CHAPTER I Hercule Poirot is sitting at the breakfast table.There is a cup of steaming hot chocolate on his right hand. He has always been fond of sweets. He drinks a piece of sweet bread with this cup of hot chocolate, which is best served with chocolate.He nodded with satisfaction.He went to a few shops to buy it; it was a Danish pastry shop, but it was definitely infinitely better than the so-called French bakery nearby, which was a bluff. He finally relieved his hunger, and his stomach felt much more comfortable.He was also very at ease, maybe a little too calm.He has completed his "literary masterpiece", which is a review of the writing of the master detective novel.He boldly and harshly criticized Edgar Allan Poe, criticized the lack of method and method in the legendary works of Wicky Collins, and praised two American writers without a name; in addition, he responded to the praise in different ways There is no mercy for those who praise, and those who should be demoted.He read the whole book and went to press, and he also checked the big picture. Except for a lot of misplacements, he thinks that it is generally very good.He took a great deal of pleasure from his literary achievement, and enjoyed reading the obligatory mass of reading at hand, throwing a crap book on the floor in exasperation (always remembering to get up and pick it up again, Throwing it neatly into the wastebasket), he can also enjoy himself; as for the occasional reading of a book that satisfies him, his frequent nodding pleasure is not to mention.

now?After racking his brains for a while, he had enjoyed a necessary and desirable relaxation.However, one cannot stay idle all the time, and has to start the next step of work.Unfortunately, he didn't know what to do next.Write another book on literature?no need.As long as one thing is done well, there is no need to touch it again. This is his motto.To put it bluntly, he is really bored at the moment.He had indulged too long and done too much of this mentally draining pastime.Besides, it has already infected him with bad habits, making him a little restless... Boring!He shook his head and took another sip of hot chocolate.

The door opened and his well-trained servant, George, entered with a strange and somewhat apologetic expression.He coughed, and stammered: "A—" He paused, and then added: "A young lady wants to see you." Poirot gave him a puzzled and slightly sullen look. "I don't see visitors at this hour," he said reproachfully. "I know, sir," echoed George. There was an exchange of glances between master and servant.Occasionally there are some difficulties in communication between them.If there is a certain reaction, hint or even deliberately chosen words, as long as the master's question is on point, George will remind the master that maybe some unusual things will be induced.At the moment Poirot was meditating on the most pertinent question.

"Is the lady handsome?" he asked cautiously. "Not in my opinion, but, sir, it has nothing to do with my taste." Poirot considered his answer, remembering George's hesitation before saying the word "young lady." George is very worldly.He didn't know the identity of the visitor, but he understood her difficulties. "You think she's a young lady, rather than—well, a young man?" "I think so. Of course, it's not easy to tell the difference these days." George replied with sincere regret. "Did she say why she wanted to see me?"

"She said—" said George, resignedly and apologetically, "that she wanted to speak to you about the murder she might have done." Hercule Poirot's eyes widened, and his eyebrows raised. "Might have killed someone? Didn't she know it herself?" "That's what she said, sir." "Indecent, but it might be interesting," said Poirot. "Perhaps it was a prank, sir," said George with some hesitation. "Anything is possible, I think," said Poirot with a step back, "but it's a little—" He raised his glass, and added: "Bring her to me in five minutes."

"Yes, sir," said George, and stepped back. Poirot finished his last sip of hot chocolate, pushed the cup aside, and stood up.He walked to the fireplace and trimmed his mustache in front of the mirror hanging on the wall above.After feeling satisfied, he turned back and sat in his chair to wait for the visitor. He didn't know what kind of person he was going to see... He hoped that maybe this person was at least close to his own attractiveness to women. Evaluate. "Sorrowful beauty" came to his mind, a phrase so often used by people.When George returned to the house with the visitor, he was disappointed; he shook his head inwardly and sighed.The guest was by no means a beauty—nor was there any sadness to be seen, at most a hint of bewilderment.

"Really!" Poirot thought wearily, "this kind of girl! Don't even bother to make yourself look good? Put on some makeup, dress up nicely, have your hair done by a skilled beautician, Then she might look all right. But such a virtue!" The visitor was a woman in her twenties.A head of long, sparse, colorless hair fell on her shoulders.Her large, empty eyes were blue.Her outfit was probably the best of her generation.Black high leather boots, unclean white net wool socks, a thin skirt, and a loose and long thick pullover sweater. Anyone of Poirot's age and generation will probably only have one. Thoughts—throw this girl in the tub quickly, he often has the same reaction when he walks down the street, there are girls like her everywhere, all dirty, and yet—this girl But it's different - this girl does look like she was pulled up after being submerged in the water.This kind of girls, he remembered, maybe they weren't really dirty, they just worked so hard to look dirty.

He stood up with his usual politeness, shook hands with her, and offered her a chair. "You want to see me, miss? Please sit down, please." "Uh," the girl gasped.She glared at him. "What?" said Poirot. She hesitated for a while. "I think I—I'd better stand." Her big eyes were still staring suspiciously. "As you like," said Poirot, sitting down and looking at her.He is waiting.The girl moved a little, looked up from her feet, and then stared at Poirot again. "You, you are Hercule Poirot." "Exactly. Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Uh, this, it's hard. I mean—" Poirot felt that she might need someone to help her, so he mentioned her: "My valet told me you wanted to talk to me because you thought you 'could have killed someone', didn't you?" The girl nodded. "correct." "Of course there should be no doubts about such matters. You should know for yourself whether you have killed anyone." "But I really don't know what to say, I mean—" "Come on," said Poirot kindly. "Sit down and relax. Tell me." "I guess I'd better not—oh, my God, I don't know how—you know, it's just too difficult.

I—I think let it go.I don't mean to be rude, but—well, I think I'd better go. " "Don't be like this, show some courage." "No, I can't help it. I thought I could come—and ask you, and tell you what I should do—but I can't, you see, it's too difficult, because—" "Because of what?" "I'm so sorry, I really didn't want to be so rude, but—" She sighed deeply, looked at Poirot, and avoided his sight again, and suddenly she blurted out: "You are too old, no one told me you would be so old. I never meant to offend you , but indeed, you are too old! I am so sorry."

She turned around suddenly, and rushed out of the door like a frightened moth next to a lamp. Poirot opened his mouth wide, and heard the front door slam shut. He said: "It's unreasonable..."