Miss Lemon, Poirot's highly capable secretary, answered the phone. She set aside her shorthand notebook, lifted the receiver, and said without emphasis, "Trafalgar 8137." Hercule Poirot leaned back in his chair with a straight back and closed his eyes. His fingers quietly tapped a tambourine rhythm on the corner of the desk, in a slow, thoughtful beat. In his mind, he continued composing the elegant phrases of the letter he had just dictated.

Covering the receiver with her palm, Miss Lemon asked him softly, "Do you accept a personal call from Nascob in Devon?" Poirot frowned. The location meant nothing to him. "Who is calling?" he asked cautiously. Miss Lemon asked the same question into the receiver. "Aria... what?" she said uncertainly. "Ah, I see... And the surname?" She turned again to Hercule Poirot. "Mrs. Ariadne Oliver." Poirot's eyebrows shot up. The memory of a person surfaced in his mind: wind-tossed gray hair... an eagle-like profile...

He stood up and took Miss Lemon's place at the phone. "Hercule Poirot speaking," he declared with pomp. "Mr. Hercule Poirot himself?" the operator insisted suspiciously. Poirot assured her it was him. "I am connecting you to Mr. Poirot," the operator said. The delicate and slightly whistling female voice was replaced by another, also female, deep and so thunderous that it made Poirot move the phone receiver at least an inch away from his ear.