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Poirot and Hastings go on vacation. On the bus they meet Mary Durrant, who works with her aunt in an antique shop and travels, like them, to Charlock Bay carrying a valuable set of miniatures that she will sell to an American collector. Everyone is staying at the Anchor Hotel. Mary discovers unpacking her suitcase that it has been broken and the miniatures are no longer there. Desperate, she asks Poirot for help. The first thing the detective does is telephone the buyer, Mr. Wood, who claims that half an hour earlier someone in the name of Elizabeth Penn, Mary Durrant's aunt, sold him the famous miniatures for £500. Can Poirot discover the truth?
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Seitenzahl: 25
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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Chapter 1
I had called in at my friend Poirot’s rooms to find him sadly overworked. So much had he become the rage that every rich woman who had mislaid a bracelet or lost a pet kitten rushed to secure the services of the great Hercule Poirot. My little friend was a strange mixture of Flemish thrift and artistic fervour. He accepted many cases in which he had little interest owing to the first instinct being predominant. He also undertook cases in which there was a little or no monetary reward sheerly because the problem involved interested him. The result was that, as I say, he was overworking himself. He admitted as much himself, and I found little difficulty in persuading him to accompany me for a week’s holiday to that well-known South Coast resort, Ebermouth. We had spent four very agreeable days when Poirot came to me, an open letter in his hand.
‘Mon ami, you remember my friend Joseph Aarons, the theatrical agent?’
I assented after a moment’s thought. Poirot’s friends are so many and so varied, and range from dustmen to dukes.
‘Eh bien, Hastings, Joseph Aarons finds himself at Charlock Bay. He is far from well, and there is a little affair that it seems is worrying him. He begs me to go over and see him. I think, mon ami, that I must accede to his request. He is a faithful friend, the good Joseph Aarons, and has done much to assist me in the past.’
‘Certainly, if you think so,’ I said. ‘I believe Charlock Bay is a beautiful spot, and as it happens I’ve never been there.’
‘Then we combine business with pleasure,’ said Poirot. ‘You will inquire the trains, yes?’
‘It will probably mean a change or two,’ I said with a grimace. ‘You know what these cross-country lines are. To go from the South Devon Coast to the North Devon coast is sometimes a day’s journey.’
However, on inquiry, I found that the journey could be accomplished by only one change at Exeter and that the trains were good. I was hastening back to Poirot with the information when I happened to pass the offices of the Speedy cars and saw written up: Tomorrow. All-day excursion to Charlock Bay. Starting 8.30 through some of the most beautiful scenery in Devon. I inquired a few particulars and returned to the hotel full of enthusiasm. Unfortunately, I found it hard to make Poirot share my feelings.
‘My friend, why this passion for the motor coach? The train, see you, it is true? The tyres, they do not burst; the accidents, they do not happen. One is not incommoded by too much air. The windows can be shut and no draughts admitted.’ I hinted delicately that the advantage of fresh air was what attracted me most to the motor-coach scheme.
‘And if it rains? Your English climate is so uncertain.’
‘There’s a hood and all that. Besides, if it rains badly, the excursion doesn’t take place.’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Then let us hope that it rains.’
‘Of course, if you feel like that and…’
‘No, no, mon ami
