No seaside town in the South of England is, I think, as beautiful as Saint Lou. It has rightly earned the nickname queen of the spa towns and strongly resembles the Riviera. The coast of Cornwall is for me just as charming as the South of France.
That’s exactly what I commented to my friend, Hercule Poirot. “That’s exactly what the menu said at the train’s restaurant yesterday, my friend. Your comment is not original.” “But don’t you agree?” He smiled, probably thinking of something, so he didn’t answer my question immediately. I repeated it. “A thousand apologies, Hastings. My thoughts were traveling. Traveling, indeed, to that part of the world you just mentioned.” “To the South of France?” “Yes. I was thinking of the last winter I spent there and the events that marked it.” I mentally recalled that period. A murder had been committed on the Blue Train and the mystery – complex and intricate – had been solved by Poirot with his usual, infallible genius.
“I wish I had been with you then,” I said regretfully. “Indeed,” agreed Poirot. “Your experience would have proven invaluable to me.” I gave him a sidelong glance. As a result of a deeply rooted habit, I tend to be skeptical of his compliments, but this time he seemed serious. After all, why not? I have great experience in the methods he applies. “What I especially missed was your lively imagination, Hastings,” he continued dreamily. “Sometimes a person needs a light-hearted break. My valet, George, a remarkable man, with whom I occasionally allowed myself to discuss some aspect of the case, has not a trace of imagination.” This particular comment seemed completely irrelevant to me.