Black Coffee

Play by Agatha Christie
Adapted in to novel by Charles Osborne


Chapter 1

Hercule Poirot sat at breakfast in his small but agreeably cosy flat
in Whitehall Mansions. He had enjoyed his brioche and his cup of
hot chocolate. Unusually, for he was a creature of habit and rarely
varied his breakfast routine, he had asked his valet, George, to
make him a second cup of chocolate. While he was awaiting it, he
glanced again at the morning's post which lay on his breakfast
table.

Meticulously tidy as always, he had placed the discarded envelopes
in one neat pile. They had been opened very carefully, with the
paper-knife in the form of a miniature sword which his old friend
Hastings had given him for a birthday many years ago. A second
pile contained those communications he found of no interest circulars,
mostly -which in a moment he would ask George to
dispose of. The third pile consisted of those letters which would
require an answer of some kind, or at least an acknowledgement.

These would be dealt with after breakfast, and in any case not
before ten o'clock. Poirot thought it not quite professional to begin
a routine working day before ten. When he was on a case -ah, well,
of course that was different. He remembered that once he and
Hastings had set out well before dawn in order to... But, no, Poirot
did not want his thoughts to dwell on the past. The happy past.
Their last case, involving an international crime organization known
as The Big Four, had been brought to a satisfactory conclusion, and
Hastings had returned to the Argentine, his wife and his ranch.
Though his old friend was temporarily back in London on business
connected with the ranch, it was highly unlikely that Poirot and he
would find themselves working together again to solve a crime.
Was that why Hercule Poirot was feeling restless on this fine spring
morning in May 1934?

Ostensibly retired, he had been lured out of that retirement more
than once when an especially interesting problem had been
presented to him. He had enjoyed being on the scent again, with
Hastings by his side to act as a kind of sounding board for his ideas
and theories. But nothing of professional interest had presented
itself to Poirot for several months. Were there no imaginative
crimes and criminals any more? Was it all violence and brutality,
the kind of sordid murder or robbery which was beneath his,
Poirot's, dignity to investigate?

His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival, silently at his elbow, of
George -with that second and welcome cup of chocolate. Welcome
not only because Poirot would enjoy the rich, sweet taste, but also
because it would enable him to postpone, for a few more minutes,
the realization that the day, a fine sunny morning, stretched before
him with nothing more exciting in prospect than a constitutional in
the park and a walk through Mayfair to his favourite restaurant in
Soho, where he would lunch alone on -what, now? -perhaps a little
pâté to begin, and then the sole bonne femme, followed by...

He became aware that George, having placed the chocolate on the
table, was addressing him. The impeccable and imperturbable
George, an intensely English, rather wooden-faced individual, had
been with Poirot for some time now, and was all that he wished in
the way of a valet.

Completely incurious, and extraordinarily reluctant to express a
personal opinion on any subject, George was a mine of information
about the English aristocracy, and as fanatically neat as the great
detective himself. Poirot had more than once said to him, "You
press admirably the trousers, George, but the imagination, you
possess it not."

Imagination, however, Hercule Poirot possessed in abundance. The
ability to press a pair of trousers properly was, in his opinion, a rare
accomplishment. Yes, he was indeed fortunate in having George to
look after him.

"-and so I took the liberty, sir, of promising that you would return
the call this morning," George was saying.

"I do beg your pardon, my dear George," replied Poirot. "My
attention was wandering. Someone has telephoned, you say?"

"Yes, sir. It was last night, sir, while you were out at the theatre with
Mrs Oliver. I had retired to bed before you arrived home, and
thought it unnecessary to leave a message for you at that late
hour."

"Who was it who called?"