‘Supposing,’ murmured Poirot, ‘that four people sit down to play bridge and one, the odd man out, sits in a chair by the fire. At the end of the evening the man by the fire is found dead. One of the four, while he is dummy, has gone over and killed him, and intent on the play of the hand, the other three have not noticed. Ah, there would be a crime for you! Which of the four was it?’ ‘Well,’ I said. ‘I can’t see any excitement in that!’ Poirot threw me a glance of reproof. ‘No, because there are no curiously twisted daggers, no blackmail, no emerald that is the stolen eye of a god, no
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