Peril at End House – Agatha Christie
‘Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it’s a good thing to be an Englishman after all.’
‘It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon,’ said Poirot.
‘I-I didn’t mean,’ I began.
My friend waved my attempted apology aside gracefully.
‘Me,’ he announced. ‘I am not amphibian, like the machine of the poor Captain Seton, but I am cosmopolitan. And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration. The thorough way, for instance, in which they read the daily paper.’
My attention had strayed to political news.
‘They seem to be giving the Home Secretary a pretty bad time of it,’ I remarked with a chuckle.
‘The poor man. He has his troubles, that one. Ah! yes. So much so that he seeks for help in the most improbable quarters.’
I stared at him.
With a slight smile, Poirot drew from his pocket his morning’s correspondence, neatly secured by a rubber band. From this he selected one letter which he tossed across to me.
‘It must have missed us yesterday,’ he said.
I read the letter with a pleasurable feeling of excitement.