He began to wheeze gently—his small fat face crinkled up. Poirot looked at him inquiringly. “Thinking of an imaginary conversation. Your mother and the late Mrs. Holmes, sitting sewing little garments or knitting: ‘Achille, Hercule, Sherlock, Mycroft. . . .’ ” Poirot failed to share his friend’s amusement.
The intro to this collection is rather funny.
