The Hunter’s Lodge Case 

CONTENTS

The famous “little gray cells” of the great detective Poirot function admirably in solving what at first seems a particularly puzzling murder mystery.

The famous “little gray cells” of the great detective Poirot function admirably in solving what at first seems a particularly puzzling murder mystery.

“After all,” murmured Poirot, “it is possible that I shall not die this time.”

Coming from a convalescent influenza patient, I hailed the remark as showing a beneficial optimism. I myself had been the first sufferer from the disease. Poirot in his turn had gone down. He was now sitting up in bed, propped up with pillows.

“Yes, yes,” my little friend continued. “Once more shall I be myself again, the great Hercule Poirot, the terror of evildoers! Figure to yourself, mon ami, that I have a little paragraph to myself in Society Gossip. But yes! Here it is!

“‘Go it, criminals—all out! Hercule Poirot,—and believe me, girls, he’s some Hercules!—our own pet society detective can’t get a grip on you. ’Cause why? ’Cause he’s got la grippe himself!’”

I laughed.

“Good for you, Poirot. You are becoming quite a public character. And fortunately you haven’t missed anything of particular interest during this time.”

“That is true. The few cases I have had to decline did not fill me with any regret.”

Our landlady stuck her head in at the door.

“There’s a gentleman downstairs. Says he must see M. Poirot or you, Captain. Seeing as he was in a great to-do,—and with all that quite the gentleman,—I brought up ’is card.”

She handed me the bit of pasteboard. “‘Hon. Roger Havering,’” I read.

Poirot motioned with his head toward the bookcase, and I obediently pulled forth the “Who’s Who.” Poirot took it from me and scanned the pages rapidly.

“Second son of fifth Baron Windsor. Married 1913 Zoe, fourth daughter of William Crabb.”

“H’m,” I said. “I 

  P 1/12 next