Mrs.McGinty\'sDead

MRS McGINTY’S DEAD Agatha Christie Chapter 1 Hercule Poirot came out of the Vielle Grand'mère restaurant into Soho. He turned up the collar of his overcoat through prudence, rather than necessity, since the night was not cold. "But at my age, one takes no risks," Poirot was wont to declare. His eyes held a reflective sleepy pleasure. The escargots de la Vielle Grand'mère had been delicious. A real find, this dingy little restaurant. Meditatively, like a well-fed dog, Hercule Poirot curled his tongue round his lips. Drawing his handkerchief from his pocket, he dabbed his luxuriant moustaches. Yes, he had dined well... And now what? A taxi, passing him, slowed down invitingly. Poirot hesitated for a moment, but made no sign. Why take a taxi? He would in any case reach home too early to go to bed. "Alas," murmured Poirot to his moustaches, "that one can only eat three times a day..." For afternoon tea was a meal to which he had never become acclimatised. "If one partakes of the five o'clock, one does not," he explained, "approach the dinner with the proper quality of expectant gastric juices. And the dinner, let us remember, is the supre......