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Agatha Christie

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The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman
A Short Story

by Agatha Christie

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk

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Ebook Edition © MAY 2013 ISBN: 9780007526468

Version: 2017-04-13

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Title Page

The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman

‘The Adventure of the Italian Nobleman’ was first published in The Sketch, 24 October 1923.

Poirot and I had many friends and acquaintances of an informal nature. Amongst these was to be numbered Dr Hawker, a near neighbour of ours, and a member of the medical profession. It was the genial doctor’s habit to drop in sometimes of an evening and have a chat with Poirot, of whose genius he was an ardent admirer. The doctor himself, frank and unsuspicious to the last degree, admired the talents so far removed from his own.

On one particular evening in early June, he arrived about half past eight and settled down to a comfortable discussion on the cheery topic of the prevalence of arsenical poisoning in crimes. It must have been about a quarter of an hour later when the door of our sitting room flew open, and a distracted female precipitated herself into the room.

‘Oh, doctor, you’re wanted! Such a terrible voice. It gave me a turn, it did indeed.’

I recognized in our new visitor Dr Hawker’s housekeeper, Miss Rider. The doctor was a bachelor, and lived in a gloomy old house a few streets away. The usually placid Miss Rider was now in a state bordering on incoherence.

‘What terrible voice? Who is it, and what’s the trouble?’

‘It was the telephone, doctor. I answered it – and a voice spoke. “Help,” it said. “Doctor – help. They’ve killed me!” Then it sort of tailed away. “Who’s speaking?” I said. “Who’s speaking?” Then I got a reply, just a whisper, it seemed, “Foscatine” – something like that – “Regent’s Court.”’

The doctor uttered an exclamation.

‘Count Foscatini. He has a flat in Regent’s Court. I must go at once. What can have happened?’

‘A patient of yours?’ asked Poirot.

‘I attended him for some slight ailment a few weeks ago. An Italian, but he speaks English perfectly. Well, I must wish you good night, Monsieur Poirot, unless –’ He hesitated.

‘I perceive the thought in your mind,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘I shall be delighted to accompany you. Hastings, run down and get hold of a taxi.’

Taxis always make themselves sought for when one is particularly pressed for time, but I captured one at last, and we were soon bowling along in the direction of Regent’s Park. Regent’s Court was a new block of flats, situated just off St John’s Wood Road. They had only recently been built, and contained the latest service devices.

There was no one in the hall. The doctor pressed the lift-bell impatiently, and when the lift arrived questioned the uniformed attendant sharply.

‘Flat 11. Count Foscatini. There’s been an accident there, I understand.’

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