Agatha Christie

It was in June of 1935 that I came home from my ranch in South America for a stay of about six months. It had been a difficult time for us out there. Like everyone else, we had suffered from world depression. I had various affairs to see to in England that I felt could only be successful if a personal touch was introduced. My wife remained to manage the ranch. I need hardly say that one of my first actions on reaching England was to look up my old friend, Hercule Poirot.

‘Go and see what’s been happening in that room.’ He laid Alix carefully down on a couch and bent over her. ‘My little girl,’ he murmured. ‘My poor little girl. What have they been doing to you?’ Her eyelids fluttered and her lips just murmured his name. Dick was aroused by the policeman’s touching him on the arm. ‘There’s nothing in that room, sir, but a man sitting in a chair. Looks as though he’d had some kind of bad fright, and –’ ‘Yes?’ ‘Well, sir, he’s – dead.’ They were startled by hearing Alix’s voice. She spoke as though in some kind of dream, her eyes still closed. ‘And presently,’ she said, almost as though she were quoting from something, ‘he died –’