Mrs. McGinty’s Dead – Agatha Christie
Poirot turned into the courtyard of his block of flats. As always his heart swelled in approval. He was proud of his home. A splendid symmetrical building. The lift took him up to the third floor where he had a large luxury flat with impeccable chromium fittings, square armchairs, and severely rectangular ornaments. There could truly be said not to be a curve in the place.
As he opened the door with his latchkey and stepped into the square, white lobby, his manservant, George, stepped softly to meet him.
“Good evening, sir. There is a – gentleman waiting to see you.”
He relieved Poirot deftly of his overcoat.
“Indeed?” Poirot was aware of that very slight pause before the word gentleman. As a social snob, George was an expert.
“A Mr Spence, sir.”
“Spence.” The name, for the moment, meant nothing to Poirot. Yet he knew that it should do so.
Pausing for a moment before the mirror to adjust his moustaches to a state of perfection, Poirot opened the door of the sitting-room and entered. The man sitting in one of the big square armchairs got up.
“Hullo, M. Poirot, hope you remember me. It’s a long time… Superintendent Spence.”
“But of course.” Poirot shook him warmly by the hand.
Superintendent Spence of the Colchester Police. A very
interesting case that had been… As Spence had said, a long time ago now…