Hercule Poirot came out of the Villa Hotel and walked towards Soho.He turned up the collar of his coat more out of prudence than out of necessity, for the night was not too cold at this time. "At my age, however, one does not take any chances," Poirot was accustomed to say. He was in a good mood, with sleepy eyes.The snails at Villa Hotel are really delicious, what a good place, this authentic little restaurant, this time I finally found the right one.Thinking of this, Hercule Poirot rolled up his tongue and licked his lips like a contented dog, took out a handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully patted his bushy mustache.

Yes, he's had his fill... now what to do? A taxi passed him, slowing visibly.Poirot hesitated for a moment without making any gesture of greeting to it.Why take a taxi?Anyway, it's too early for him to go back to bed. "Oh," said Poirot to himself, looking at his beard, "it's a pity that a person can only eat three meals a day..." Afternoon tea was never something he got used to. "If one eats at five o'clock," he explained, "then when it comes time to eat dinner, one will not have a very good appetite. And we must understand that dinner is the most substantial meal of the day. , the most exquisite meal that should be enjoyed.” For him, morning coffee is also difficult to get used to.No, chocolate and bread for breakfast.Lunch is at twelve-thirty, if possible, and no later than one at the latest.At the end is the climax of the day, the formal dinner!

The three meals a day were the peaks of Hercule Poirot's present day.As a man who had always guarded his appetite carefully, he was now in old age to relish its pleasures.Now, eating is no longer just to satisfy the body's needs, it has become a mental exercise.Because between every two meals, he spends a lot of time asking for new information about new delicacies in order to determine the next restaurant he will go to.One result of this search and investigation was the Villa Hotel, which had now received Hercule Poirot's gourmand approval. But now, unfortunately, it was time to pass the evening again.

Hercule Poirot sighed. "Why," thought he, "if only Hastings were with me..." The thought of his old friend filled him with joy. "He was a friend I had in this country - and he's still the closest friend I've ever had. To be honest, he used to annoy me time and time again, but can I remember that now? ?No, I can only remember his ever-incredible curiosity and his admiration and admiration for my ingenuity--I don't need to say an untruthful word about how easily he was taken by the surface of the case Yes. But in the end, he is always amazed when he sees the truth of the matter. And the truth of the matter has always been clear to me. Well, my dear friend, this is one of my Weaknesses, I always want to show off, it's a weakness of mine that Hastings never understood. But it's a kind of admiration for a man of my extraordinary intellect. A real need—and it also needs motivation and appreciation from others outside. To be honest, I can’t, and I can’t sit in a chair all day and think to myself: How amazing I am. A person needs in contact with other people; a man needs—as it is now a fashionable saying—slaves and admirers.”

Hercule Poirot sighed again.He turned and walked across Shaftesbury Street. Should he cross the road and find a cinema in Leicester Square to spend the evening?He frowned slightly, then shook his head, denying the idea.The loose plot, the lack of logical continuity of the movies always displeased him - even the dynamic movie images, which were highly praised by some, were, in Hercule Poirot's view, nothing more than Parody of scenes and characters just to make them look different from real life. Hercule Poirot concluded that in the present age, in which everything seems too artificial, there is nowhere to be found the sort of coherent, logical reasoning and scientific method which he himself so highly admired, The appreciation of subtlety was even rarer, and scenes of violence and brutal fighting and brutality were the fashion.As a former police officer, Poirot was tired of cruelty and brutality.In his early years he had seen enough of savagery and cruelty, and there were many regularities and few exceptions.He found them tiresome, shallow and boring.

"The truth is," thought Poirot, as he walked home, "that I am out of step with the times. And I, at a high level, are as much a slave as anyone else is their own slave, and I 's work turned me into a slave to my work, just as their work melted them. So when free time came, they couldn't find something to do to fill their leisure time. The retired The banker played golf, the little businessman grew prickly pears in his garden, and I worked hard at eating. But now, I am full again, but unfortunately people only eat three meals a day, three meals a day. I'll have nothing else to do in the meantime." He passed a newsstand, skimming the headlines of the newspaper.

"Final decision in Mrs. McGinty's case." It didn't interest him.He was vaguely reminded of a little passage he'd read in a newspaper. It wasn't an interesting murder: an old woman had her head smashed for a few pounds.It's all irrational brutality in our day and age. Poirot entered the complex of his flats, and, as usual, his mood gradually brightened again.He is very proud of his furniture, which is a perfectly designed and extremely symmetrical building.Take the elevator to the third floor, where he has a spacious and comfortable room.The rooms are richly decorated and furnished, with large rocking chairs, and it's no exaggeration to say that everything here is impeccable and perfect.

When he opened the door and just entered the porch, his valet, George, stepped forward lightly. "Good evening, sir, there is a—sir waiting to see you." He quickly took off Poirot's coat. "Really?" Poirot noticed George's slight pause before saying "Sir."A social snob, George is an expert at reading people's opinions. "what is his name?" "It's a Spence, sir." "Spens?" The name meant nothing to Poirot for a moment, but he knew it was the way it should be. Standing for a moment before the mirror, straightening his beard, Poirot opened the drawing-room door and entered.The man who was sitting in the wide rocking chair stood up.

"Good day, M. Poirot. I hope you remember me. It was a long time ago when we last saw each other. I am Superintendent Spence." "Ah, of course I do." Poirot shook hands with him warmly. Superintendent Spence is of the Kiltchester Police Service.They had worked together on a very interesting case before, as Spence said, a long time ago. Poirot suggested to his friend something to drink.Is it a drink with pomegranate juice, or mint liqueur, or benedict, or mint liqueur and chocolate... Just then George entered the room with a bottle of whiskey and straws on a tray in his hand. "Would you like some beer, sir?" he whispered to his visitor.

Superintendent Spence's broad red face brightened immediately. "Just have a beer," he said. Poirot again secretly marveled at George's good performance. He had never imagined that there would be beer in this room, and it seemed to him inconceivable that anyone should prefer beer to whiskey. Poirot poured himself a small glass of crystal-clear green mint liqueur as Spence raised his large frothy goblet. "It's very kind of you to come and see me," he said, "very good, you're from--" "From Kiltchester. I'm retiring in six months. In fact, I was of retirement age eighteen months ago. They asked me to stay on, and I did."

"You are very wise in doing so," said Poirot with feeling, "very wise indeed..." "Am I wise? I don't know." "Yes, yes, you are very wise," insisted Poirot. "Long periods of idleness, boredom, idleness, you have not experienced that." "Oh, I'll have a lot to do when I retire. I just moved into a new house last year, and it has a big garden, but the gardens are so neglected and neglected that I haven't had time to tend them yet. " "Ah, yes, you have such a garden to tend. And me, I once decided to move to the country and grow some zucchini there. But I couldn't, because I didn't have the patience." "You should see a zucchini I planted last year," said Spence enthusiastically. "It's huge! And my roses, I love roses, and I'm going to—" He stopped. "That's not what I came to you to talk about." "Of course not. It's very nice of you to see an old friend. I appreciate it." "More than that, M. Poirot. With all due respect, I need your help." Poirot said deliberately in a low voice: "You may need a certificate of mortgage on your property, you seem to like to borrow money--" Spence hastily interrupted Poirot: "Oh, my God, it's not about the money! It's not about the money at all." Poirot waved his hand gracefully in apology. "please forgive." "I'll tell you straight up—I've come to you for that damned case. I wouldn't be surprised if you let me go away." "I won't make you feel bad," said Poirot. "Go on." "It's because of Mrs. McGinty's case. You may have read about it in the papers." Poirot shook his head. "Not particularly. Mrs. McGinty—that old lady murdered in a store or a house. Of course she died. How did she die?" Spence stared at him. "My God," he said, "I don't understand it either, it's so weird, and I still don't understand it." "Could you please be more specific?" "It's nothing strange. It's like a game, a game that children often play. When I was young, I used to play this kind of game. Many people stood in a row and went down with questions and answers." Mai Mrs. Ginty is dead!''How did she die?''On one leg, like me.' And then the next question, 'Mrs. McGinty is dead!''How did she die?''Hands out , just like me.' Here we are, one by one, on our knees, our right hands outstretched, and next thing you know what to do!' Mrs. McGinty is dead!' 'How?' 'Just Like this!' There's a slam, and the head of the row falls backwards, and we're all on the floor!" Spence laughs at these childhood memories. "It really reminds me of the games I played as a kid!" Poirot listened politely.Even after living in the country for nearly half his life, he still found the British incomprehensible.He himself had played hide-and-seek as a child, but he had absolutely no desire to talk about it, or even to think about it. After Spence's pleasant memories were over, Poirot raised his question again, and at this time, his tone was a little impatient: "How did she die?" The smile faded from Spence's face, and he was serious again.He said: "She was hit in the back of the head with a sharp object. She had about thirty pounds in cash and after her place was ransacked, it was gone. She lived alone in a small house and paid for a tenant. Meals are provided. The lodger's name is James Bentley." "Ah, yes, Bentley." "The scene was not broken-in, there was no sign of any windows or locks being picked. Bentley was having a hard time, having lost his job and had no means of living and owed two months' rent. The money lost was Found under a stone behind the house. Bentley's blood-stained coat sleeves wrapped the money and hair, which matched Mrs. McGinty's blood type and hair exactly. According to his first The next time I confessed, he never got close to the corpse at all, so the thing was not hidden under the stone by accident." "Who found the body?" "The baker who came to deliver the bread, it was her day to pay. James Bentley opened the door for him, and said he had knocked on Mrs. McGinty's door, but there was no answer. The baker thought it might be It was she who was sick, and the two of them went next door and called a woman from the neighbor's house upstairs to see her. Mrs. McGinty didn't sleep on the bed in the bedroom, but her bedroom was ransacked and the floor was broken Then they thought of going to the living room and found her there, lying on the floor. The female neighbor next door was scared out of her wits and screamed hysterically. Later, they called the police, of course they called the police La." "Has Bentley been arrested and tried?" "Yes, the case has made a final judgment. The trial was held yesterday. The trial result was decided by the jury 20 minutes after the trial this morning. Guilty and sentenced to death." Poirot nodded. "Then you came to London by train to find me as soon as the sentence was over? Why did you do that?" Superintendent Spence's eyes were fixed on his beer mug.He ran his fingers slowly around the rim of the cup. "Because," he said, "I don't think he killed..."