Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

by Agatha Christie

I think a woman smothered in cheap scent is one of the greatest abominations known to mankind.’

Miss Lemon was forty-eight and of unprepossessing appearance. Her general effect was that of a lot of bones flung together at random. She had a passion for order almost equalling that of Poirot himself; and though capable of thinking, she never thought unless told to do so.

Her real passion in life was the perfection of a filing system beside which all other filing systems should sink into oblivion. She dreamed of such a system at night.

But really, M. Poirot, what would one be if one wasn’t alive?’ ‘Dead,’ said Poirot. Mrs Clapperton frowned. The reply was not to her liking.

Unlike most English people, she was capable of speaking to strangers on sight instead of allowing four days to a week to elapse before making the first cautious advance as is the customary British habit.

‘People should be more careful how they name their children,’ he ruminated. ‘I’ve got godchildren. I know. Blanche, one of ’em is called – dark as a gypsy! Then there’s Deirdre, Deirdre of the Sorrows – she’s turned out merry as a grig. As for young Patience, she might as well have been named Impatience and be done with it! And Diana – well, Diana –’ the old classical scholar shuddered. ‘Weighs twelve stone now – and she’s only fifteen! They say it’s puppy fat – but it doesn’t look that way to me. Diana! They wanted to call her Helen, but I did put my foot down there. Knowing what her father and mother looked like! And her grandmother for that matter! I tried hard for Martha or Dorcas or something sensible – but it was no good – waste of breath. Rum people, parents