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Black Coffee
Black Coffee
Black Coffee
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Black Coffee

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

3.5/5

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Sir Claud Amory's formula for a powerful new explosive has been stolen, presumably by a member of his large household. Sir Claud assembles his suspects in the library and locks the door, instructing them that the when the lights go out, the formula must be replaced on the table -- and no questions will be asked. But when the lights come on, Sir Claud is dead. Now Hercule Poirot, assisted by Captain Hastings and Inspector Japp, must unravel a tangle of family feuds, old flames, and suspicious foreigners to find the killer and prevent a global catastrophe.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarperCollins
Release dateSep 28, 2004
ISBN9780061739323
Author

Agatha Christie

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She died in 1976, after a prolific career spanning six decades.

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Reviews for Black Coffee

Rating: 3.2759068598445595 out of 5 stars
3.5/5

386 ratings31 reviews

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  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    "‘George,’ he called, ‘please take my heavy tweed suit and my dinner jacket and trousers to the cleaners. I must have them back by Friday, as I am going to the Country for the Weekend.’ He made it sound like the Steppes of Central Asia and for a lifetime."
    Tweed? No, I cannot....no to Poirot in tweeds.


    I am all in favour of fan fiction, especially when it is done well. Unfortunately, Black Coffee fell flat on so many counts.
    What is, in my opinion, even worse is that the book was authorised, even commissioned, by Christie's estate. Subsequently it was published as part of the official Agatha Christie catalogue. This is just plain wrong.

    Christie did write the play Black Coffee in 1929 to experiment with play-writing herself after stage adaptations of her previous books failed to impress her. However, I guess she must have had her reasons for not developing this particular story into a full novel - although many, many elements in the story do appear in later stories.
    Or maybe Charles Osborne would just regurgitate the tricks and techniques of Dame Agatha's better known works to cover his lack of imagination? After all, he did write the book some 20 years after Christie's death.

    My dismay at Agatha Christie Ltd and the publishers for allowing this book to be published as part of the official series is not, however, solely because it is so obvious that it was a financial decision to milk the franchise.
    I'm disliking that this book should be the best available work of fan fiction and should be worthy of publication - especially when readers may pick this up and actually think it was written by Christie.

    The obvious lack in sincerity in Osborne's portrayal of the characters is downright upsetting. So, not only does he make Poirot wear tweeds, but he also turns him into something that he is not. For all of Poirot's eccentricities, the Poirot Christie had created may have had high standards but he has always had some empathy with other people.

    "An inveterate snob, he was already predisposed in Sir Claud’s favour by virtue of his title. If he were to be found in Who’s Who, a volume in which the details of Poirot’s own career could also be discovered, then perhaps this Sir Claud was someone with a valid claim on his, Hercule Poirot’s, time and attention."

    No. Just, no.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Disappointingly by the numbers with thin characterizations and not a particularly compelling mystery. I guess it was just an adaptation and lacks Christies flair.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Frankly I couldn't believe my eyes when I read this. There, plainly, in print, the murderer was given away in the first 50 pages of the book! Maybe I wasn't supposed to figure it out, but the murderer's actions were described quite plainly. I was disappointed. But then I thought: Maybe it had to be this way because it was a novel adapted from a play. In the play, obviously, the murderer's actions would be described so the actors could act - it was up to the audience to pick up on it. And I was the audience, and I DID pick up on it. But honestly, a die-hard Christie fan like myself HAS to read this book because so many beloved characters are there: Poirot, Hastings, Inspector Japp, etc. So reading the book is like going back to old friends that you thought you bid adieu. The 3 books Osborne adapted as novels are like the "lost Agatha Christie novels".
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    Reviewed Nov 1999 How exciting to find a “new” Christie that I haven’t read. How disappointing to find out that the stolen document was in the same place that a missing letter was in “The Mysterious Affair at Styles” and I knew it as soon as the fireplace spills were mentioned. Also disappointing was on page 49-50...”turning his back to Lucia, the secretary took some tablets from his pocket and dropped them into the cup he was holding.” So from that point on I knew who the murderer was. i understand that Christie originally wrote this as a play so everything needed to be included. But did Osborne need to include it?
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I kept thinking that this would make a really excellent play. Come to find out, from the afterword, that it actually was a play, adapted to novel form by the author of The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie. This is fortunate, because, really it would be better seen than read. This tale seemed quite sophomoric and the murderer was revealed to any careful reader near the beginning of the book. I kept thinking it would turn out differently in the end, or perhaps I'd read it wrong, but apparently I hadn't. Disappointing. This is actually only the second Agatha Christie novel I've read, the first being And Then There Were None, which I read after playing a computer game adapted from that novel. I've really got to read an actual Agatha Christie book without an adaptation. I'd then have a better feel for her writing, and be able to compare this better to her other work.
  • Rating: 1 out of 5 stars
    1/5
    A strange experience - this book has Christie's plot & characters but there is no depth -it's a shadow of a Christie novel.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    The play Black Coffee apparently got a very unenthusiastic reception from Agatha Christie's publishers after she presented it to therm in 1928, but it was eventually staged in 1930. In 1931 it was filmed. The play was "novelised" by Charles Osborne as a novel in 1998.Really what Osborne has done is convert the dialogue and stage directions into a narrative but for me it retained that play script feeling. The setting is May 1934 and Poirot is ostensibly retired. He is contacted by Sir Claud Amory, a famous atomic scientist, who asks Poirot to visit him at his country house as he believes a member of his household is attempting to steal the formula he has created for a new and deadly explosive. He then asks Poirot ot come a day earlier, but by the time Poirot gets there Amory is dead.The astute reader knows from the moment it happens who is responsible for poisoning Sir Claud. I presume the theatre audience also knew, as they saw it happen. The suspense lies in the idea of whether Hercule Poirot will solve the puzzle.I don't think that, in creating the 'novelisation' of the play that Charles Osborne would not have strayed very far from the original wording of either the dialogue or the stage directions of the original play. There is a feeling of looking at a stage set. The result is a rather peculiar flatness to the novel, both the plots and the characters lacking depth. It is an authentic Poirot and the plot contains similarities to other novels and stories.For me perhaps the most useful part of the e-book version is the last 10% of the book which is devoted to a short summary of each of the original Poirot novels.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Another great Christie mystery. Poirot is called to the house of a scientist friend who needs the impeccable detective to solve the mystery of a theft - and then murder.This was originally a play and was novelized well after Christie's death. The play had a good run but wasn't as successful as some of her other plays. Although the novelization wasn't strictly penned by her, it still fits very well within the Poirot cannon.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    No one should ever attempt to write as Dame Christie. It's a crime that the cover of this book will lead many to think this is Christie writing. It is not Christie and it's not good.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This book is an adaptation of an Agatha Christie play. It was made into a novel by Charles Osborne. Although in the foreward, Mathew Prichard states that the book reads as if Christie had written it herself, I did not concur.The book was good, but I felt it lacked the certain twinkle that Christie added to her books. Poirot captured my interest a bit less--and he rarely mentioned his mustaches in this book! The storyline itself resembled so many that I have read before. Of course I do realize that all the others I have read may have stolen their ideas from Miss Christie's original play! Still, there just seemed nothing extremely special about the book.While I was happy to read a "new" Christie book, I really can't say that it became a favorite.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    A very quick read, this "novel" shows its origins as a stage production very clearly. As is required for a stage production, there are a limited number of players and layers available to the story, and Osborne did not embellish with any additional ones, nor should he have. Poirot is in fine style, and the mystery is intriguing with just a hint of wider-world implications.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    I’m not much of a mystery reader, but I’ve never read Agatha Christie and I wanted to, so thus, this book. I read the first fifty pages in a flash. This is not what I’d expected from Agatha, I thought. This is light reading. Lots of dialogue, minimal action.As I looked more carefully at the book, I found out why. Despite the enormous AGATHA CHRISTIE written on the front cover, Black Coffee, the book, was not actually written by Christie. It is derived from a play Christie wrote, but it was actually written as a book by someone else. So, have I read Christie or haven’t I? I think not. I must still seek out a Christie for the whole experience. Black Coffee was watered down Christie.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Black Coffee was originally a 1930s play by Agatha Christie but this is a novelized version by Charles Osborne which was published in 1998. Although most of the writing is Christie's’, this new author has left his stamp on the book as well. Hercule Poirot, the Belgium detective, comes across quite British in this version and the usually placid Hastings calls Poirot out as an “arrogant snob” - words I do not believe that Ms. Christie would have allowed her character to utter.This story involves the poisoning of a prominent scientist at his country manor attended by the usual assortment of characters who all had a reason to want the man dead. By the process of elimination and close observation, Poirot points out the correct murderer to the police and is able to help a young couple put their suspicions of each other behind them.Although this is certainly not one of my favorite Poirot stories, I did find the book a light, enjoyable read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I would suggest the reader of Black Coffe remind themselves repeatedly that this is not entirely her work and therefore not her fault. There is too much of a feeling of staging for this to work as a novel. Every step is presented for the reader/audience to see so that the mystery isn't a mystery at all. Most jolting to me were the theatrical gasps/screams and near faints from the fragile female characters which harken back to the olden days of theatre.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Surrey, England, ca 1930.Sir Claud Amory er atomfysiker og har opdaget en formel, der kan bruges til at lave et hidtil uset kraftigt sprængstof. Formlen er skrevet ned, men bliver fjernet fra hans pengeskab. Han har styr på hvornår det kan være sket og det indskrænker antallet af mistænkte til familie og nære bekendte, der pt bor ved ham. Han forsegler huset og tilkalder Hercule Poirot. Inden Poirot ankommer, lader han dog tyven få en lejlighed til at levere dokumentet tilbage, men i stedet bliver en tom kuvert afleveret og Sir Claud sidder død tilbage i en stol.Hercule Poirot og Kaptajn Hastings ankommer kort efter.Sir Claud har en søn Richard, der er gift med Lucia.Sir Clauds søster Caroline Amory har en datter Barbara.En tjener Treadwell, en stuepige Ellen, en sekretær Edward Raynor og en læge Dr. Carelli optræder også.Lucia og Richard vil gerne væk, men Richard har ingen penge, for Sir Claud er en fedtsyl.Dr. Carelli har en klemme på Lucia, for han ved at hun er datter af en kendt spion, Selma Goetz.Sir Claud er blevet forgiftet og der er stort melodrama i hvem der har kommet gift i hans kaffekop og evt i flere andres. Inspektør Japp kommer til stede og genkender Dr. Carelli, som han kender under navnet Tonio og ikke for noget godt. Poirot leger katten og musen og fanger Edward Raynor i en fælde.Motivet til at dræbe Sir Claud er faktisk ikke ret klart, men nu er det jo også en noget teatralsk afslutning. Det var noget med ikke at blive afsløret, men hvorfor det skulle hjælpe at dræbe nogen?Til sidst bliver Lucia og Richard forenet igen, Poirot sætter fidubusvasen pænt til rette igen og alt er godt.Dette er oprindeligt et skuespil, som Charles Osborne har skrevet om til bogform. Det er nok tæt på at være gjort så godt som muligt, men det er ikke nogen god bog.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This is a novel by Charles Osborne based on a play by Agatha Christie. I have not read the play, so I cannot judge how much of this is genuine Christie. The obvious assumption would be that the plot and the dialogue, at least, would be hers.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Though not completely written by Agathie Christie herself, it is a faithful likeness to her writing. Just as good as any other novel of hers.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Again, a nice murder mystery sprouted from Christie's imagination. However, one can tell that this one was particularly written as a theatre play, and only later transcribed into a novel.

    3 stars is perhaps a bit on the low end for this little story, but it doesn't deserve 4 either, when you compare it to it's peers on the Poirot shelf.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Originally written as a play by Christie, Charles Osborne has adapted it into a novel.This was a fast read and an enjoyable read. Close to Christie in style but not 100%, but then that is fine with me.Physicist Sir Claud Amory has sent for Hercule Poirot to come and find who it is who wants to steal a valuable formula. Amory feels it is a family member who is living at the estate. Before Poirot can arrive, Sir Claud is dead...of poison.Poirot is left to discern not only the thief but also the murderer. Being that Sir Claud was not well liked by almost everyone, there is a good list of suspects. Sir Claud's sister, son, daughter-in-law, niece, secretary, unexpected guest and even the butler are under Poirot's surveillance. Each character has their reason for not being fond of Sir Claud, and each has to be eliminated.Hastings, Poirot's old friend and partner in detecting, is along and so is Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard. Their appearance gives the book the feeling of Christie's older works.A cozy and quick read.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    I disapprove of authors without the creativity to come up with their own characters. But at least this adaptation doesn't claim to be new prose; it's rather based on a play that Dame Christie wrote early in her career. As such, and like most novels that are based on movies, it is a very light read and you can knock it it out in very little time. To enjoy it fully, imagine that it is a play rather than a book: visualize the stage, the actors moving across it. Imagine Poirot with all his foibles walking in front of you, interviewing the suspects, unmasking the killer at the end. But above all, don't ask for too much from this book. Just enjoy what it can give you.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    It's obvious that this book is in fact based on a play. Perhaps it should have been left that way. I found this book to be a very quick effortless read, mainly to get it over with and that one did not have to pay too much attention to the detail.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    Not really an original Christie, this, and it shows in the writing. Originally a play, Black Coffee has been adapted as a novel here (with permission of Christie's family) by Charles Osborne. It's a good locked room mystery, and would be great fun as a stage performance, but as a novel it isn't quite up to Christie's usual standard. Also, the font size is large, for some reason, for a paperback (it isn't meant to be a large print edition) which kept throwing me off.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Read in a few hours. Very entertaining.
  • Rating: 5 out of 5 stars
    5/5
    Belgian private detective Hercule Poirot and his friend and detecting partner Captain Arthur Hastings receive an urgent call for help from renowned physicist Sir Claud Amory. Sir Claud is absolutely convinced that a member of his own household is attempting to steal a secret formula created by Sir Claud, and destined for use by the Ministry of Defense. Hercule Poirot and Captain Hastings travel to Sir Claud's sprawling mansion, only to discover that the famed physicist has been poisoned by his after-dinner coffee. The formula is also missing.Now, the renowned private detective must discover who among the mansion's occupants has become desperate enough to kill Sir Claud. Hercule Poirot uncovers a potent brew of despair, treachery, and deception as he tries to identify the murderer and locate the missing formula. Black Coffee by Agatha Christie was very good and I give it an A+! However, for the first time in reading an Agatha Christie mystery, I knew who the murderer was before I had finished reading the book. :)
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    Ugh. A novelization of a play, and it totally reads like it. Osborne, the novelizer, took what I imagine were Christie's lines, turned them into paragraphs, and connected them with stage directions in paragraph form.
  • Rating: 2 out of 5 stars
    2/5
    The seventh work by Christie to feature retired Belgian detective Hercule Poirot was written as a play, after Christie had been dissatisfied with the dramatization of an earlier work and decided she would write a play herself. Some twenty years after her death, former actor Charles Osborne was hired by her heirs to novelize the work.

    Hercule Poirot is asked to come to the country estate of Sir Claud Amory to unmask the traitor in his midst. Amory is a famous scientist and has been working on a formula for a new explosive for the government – a weapon that would change the course of war. He wants Poirot to come to his home, and take the formula to the Ministry of Defense. But mere minutes before Poirot’s arrival, Sir Claude is dead – was it a heart attack, or poison? And where is the missing formula?

    Most of the elements of a classic Poirot “locked room” mystery are here: a country estate, a variety of characters / suspects, a mysterious secret (or two, or three), and Poirot’s amazing “little gray cells.” The dialogue is typical Christie, but the connective tissue of the novel lacks her sparkle. If anything it seems “over” dramatized.

    Still, it’s a quick read, and moderately enjoyable. I didn’t figure it out much ahead of Poirot’s reveal (Poirot, of course, had it figured out long before I did).
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This is a book adaptation of Agatha Christie’s homonymous play. But unfortunately Mr. Osborne is never able to emulate Mrs. Christie’s style. He sometimes gets really close, but falls back into descriptions she would have easily inserted in or in-between character speeches. There are many descriptive moments, such as this: “Richard moved to the phone, lifted the receiver and asked for the number.” Mrs. Christie, I believe, never describes unimportant actions in minutia. One thing surprised me though: her use of a ruse devised by the killer in her first Poirot book… A good read, nevertheless. I am considering reading the play.
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    Go back to the 1940's & the elegant living of the upper class. Typical Agatha Christie/Hercule Poirot plot & attention to detail. As usual, the butler DIDN'T do it!
  • Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
    4/5
    My favorite part of the book was when the doctor was explaining about the different poisons.
  • Rating: 3 out of 5 stars
    3/5
    This is a 1998 novelisation of a play Agatha Christie wrote early in her career and which was performed in 1930. It concerns theft of a formula for an explosive devised by scientist Sir Claud Amory, and then murder as he is poisoned by a member of his household, just as Hercule Poirot arrives, called in by Sir Claud to investigate the theft. This is a classic locked room mystery, but I found the characters uniformly rather irritating. As in a number of other Christie novels, nationalist stereotypes of the time against Italians in particular, grate rather. I found Captain Hastings' character completely pointless here - he contributes nothing whatsoever to the plot. Poirot comes across as rather more arrogant than usual as well. Overall, definitely not one of my favourite Christies, though it functions as well as ever as a lightweight page turner.

Book preview

Black Coffee - Agatha Christie

Chapter 1

Hercule Poirot sat at breakfast in his small but agreeably cosy flat in Whitehall Mansions. He had enjoyed his brioche and his cup of hot chocolate. Unusually, for he was a creature of habit and rarely varied his breakfast routine, he had asked his valet, George, to make him a second cup of chocolate. While he was awaiting it, he glanced again at the morning’s post which lay on his breakfast table.

Meticulously tidy as always, he had placed the discarded envelopes in one neat pile. They had been opened very carefully, with the paper-knife in the form of a miniature sword which his old friend Hastings had given him for a birthday many years ago. A second pile contained those communications he found of no interest – circulars, mostly – which in a moment he would ask George to dispose of. The third pile consisted of those letters which would require an answer of some kind, or at least an acknowledgement. These would be dealt with after breakfast, and in any case not before ten o’clock. Poirot thought it not quite professional to begin a routine working day before ten. When he was on a case – ah, well, of course that was different. He remembered that once he and Hastings had set out well before dawn in order to –

But, no, Poirot did not want his thoughts to dwell on the past. The happy past. Their last case, involving an international crime organization known as ‘The Big Four’, had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and Hastings had returned to the Argentine, his wife and his ranch. Though his old friend was temporarily back in London on business connected with the ranch, it was highly unlikely that Poirot and he would find themselves working together again to solve a crime. Was that why Hercule Poirot was feeling restless on this fine spring morning in May 1934? Ostensibly retired, he had been lured out of that retirement more than once when an especially interesting problem had been presented to him. He had enjoyed being on the scent again, with Hastings by his side to act as a kind of sounding board for his ideas and theories. But nothing of professional interest had presented itself to Poirot for several months. Were there no imaginative crimes and criminals any more? Was it all violence and brutality, the kind of sordid murder or robbery which it was beneath his, Poirot’s, dignity to investigate?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival, silently at his elbow, of George with that second and welcome cup of chocolate. Welcome not only because Poirot would enjoy the rich, sweet taste, but also because it would enable him to postpone, for a few more minutes, the realization that the day, a fine sunny morning, stretched before him with nothing more exciting in prospect than a constitutional in the park and a walk through Mayfair to his favourite restaurant in Soho where he would lunch alone on – what, now? – perhaps a little pâté to begin, and then the sole bonne femme, followed by –

He became aware that George, having placed the chocolate on the table, was addressing him. The impeccable and imperturbable George, an intensely English, rather wooden-faced individual, had been with Poirot for some time now, and was all that he wished in the way of a valet. Completely incurious, and extraordinarily reluctant to express a personal opinion on any subject, George was a mine of information about the English aristocracy, and as fanatically neat as the great detective himself. Poirot had more than once said to him, ‘You press admirably the trousers, George, but the imagination, you possess it not.’ Imagination, however, Hercule Poirot possessed in abundance. The ability to press a pair of trousers properly was, in his opinion, a rare accomplishment. Yes, he was indeed fortunate in having George to look after him.

‘– and so I took the liberty, sir, of promising that you would return the call this morning,’ George was saying.

‘I do beg your pardon, my dear George,’ replied Poirot. ‘My attention was wandering. Someone has telephoned, you say?’

‘Yes, sir. It was last night, sir, while you were out at the theatre with Mrs Oliver. I had retired to bed before you arrived home, and thought it unnecessary to leave a message for you at that late hour.’

‘Who was it who called?’

‘The gentleman said he was Sir Claud Amory, sir. He left his telephone number, which would appear to be somewhere in Surrey. The matter, he said, was a somewhat delicate one, and when you rang you were not to give your name to anyone else, but were to insist on speaking to Sir Claud himself.’

‘Thank you, George. Leave the telephone number on my desk,’ said Poirot. ‘I shall ring Sir Claud after I have perused this morning’s Times. It is still a trifle early in the morning for telephoning, even on somewhat delicate matters.’

George bowed and departed, while Poirot slowly finished his cup of chocolate and then repaired to the balcony with that morning’s newspaper.

A few minutes later, The Times had been laid aside. The international news was, as usual, depressing. That terrible Hitler had turned the German courts into branches of the Nazi party, the Fascists had seized power in Bulgaria and, worst of all, in Poirot’s own country, Belgium, forty-two miners were feared dead after an explosion at a mine near Mons. The home news was little better. Despite the misgivings of officials, women competitors at Wimbledon were to be allowed to wear shorts this summer. Nor was there much comfort in the obituaries, for people Poirot’s age and younger seemed intent on dying.

His newspaper abandoned, Poirot lay back in his comfortable wicker chair, his feet on a small stool. Sir Claud Amory, he thought to himself. The name struck a chord, surely? He had heard it somewhere. Yes, this Sir Claud was well-known in some sphere or other. But what was it? Was he a politician? A barrister? A retired civil servant? Sir Claud Amory. Amory.

The balcony faced the morning sun, and Poirot found it warm enough to bask in for a moment or two. Soon it would become too warm for him, for he was no sun-worshipper. ‘When the sun drives me inside,’ he mused, ‘then I will exert myself and consult the Who’s Who. If this Sir Claud is a person of some distinction, he will surely be included in that so admirable volume. If he is not –?’ The little detective gave an expressive shrug of his shoulders. An inveterate snob, he was already predisposed in Sir Claud’s favour by virtue of his title. If he were to be found in Who’s Who, a volume in which the details of Poirot’s own career could also be discovered, then perhaps this Sir Claud was someone with a valid claim on his, Hercule Poirot’s, time and attention.

A quickening of curiosity and a sudden cool breeze combined to send Poirot indoors. Entering his library, he went to a shelf of reference books and took down the thick red volume whose title, Who’s Who, was embossed in gold on its spine. Turning the pages, he came to the entry he sought, and read aloud.

AMORY, Sir Claud (Herbert); Kt. 1927; b. 24 Nov. 1878. m. 1907, Helen Graham (d. 1929); one s. Educ: Weymouth Gram. Sch.; King’s Coll., London. Research Physicist GEC Laboratories, 1905; RAE Farnborough (Radio Dept.), 1916; Air Min. Research Establishment, Swanage, 1921; demonstrated a new Principle for accelerating particles: the travelling wave linear accelerator, 1924. Awarded Monroe Medal of Physical Soc. Publications: papers in learned journals. Address: Abbot’s Cleve, nr. Market Cleve, Surrey. T: Market Cleve 314. Club: Athenaeum.

‘Ah, yes,’ Poirot mused. ‘The famous scientist.’ He remembered a conversation he had had some months previously with a member of His Majesty’s government, after Poirot had retrieved some missing documents whose contents could have proved embarrassing to the government. They had talked of security, and the politician had admitted that security measures in general were not sufficiently stringent. ‘For instance,’ he had said, ‘what Sir Claud Amory is working on now is of such fantastic importance in any future war – but he refuses to work under laboratory conditions where he and his invention can be properly guarded. Insists on working alone at his house in the country. No security at all. Frightening.’

‘I wonder,’ Poirot thought to himself as he replaced Who’s Who on the bookshelf, ‘I wonder – can Sir Claud want to engage Hercule Poirot to be a tired old watchdog? The inventions of war, the secret weapons, they are not for me. If Sir Claud –’

The telephone in the next room rang, and Poirot could hear George answering it. A moment later, the valet appeared. ‘It’s Sir Claud Amory again, sir,’ he said.

Poirot went to the phone. ‘ ’Allo. It is Hercule Poirot who speaks,’ he announced into the mouthpiece.

‘Poirot? We’ve not met, though we have acquaintances in common. My name is Amory, Claud Amory –’

‘I have heard of you, of course, Sir Claud,’ Poirot responded.

‘Look here, Poirot. I’ve got a devilishly tricky problem on my hands. Or rather, I might have. I can’t be certain. I’ve been working on a formula to bombard the atom – I won’t go into details, but the Ministry of Defence regards it as of the utmost importance. My work is now complete, and I’ve produced a formula from which a new and deadly explosive can be made. I have reason to suspect that a member of my household is attempting to steal the formula. I can’t say any more now, but I should be greatly obliged if you would come down to Abbot’s Cleve for the weekend, as my house-guest. I want you to take the formula back with you to London, and hand it over to a certain person at the Ministry. There are good reasons why a Ministry courier can’t do the job. I need someone who is ostensibly an unobtrusive, unscientific member of the public but who is also astute enough –’

Sir Claud talked on. Hercule Poirot, glancing across at the reflection in the mirror of his bald, egg-shaped head and his elaborately waxed moustache, told himself that he had never before, in a long career, been considered unobtrusive, nor did he so consider himself. But a weekend in the country and a chance to meet the distinguished scientist could be agreeable, as, no doubt, could the suitably expressed thanks of a grateful government – and merely for carrying in his pocket from Surrey to Whitehall an obscure, if deadly, scientific formula.

‘I shall be delighted to oblige you, my dear Sir Claud,’ he interrupted. ‘I shall arrange to arrive on Saturday afternoon, if that is convenient to you, and return to London with whatever you wish me to take with me, on Monday morning. I look forward greatly to making your acquaintance.’

Curious, he thought, as he replaced the receiver. Foreign agents might well be interested in Sir Claud’s formula, but could it really be the case that someone in the scientist’s own household –? Ah well, doubtless more would be revealed during the course of the weekend.

‘George,’ he called, ‘please take my heavy tweed suit and my dinner jacket and trousers to the cleaners. I must have them back by Friday, as I am going to the Country for the Weekend.’ He made it sound like the Steppes of Central Asia and for a lifetime.

Then, turning to the phone, he dialled a number and waited for a few moments before speaking. ‘My dear Hastings,’ he began, ‘would you not like to have a few days away from your business concerns in London? Surrey is very pleasant at this time of the year . . .’

Chapter 2

I

Sir Claud Amory’s house, Abbot’s Cleve, stood just on the outskirts of the small town – or rather overgrown village – of Market Cleve, about twenty-five miles south-east of London. The house itself, a large but architecturally nondescript Victorian mansion, was set amid an attractive few acres of gently undulating countryside, here and there heavily wooded. The gravel drive, from the gatehouse up to the front door of Abbot’s Cleve, twisted its way through trees and dense shrubbery. A terrace ran along the back of the house, with a lawn sloping down to a somewhat neglected formal garden.

On the Friday evening two days after his telephone conversation with Hercule Poirot, Sir Claud sat in his study, a small but comfortably furnished room on the ground floor of the house, on the east side. Outside, the light was beginning to fade. Sir Claud’s butler, Tredwell, a tall, lugubrious-looking individual with an impeccably correct manner, had sounded the gong for dinner two or three minutes earlier, and no doubt the family was now assembling in the dining-room on the other side of the hall.

Sir Claud drummed on the desk with his fingers, his habit when forcing himself to a quick decision. A man in his fifties, of medium height and build, with greying hair brushed straight back from a high forehead, and eyes of a piercingly cold blue, he now wore an expression in which anxiety was mixed with puzzlement.

There was a discreet knock on the study door, and Tredwell appeared in the doorway. ‘Excuse me, Sir Claud. I wondered if perhaps you had not heard the gong –’

‘Yes, yes, Tredwell, that’s all right. Would you tell them I shall be in very shortly? Say I’m caught on the phone. In fact, I am about to make a quick phone call. You may as well begin serving.’

Tredwell withdrew silently, and Sir Claud, taking a deep breath, pulled the telephone towards himself. Extracting a small address-book from a drawer of his desk, he consulted it briefly and then picked up the receiver. He listened for a moment and then spoke.

‘This is Market Cleve three-one-four. I want you to get me a London number.’ He gave the number, then sat back, waiting. The fingers of his right hand began to drum nervously on the desk.

II

Several minutes later, Sir Claud Amory joined the dinner-party, taking his place at the head of the table around which the six others were already seated. On Sir Claud’s right sat his niece, Barbara Amory, with Richard, her cousin and the only son of Sir Claud, next to her. On Richard Amory’s right was a house-guest, Dr Carelli, an Italian. Continuing round, at the opposite end of the table to Sir Claud, sat Caroline Amory, his sister. A middle-aged spinster, she had run Sir Claud’s house for him ever since his wife died some years earlier. Edward Raynor, Sir Claud’s secretary, sat on Miss Amory’s right, with Lucia, Richard Amory’s wife, between him and the head of the household.

Dinner, on this occasion, was not at all festive. Caroline Amory made several attempts at small-talk with Dr Carelli, who answered her politely enough without offering much in the way of conversation himself. When she turned to address a remark to Edward Raynor, that normally polite and socially suave young man gave a nervous start, mumbled an apology and looked embarrassed. Sir Claud was as taciturn as he normally was at

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