to such an old man for so long. The girl stretched out her hand and introduced: "This is Lieutenant Colonel Challenger—er—" The girl was waiting for Poirot to introduce herself, but Poirot, to my surprise, did not give her name.He stood up, bowed politely, and said: "In the British Navy! I have always admired the British Navy." It was rude to say such nonsense when he was asked to introduce himself.Colonel Challenger blushed even more.Nick Barkley immediately reversed the deadlock, saying: "Come on, George, don't be so queer. Let's find Freddie and Jim." She smiled to Poirot: "Thank you for the cocktail. I wish your ankle a speedy recovery." She nodded and smiled at me, and walked away on the sailor's arm. "He is a friend of the Mademoiselle," said Poirot thoughtfully, "one of her happy companions. What is he like? Judge with an expert eye, Hastings. Is he what one might call a 'nice guy'?" I hesitated for a moment, trying to figure out what kind of people Poirot meant by "good people".Then I hesitantly agreed. "He doesn't look bad," I said, "and I can't see anything at first glance." "Not necessarily?" said Poirot, stooping to pick up the hat the girl had left behind, and twirling it absently with his fingers. "Is he interested in her? What do you think, Hastings?" "My dear Poirot! How should I know? Come, give me this hat, and let me return it to her." Poirot ignored me, and continued to twirl the hat slowly on his fingers, saying: "Maybe he doesn't mean anything to her yet, but I'll keep the hat for fun." "Really, Poirot?" "Yes, my friend. I'm getting old, aren't I?" I think that is exactly the case, but it is difficult to export.Poirot grinned, scratched the bridge of his nose with a finger, leaned forward and said: "But no, I'm not quite as delirious as you think. We're going to give her the hat back, but not now. It'll be a while. We're going to take it to Cliff House. That way we'll have an excuse to have another look at that charming Miss Nick." "Poirot," I said, "I think you're in love." "She's beautiful, eh?" "You can see it yourself, why ask me?" "Because I can't tell. To me, everything young is beautiful these days. Ah, youth, youth... But what do you think? You don't have a good taste for beauty, either. You've lived too long in Argentina." Yes. You admire the same thing as it was five years ago, but it's still better than me even if it's outdated. She's beautiful, isn't she? Both men and women will be fascinated by her." "There's a man who's smitten with her, Poirot," I said. "I'm not mistaken. Why are you so interested in this woman?" "I'm interested?" "Hey, go back to what you just said yourself." "You are mistaken, my friend. I may be interested in the girl, yes, but I am much more interested in her hat." I looked at him confused, but he was clearly not joking.He nodded to me, handed me his hat and said: "Yes, Hastings, it is this extraordinary hat. Can you see why I am interested?" "A nice hat," I said, "an average hat. A lot of girls wear it." "But not like this one!" I examined the hat more closely. "See something, Hastings?" "...a light yellow millinery hat, of a handsome shape..." "I don't want you to describe it. You haven't seen it yet? It's incredible, my poor Hastings. I'm surprised you probably never had any use for your eyes. But look, My dear old fool, it requires no brains, only eyes. Look—look—” Then I finally saw what he wanted me to see.The hat was twirled slowly on one of his fingers, and the finger was stuck in a small hole in the brim of the hat.After seeing the hole, I understood what he meant.He withdrew his finger from the hole and handed me the hat.It was a small round hole with neat edges, but I couldn't figure out what that little hole meant--if it had any meaning at all. "Miss Nick hates wasps, haha, 'bees chasing flowers into clouds'. It's so strange that the wasp got into the beauty's fragrant hair and left a hole in the hat." "A wasp wouldn't be able to drill a hole like this." "Ah, that's right, Hastings! I told you you were brilliant! Of course a bee can't make a hole like that, but a bullet can, my friend." "bullet?" "Exactly, a bullet like this." He held out his hand, and there was something small in his palm. "It's a shot, my friend. That's it, and not the pebble that hit the balcony when we were chatting just now. A bullet!" "what do you mean……" "I mean by an inch, and the bullet-hole is not in the hat but in her head. See now, Hastings, why am I so interested? My friend, you Tell me that the word 'impossible' should not be used, and you are right. Yes, people are always people. But the man who shot made a great mistake: he dared to shoot at a distance from Hercule Poirot. Shot at less than twelve yards! It was a big mistake for him! Now you can see why we went to the Cliff House to see the lady? Three times in three days we nearly died. She said it herself. We must act quickly, Hastings, the danger is imminent!"

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