The Big Four – Agatha Christie
On this particular July morning, as I stood by the rail
and watched the white cliffs of Dover drawing nearer, I
marvelled at the passengers who could sit calmly in their chairs and never even raise their eyes for the first sight of the native land. Yet perhaps their case was different from mine. Doubtless many of them had only crossed to
Paris for the week-end, whereas I had spent the last year and a half on a ranch in the Argentine. I had prospered
there, and my wife and I had both enjoyed^the free and
easy life of the South American continent, nevertheless
it was with a lump in my throat that I watched the
familiar shore draw nearer and nearer.
I had landed in France two days before, transacted
some necessary business, and was now en route for London. I should be there some months–time enough to
look up old friends, and one old friend in particular. A little man with an egg-shaped head and green eyes-Hercule Poirot! I proposed to take him completely by surprise. My last letter from the Argentine had given no hint of my intended voyage–indeed, that had been decided upon hurriedly as a result of certain business
complications–and I spent many amused moments picturing to myself his delight and stupefaction on beholding
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