Third girl – Agatha Christie
The door opened and his well-trained servant, George, entered. His manner was deferential and slightly apologetic. He coughed and murmured, “A ” he paused,” a young lady has called.” Poirot looked at him with surprise and mild distaste.
“I do not see people at this hour,” he said reprovingly.
“No, sir,” agreed George.
Master and servant looked at each other.
Communication was sometimes fraught with difficulties for them. By inflexion or innuendo or a certain choice of words George would signify that there was something that might be elicited if the right question was asked. Poirot considered what the right question in this case might be.
“She is good-looking, this young lady?” he enquired carefully.
“In my view no, sir, but there is no accounting for tastes.” Poirot considered this reply. He remembered the slight pause that George had made before the phrase — young lady.
George was a delicate social recorder. He had been uncertain of the visitor’s status but had given her the benefit of the doubt.
“You are of the opinion that she is a young lady rather than, let us say, a young person?” “I think so, sir, though it is not always easy to tell nowadays.” George spoke with genuine regret.
“Did she give a reason for wishing to see me?” “She said — ” George pronounced the words with some reluctance, apologising for them in advance as it were, “that she wanted to consult you about a murder she might have committed.” Hercule Poirot stared. His eyebrows rose. “Might have committed? Does she not know?” “That is what she said, sir.” “Unsatisfactory, but possibly interesting,” said Poirot.
“It might–have been a joke, sir,” said George, dubiously.
“Anything is possible, I suppose,” conceded Poirot, “But one would hardly think — ” He lifted his cup. “Show her in after five minutes.” “Yes, sir.” George withdrew.
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