“Miss Lemon, may I ask you a question?” “Of course, M. Poirot.” Miss Lemon took her fingers off the typewriter keys and waited attentively. “If a friend asked you to meet her—or him—in Hell, what would you do?” Miss Lemon, as usual, did not pause. She knew, as the saying goes, all the answers. “It would be advisable, I think, to ring up for a table,” she said. Hercule Poirot stared at her in a stupefied fashion. He said, staccato, “You—would—ring—up—for—a table?” Miss Lemon nodded and drew the telephone towards her.
The puns in this story are the best.
