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It had, Hercule Poiort reflected, been a trying day. He had just sat down to his first proper meal, and had allowed himself to savor the rare treat of a Belgian aperitif; a delightful cocktail made with Elixir d'Anvers. The hotel’s breakfast had left much to be desired, though he appreciated that an effort had been made, and the less said about the so-called butties offered at the police station break room, the better. The investigation with which he had been called upon to assist had concluded almost immediately, when he was able to prove that the pearls of the visiting Norwegian princess had not been stolen from her ship’s cabin after all, but had merely been mislaid. Unfortunately, he had then been subjected to a long day of navigating the streets of Liverpool in patent leather shoes, enduring the unpleasant chill for several hours as his liaison from the police department insisted on giving him a tour of the local sights. And now, this.

Steeling himself for the worst, Poirot picked up the receiver, nodding politely to the waiter who had brought the telephone to his table with an air of profound apology.

“Poirot speaking,” he began, but a deluge of frantic, feminine words interrupted almost immediately.

“You’ve got to help me,” Ariadne Oliver’s unmistakable voice pleaded. “How soon can you get down to London? There’s an 11:45 from Lime Street that comes into Euston… oh dear, just after 5 tomorrow morning. No, wait; that’s Saturdays. This one comes in at 5:12, though you might make the 10:10 if you hurry. Where are you staying?”

“Chere Madame,” Poirot managed to interject, “collect yourself! What has happened?”

“It’s the most awful thing. I kept telling them, you know, but they wouldn’t listen; the people who enjoy my books will buy them anyway, or at least get them from the library, though I don’t suppose that’s what brings in the money. And as for Earl Grey, that all comes down to the reviews, doesn’t it? That’s what people do when deciding what to do of an evening, they read the papers. They don’t go to hotels and ask the author personally.”

“Madame-”

“But you know what they’re like, and like a fool I accepted, and now that poor young man is dead!”

“Do you mean to say that there has been,” Poirot lowered his voice so as not to alarm the other diners, “a murder?”

“That’s just the thing,” Mrs. Oliver said, exasperatedly, “it’s all wrong. Not the right sort of murder at all.”

“You have had a shock,” Poirot said, resigning himself to yet another meal lost. He would have to make do with whatever the train had to offer, if anything. “Do not concern yourself. I will arrive, and this murder, it will be solved. Leave it to Papa Poirot.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’ve solved it.”

Poirot frowned. “You have solved it?”

“Yes! And that’s the problem - I shouldn’t have been able to. Please hurry, the police will be here soon, and I think… I think I’m about to make a terrible mistake.”

Earlier that day, Ariadne Oliver entered the Hotel Mesopotamia in a state of ambiguous emotion. She generally tried to avoid these sorts of writer’s symposiums or literary weekends or conventions, as the Americans increasingly had taken to calling them. She disliked talking about her books, much less to an audience, being of the opinion that having gone to the trouble of writing them, her job was done. As for meeting other writers, her enjoyment thereof largely depended upon the writer in question. On the whole there were too many people about, wanting to meet her and tell her how much they liked her stories, to which Mrs. Oliver never knew what to respond. On this occasion however, her publisher’s representative, the uncannily persistent Mr. Hagen, had managed to persuade her.

Her latest play, Earl Grey, had just opened, and while the reviews had been favorable to the point of embarrassment for Mrs. Oliver, who had to pretend she had not read them any time anyone asked, it was failing to draw much of a crowd. It was the opinion of Mr. Hagen, and presumably her publishers, that a lecture tour in promotion of her upcoming Sven Hjerson novel would have the added effect of raising interest in Earl Grey. Though Mrs. Oliver had her doubts about this strategy, not least because of the… trouble she’d been having with this Hjerson, she was particularly fond of her latest play, and had reluctantly agreed. She had, however, managed to negotiate it down to one full day at a comfortable London hotel. Best to get it over and done with in one go, not that Mrs. Oliver had presented it that way to her publishers.

“Quite a good turnout,” Mr. Hagen muttered, surveying the crowded lobby before them. An odd man, Mrs. Oliver thought, always muttering, as though speaking clearly was a waste of effort that would be better directed elsewhere. Toward bookkeeping or budget balancing, presumably. Entirely too tall and thin for comfort, his suits never seemed to fit him quite right. Tonight he was wearing a thankfully subdued charcoal pinstripe along with his usual unreadable expression, and was accompanied by a frightened looking middle aged woman in wire-rimmed glasses. She had a bird-like quality about her, constantly twitching and blinking, her mass of dull brown curls bouncing as she moved. “Do you have the program, Daisy? Not the one with the misprint, I hope you managed to get rid of those before we sent them on to the hotel.”

“Oh,” said the frazzled creature next to him, rifling through papers that struggled to fit into a thin cardboard folder, “I’m not sure...”

“I must say,” Mrs. Oliver interrupted hastily, her sympathy roused for anyone reporting to Mr. Hagen, “this is all unexpectedly lavish. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, with a name like The Mesopotainan, but one never knows with these modern hotels. Are those real Persian rugs, do you think?”

Mr. Hagen regarded her with aggressive neutrality. “I have not been informed.”

“It is lovely, isn’t it?” Daisy sighed and replaced the folder in a sturdy-looking leather shoulder bag. “All those columns and gold paint.” Her dark grey eyes widened. “It is paint, isn’t it?”

“I should think so,” Mrs. Oliver said, “there’s rather a lot of it.” They had certainly gone all out on the Hanging Gardens theme, she reflected. Ivy covered large sections of the walls, including the columns that yes, she agreed, were quite pleasing to the eye. Where were the roots, she wondered. Certainly nowhere obvious, and probably cleverly hidden. Did they have Ivy in Mesopotamia? The effect was exotic, regardless. The columns appeared to be marble, but more likely were quartzite or something similar. Nothing wrong with quartzite; good, solid material. Excellent for decorative paving stones. Palm trees stood about in little clusters, and there were colorful birds in cages all around the lobby. Poor things, Mrs. Oliver thought, wondering whose job it was to feed and care for them. She was not much fond of using animals for decoration.

“Your room should be ready,” Mr. Hagen said, guiding her toward the gilded front desk.

“Room?” Mrs. Oliver looked at him sharply. “What are you talking about?”

“We thought you might like a place to retire after your talk. Change before the cocktail hour, freshen up a little.” His thin, pale face displayed no emotion. Mrs. Oliver sometimes wondered if the immovable Mr. Hagen had been employed to handle difficult authors, though she did not like to dwell on the implications thereof.

“I suppose that’s not a bad idea,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I wish you’d have told me earlier, I didn’t bring anything with me.”

“We’ll have your things sent over. You have a housekeeper?”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. Grace did her best, but she was not the brightest of girls. “I suppose finding a matching pair of shoes and evening wear should not be beyond her.”

“I’ll send Daisy over in a car. You can telephone ahead if you like.”

“And my sponge bag,” Mrs. Oliver added, with some urgency. “Brushes and things. You know.”

Mr. Hagen forced his thin lips into what was probably his best attempt at a smile, and glanced briefly at her carefully arranged fringe. “Of course.”

Some weeks ago when Mrs. Oliver had been vacationing in Cannes, a well-meaning friend had pointed out to her the local fashion of staining ones hair soft shades of pink, blue or purple. When Mrs. Oliver expressed her appreciation, her friend had said with enthusiasm, but you must try it, Ariadne dear. You are always so creative with your hair. I’m sure it will be most fetching! Of course, Mrs. Oliver thought later, it was all very well for Amelie to say; she was French.

In the sobering light of English day, Mrs. Oliver immediately regretted buying the little bottle of ‘violet rinse’, as her friend had called it, and applying it to her now almost entirely grey hair. The end result most closely resembled a rag that had been used to clean up purple ink. She had considered buying a wig, but they were so warm and uncomfortable, and the pins used to hold them tightly in place gave her headaches. In the comfort of her hotel room, and with the aid of her toiletries, which a flustered Daisy had delivered along with one of her better cocktail dresses and a pair of perhaps too sensible pumps, she now attempted to minimize the damage.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, regarding herself in the well-lit mirror, “what’s the use?”

Mrs. Oliver glanced toward the manuscript on her bedside table, and sighed. The agreement had been that she would give a talk in the early afternoon, followed by a luncheon, and a cocktail reception in the evening. The talk and the reception were open to the general public, the hotel making its profits from drink sales and rooms for those wishing to stay overnight, whereas the luncheon was a ticketed event, with part of the proceeds going to charity. It had been suggested to Mrs. Oliver that her dining companions would be fellow authors, celebrities and patrons of the arts, but she highly suspected that most if not all of them would be fans who could afford the price of entry. The talk was scheduled to start in half an hour, during which she would be expected to read excerpts from her latest, as yet unnamed, Sven Hjerson. It was technically finished, in the sense that she could have it published right now without anyone finding fault with it. It was Hjerson himself that gave her trouble.

It was not the first time that Mrs. Oliver found herself struggling with a Hjerson story. Part of the problem was that she couldn’t stand the man. He had seemed interesting enough at first, a stern, blonde foreigner with a mysterious past, curious habits and all the little quirks that came with being a fictional private detective. Her readers ate it up, and he quickly became her most popular character. Indeed, her only recurring character. She had known she wanted him to be foreign, that was important. People tended to let their guard down around foreigners, like they didn’t count. You could get away with quite a lot, if you were foreign and apologized exotically enough, as her friend Hercule Poirot would know. She had picked Finland mostly at random; perhaps it had been in the news when she sat down to write that very first story, though she couldn’t for the life of her think what for. A civil war, perhaps? Regardless, therein lay the problem.

The first letter of well-meaning corrections arrived just days after Hjerson first appeared in print. Sven, the letter writer informed her, was not a Finnish name. Neither, alarmingly, was Hjerson, which was not even Scandinavian. More followed, some more politely phrased than others. Did she intend for Hjerson to be suomenruotsalaiset, as though she had any idea what or who that was, and if so, why did he not speak Swedish? Why did she have Hjerson saving a vintage bottle of aquavit in Death of a Debutante as a matter of national pride, when Finns famously drank vodka? She considered correcting some of the more glaring issues, such as Hjerson’s home town apparently being in Russia, but the more popular his books became, the more solidified Hjerson himself became, inaccuracies and all. And then there were the radio plays, where they added all sorts of things that were not in any of the stories, but which were now considered emblematic of Hjerson’s character. There had been an uproar when a brown-eyed actor was cast in the stage adaptation of The Woman in the Wood, with reviews angrily stating that he looked ‘nothing like the real Sven Hjerson’. In point of fact, Ariadne Oliver had never mentioned Hjerson’s eye color, merely that his eyes were clear and piercing. The radio plays had been the first to refer to him as ‘the blue-eyed Finn’.

Mrs. Oliver sat down on the bed, which was surprisingly comfortable, and not as modern looking as one might have expected, and eyed her manuscript as though she could read the pages telepathically. There was one way to resolve the problem - all of her Hjerson problems, in fact. It would require rewriting certain passages, but not significantly, as well as reworking the ending, but that could be managed too. She had made a few notes about it in the margins, mostly to herself, as this was only a working copy. She patted the cover, as one might absentmindedly pet a dog. Yes, she would talk to Mr. Hagen about it today. Right after the talk. Satisfied, she turned her attention back to the more pressing matter of her hair. Perhaps by arranging it just-so, with the more saturated ends tucked away, the effect would be somewhat less… striking. There might, after all, be photographers.

The lobby, at least, had not been overrun by press or photographers by the time Mrs. Oliver headed back downstairs. Some latecomers were hurrying inside, shaking umbrellas and laughing off the late November rain. Mrs. Oliver nearly collided with the lumpy figure of a man, who barely muttered an apology before running off again.

“I do apologize for my friend,” said a gentle voice somewhere to her left. She turned to see a tall, somewhat lanky young man with blond hair and a broad, friendly smile. He had that air about him that certain people do, where simply being in their presence is comforting. He held his hand out, and she took it, feeling instantly reassured. “Evan Michaels,” he said. His teeth really were astonishingly bright, Mrs. Oliver thought with envy. “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Oliver.”

“Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver, never quite comfortable being recognized. Don’t be such a fool, she told herself, this hotel is full of people who have come here specifically to meet you! “Very glad to meet you,” she said, managing a self-conscious smile.

A young lady whose lips were a startling shade of deep red ran in, holding a sopping wet newspaper over her carefully arranged dark brown hair. She rushed to Michaels’s side. “Sorry, Ev,” she gasped, trying to stuff the soggy paper into her bag. “Tom kept me late even though I’d booked the afternoon off. That old bug-” she met Mrs. Oliver’s eyes, and froze. “Beg your pardon, ma’am.” Her voice fell to a near whisper.

“This,” Michaels said affectionately, with only a hint of reproach, “is Miss Elizabeth Kochanski, my associate.”

“Terrible weather to get caught in,” Mrs. Oliver said, idly wondering what rain like that might have done to her violet tint. The girl, thanks to the valiant efforts of the newspaper, barely looked like she had been outside at all. She was very smartly dressed, in a black pencil skirt and white blouse, though her coat looked old, if well cared for. An alarming thought struck Mrs. Oliver. “Are you from the press?” Associate, he had said.

Michaels laughed. “Far from it! Sorry, I should have said - we’re Shadows.”

“Shadows?”

“From Hjerson’s Shadows,” Miss Kochanski explained. She had given up on the newspaper, leaving it jammed sideways so her bag could not fully close. Michaels took it out again and stuck it under his arm.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “his little network of informants. I haven’t used them since… let me think…”

“The Cat it Was Who Died. Unless you count the short stories; Tinker or Tailor is my favorite, where they help find the names of all the people who didn’t do it,” Michaels said, his smile turning wistful. “Anyway, you won’t have heard of us, I suppose; we’re something of an Ariadne Oliver fan club. A group of amateur writers who enjoy your novels. I’m the founder, and a sort of unofficial president.”

“And I’m the entirely official secretary,” Miss Kochanski beamed.

“Much more than that,” Michaels objected. “We’d never get anything done without you.” They were not, Mrs. Oliver considered, boyfriend and girlfriend, as the younger people preferred to call it; the obvious affection between them was more familial. Had they not been so different in coloring; his Nordic blonde and blue-eyed look a sharp contrast to her mahogany hair and soulful, dark eyes, one might have taken them for siblings. “She organized this outing - there are about half a dozen of us here, and most of us aren’t local. She booked the trains and the hotel rooms, even sent everyone directions by post.”

“And ended up nearly late, myself.”

“Hardly your fault, my dear. Quite a few of us went to see Earl Grey on opening night,” Michaels added. “She organized that, too.”

“It was brilliant,” Miss Kochanski gushed, instantly endearing herself to Mrs. Oliver.

“How gratifying to hear. I’m really rather fond of that one.” Something Michaels had said caught up with her. “And you’re all writers?”

“We all want to be. Some more than others.”

“But we can’t all be you, Mrs. Oliver. Nor do we try to be.” Michaels clapped his hands together. “On that note, we should go and find our seats. We’ve taken up enough of your time.”

Mrs. Oliver muttered vague words of thanks as Miss Kochanski left toward the ballroom. Michaels, however, lingered. “Having said that, I was hoping I might have a word in private.”

“Indeed?” And just as she was beginning to like the young man. Ariadne Oliver did not approve of fans, on the whole, though she understood their function in the ecosystem of publishing. Writers wrote, readers read, and fans kept the readers reading, and the writers writing, in turn. What she could not claim to do was understand them. A gentleman from the West Indies had once sent her a proposal of marriage wrapped in peacock feathers. At least she had been able to repurpose the feathers into a hat decoration.

“The commotion at the premiere of Earl Grey - that was one of ours, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t say.” Mrs. Oliver cast her mind back. There were, perhaps, writers who enjoyed seeing productions of their own work, but Ariadne Oliver was not one of them. They always got things wrong, no matter the degree to which she had been consulted. She had attended the premiere and party that followed, but had retired as soon as was socially acceptable, or in truth a minute or two before. Nevertheless… Yes, she remembered now; an obviously inebriated man had apparently rushed out during curtain call, yelling to the staff in the lobby and demanding his money back. One or two people had mentioned it at the party, but no one had seemed to take it all that seriously.

“Stanley Higgins. He’s the one who nearly knocked you over just now. Short-ish, broad shoulders, reddish hair? I just wanted you to know, those awful things he said that evening do not represent the Shadows as a group.”

Mrs. Oliver was about to reply, when the looming shape of Mr. Hagen approached, much like a rain cloud over a picnic. “Was that Stanley Higgins I just saw?” He spoke directly to Michaels, with whom he appeared to be familiar.

“I’m afraid so. He’s promised to behave himself, and if he doesn’t-”

“If he doesn’t,” Mr. Hagen cut him off, “all of your names will be blacklisted at future events.”

“I quite understand. I’ll go and have a word with him right away.” Michaels turned to Mrs. Oliver. “Again, my sincerest apologies. Thank you for being so generous with your time.” With that, he hurried off toward the ballroom, disposing of the wet newspaper in a bin by the reception desk on the way. He moved, Mrs. Oliver noted, almost like a dancer, with elegance and ease. A remarkably pleasant, if a little intense, young man.

“You were quite stern with him,” she reproached Mr. Hagen. “I’m aware there was some sort of incident with one of their group at the Prince of Wales, but surely they shouldn’t all suffer for it?”

“Incident?” Mr. Hagen snorted. “That drunken fool harassed the staff for a good twenty minutes before they could get him to calm down. The theater manager - who had to be fetched from his seat by one of the ticket girls, because the applause hadn’t even died down yet - had to threaten to call the police.”

“I suppose that was a little excessive,” Mrs. Oliver assented. “I wonder what he was so upset about.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it, it was the talk of the theater all night. He said that he had come to see Sven Hjerson, and was outraged that he’d sat through an entire play without so much as a glimpse of him.”

“But Earl Grey isn’t based on a Sven Hjerson story. I know some people were upset when I removed him from the production of The Body in the Library, but this was written specifically for the stage. It isn’t based on anything else I’ve written.”

Mr. Hagen attempted a smile. “I’m afraid you greatly underestimate the hold your rugged Finn has on people.”

Mrs. Oliver held her tongue. The conversation she had planned to have with Mr. Hagen should perhaps wait, considering. “Would you look at the time, it’s getting close to the hour. If it were done when ’tis done, then ’twere well it were done quickly, yes? Yes,” she added, leaving before Mr. Hagen could make further comment.

“I would like the key to my room, please,” Mrs. Oliver said, pushing absentmindedly at an errant bobby-pin. Her disguising arrangement had held up during the talk, but she was itching to re-secure it.

The alarmingly young-looking girl behind the reception desk, whose name tag read Alice, handed it to her with reassuring efficiency. Girls did look younger and younger these days, Mrs. Oliver reflected. This one had an air of the outdoors about her, all sandy hair, rosy cheeks and with a healthy figure. Not at all too thin. “Of course, Mrs. Oliver. You needn’t leave it here every time you leave your room, you know. Especially if you’re not leaving the building.”

“Thank you,” replied Mrs. Oliver, “but I would much rather err on the side of caution. Frightfully easy to lose, keys. I once forgot the key to my cabin on a transatlantic crossing, and it turned out I’d left it at the docks in Southampton. Which makes no sense, because I didn’t leave the ship after getting it. At least I don’t think I did. I feel I would have remembered.”

Alice smiled reassuringly. “Very easy to forget, I’m sure. Our guests leave them in their rooms all the time.”

One of the brightly colored birds, possibly a parakeet, though Mrs. Oliver was not an expert on these things, sat behind the counter in a cage that appeared to be slightly larger and more ornate than the others in the lobby. It tilted its head and gave Mrs. Oliver a trilling chirp. “What a lovely creature,” she said. “It doesn’t talk, I hope?”

“Oh no,” the girl said, “I mean, I don’t think so.”

“Good. I mean, they’re not meant to, are they? People think it’ll be a laugh to teach their budgerigar or their parrot how to say they want a biscuit, and the next thing you know, the creature won’t shut up. I had an aunt who kept four of them, and you couldn’t really go into the parlor unless you stuffed cotton wool into your ears.”

“I’ve never heard him speak, ma’am. Though I’m only here in the morning and afternoon.”

“How about the rest of them?” Mrs. Oliver gestured to the cages lining the walls, some half-hidden behind the greenery.

“Them?” The girl hesitated, then lowered her voice. “They’re not real, ma’am. Though I’m not sure I’m supposed to say.”

“Really,” said Mrs. Oliver, somewhat relieved. “I suppose that explains why their cages are so clean. You should have smelled my aunt’s parlor. Very clever. All that chirping is a recording, I expect?”

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am. All I know is they’re not real. It’s just Polly, here.”

“Polly?”

“I know the name’s a bit silly, him being a boy and all, but some of the guests started calling him that, and it stuck. You’re a good boy, aren’t you Polly?”

“Sweet Polly Oliver,” muttered Mrs. Oliver. “Though that’s the other way around, of course. Well, I should be off. Give him some bird seed from me and tell him he’s doing a wonderful job.”

“Just a moment, ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you, but…” the girl hesitated, and Mrs. Oliver sighed.

“Go on, you’re a very polite young woman. You’re not bothering me in the least.” What did bother her was when women felt the need to apologize for everything.

“It’s just…” She exhaled loudly, and at once became more animated. “Mr. Cartwright said I wasn’t to tell you, but I’m ever so fond of your books!”

“Are you indeed,” said Mrs. Oliver, somewhat regretting having encouraged her. “How kind of you to say.”

“I would have done anything to hear your talk, but Mr. Cartwright wouldn’t let me go. It’s only me on shift now, you see.”

“What about the two gentlemen I saw here earlier?”

“Bill and Edward? They’re off until this evening. Claire is usually here with me, but she’s home sick with the flu.”

“Well, erm…” Mrs. Oliver looked at the brass name badge the girl had pinned to her blouse, “Alice, if it’s any consolation, you didn’t miss much.”

“Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, ma’am.”

“They’re really all the same, these events. I get up on the podium and read for a bit, and then I’m asked the same half-dozen questions everyone always asks. Where do you get your ideas from? How do you manage to write so many books? What is your writing process? One never knows what to say! I keep worrying that someone in the audience will have been to one of my other talks, because they’ll notice my answers are the same every time.”

“I’m sorry,” Alice said, looking a little deflated, “that does sound tiring. I’m glad I didn’t go now, I’d have asked the most frightfully tedious questions.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver, “you couldn’t have done worse than what I got. There was one very tedious, obnoxious man, who kept asking why Sven Hjerson wasn’t in Earl Grey. The play, you know. Got quite rude about it, too. ” Stanley Higgins, no doubt. He’d been seated quite far back, but the red hair stood out like a beacon.

“But Earl Grey isn’t a Sven Hjerson play.”

“So I keep having to tell people. I regret putting him in Little Lamb; he doesn’t really do much except come out at the end and tell everyone how stupid they’ve been, but what’s done is done. I blame those radio plays. They pay awfully well, but they insist on adding Hjerson to every story, even the ones it makes no sense for him to be in. They even managed to force him into Cleft in Twain, and that one takes place in ancient Greece.”

“It also happens to be my favorite!” Momentarily, Mrs. Oliver thought the man who had appeared at her elbow was Evan Michaels. He had the same build, if a little more on the solid side, and the same light hair, but his eyes were a dark green rather than blue. Perhaps noticing her stare, he held out his hand. “I’m sorry, that was rather rude of me. I’m Christopher Chambers.”

“I remember your voice,” said Mrs. Oliver, who had never seen well at a distance. “You were the one who asked about the rose bushes in A Song of Sixpence.”

“I hope I wasn’t too much of a bore. You must have people asking you that all the time.”

“What variety of roses I had growing outside the murderer’s window? No, they generally don’t.” Which was a shame, thought Mrs. Oliver. The clue of the rose petals would only work if they were winter roses. She had been particularly proud of that little twist, but so few readers picked up on it. So often, she’d spend days or even weeks looking up the intricacies of various poisons, or the different ways in which one could make a body appear as though it had been killed at an earlier or later time, and hardly anyone noticed or cared. Instead, they wrote to her complaining about the accuracy of Finnish culture or Sven’s improbable aging process. “You’re part of that writing club, aren’t you? The Shadows?”

“Guilty as charged!” Chambers grinned. “Though I’m not much of a writer.”

“Understatement of the year!” Three other men approached, laughing boisterously. The one who had spoken lay a meaty hand on Chambers’s shoulder. He was short and rather stout, with dark brown eyes under heavy brows. The other two were thin and rather foppish-looking, and kept their distance, leaning against one of the lobby’s many columns. Mrs. Oliver could see Alice busying herself behind the counter, having handed Chambers his key. Now and again her eyes would dart up, like she was the bird in the cage.

“I see you found the bar, Alan.” Chambers did not seem to mind the intrusion. “Mrs. Oliver, this is Alan Wickes, and these two are James and Bentley Lee.”

“And this,” Wickes said, slapping Chambers’s shoulder again, “is the worst writer in the Northern Hemisphere.”

“Wicky,” exclaimed James, or possibly Bentley, “where are your manners? You’re in the company of a living legend.” He took a bow. “It’s an honor, ma’am.”

“An honor and a delight,” said his brother, mimicking the gesture. “Though Wicky is right; Kit is an absolute horror.”

“I’m sure you’re nothing of the kind,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“No,” Chambers replied, “they’re right, I’m afraid. I’m a dab hand at plotting; I quite enjoy that, but when it comes to the actual writing part, I’m a bit of a disaster.”

“Oh yes,” said one of the Lee brothers. They were not, Mrs. Oliver noted, identical; they might not even be twins. There was something in their mannerisms, however, and their perfectly styled blonde hair that made them seem almost like one person in two different bodies. “You do wonders with plot. Those of us who’ve had stories published have all had help from Kit.” He brightened, struck by an idea. “I say, would you join us for a drink? We came here for Kit, but we’d be honored to have you along.”

“Yes,” his brother enthused, “we won’t be at the luncheon, and we’ll have to leave the reception early, so we’d love the chance to learn a little more from the master. Where do you get your ideas from?”

“Goodness,” said Mrs. Oliver, “is that the time? I really must get to my room, there’s an important letter I have to write. So lovely meeting all of you.” Before any of them could so much as breathe in reply, she had managed to escape up the stairs.

“I’ll tell you who’s an excellent writer,” said Evan Michaels as he escorted Mrs. Oliver into the restaurant. Much like the lobby, it had been decorated lavishly along a Babylonian theme, with ivy-covered walls, potted palm trees and gilded columns also wrapped in greenery. The tables had been arranged into one, long row for the occasion, above which hung a massive chandelier in a contrastingly modern, but complimentary style. It took Mrs. Oliver a moment to see who Michaels was indicating. Across the room, Stanley Higgins was arguing loudly with one of the waiters. His face was red, and his jacket looked like he had slept in it.

“Really?” Mrs. Oliver frowned.

“Yes, when he can be bothered. The Shadows have a yearly writing contest, everyone is required to take part. It’s the only rule we have, but we’re strict about it. Higgins wins every year.”

“Has he ever been published?”

“No. Too much effort, I expect. All Stanley wants to do is read books and argue about them. A lot of people in the club take issue with him, but he’s the only one who pays his fees regularly and more besides.”

Mrs. Oliver nodded in understanding. “I expect not all of your members could afford to stay at The Mesopotamian.”

“Quite a few of them couldn’t even have afforded the trip to London, if Stanley hadn’t pitched in.” Michaels guided Mrs. Oliver to his seat. She noticed Mr. Hagen at the opposite end of the table, glancing now and then in the direction of Stanley Higgins, who was making his way rapidly toward her.

“Excuse me,” Mr. Hagen said, just as Higgins was sitting down to her right, “I don’t believe that is your seat.”

“It damn well is,” Higgins scoffed. “I paid for it.”

“You paid for a ticket,” Mr. Hagen said, “not that specific seat.”

“Are you saying I can’t sit where I damn well like?”

“It’s all right,” Michaels interjected, “why don’t you take my seat? It’s closer to the kitchen, you’ll get served first.”

“I don’t care about the bloody food, I want to get my money’s worth,” Higgins turned to Mrs. Oliver, as though she had not existed until the moment he needed to address her. “I came here to dine with you. I can’t have a proper conversation,” he somewhat slurred the rest of his words, “if I’m sitting half a room away, can I?”

Mr. Hagen’s hands clenched, and he was about to speak, when Michaels leaned down and whispered into Higgins’s ear. Mrs. Oliver just caught the words like we talked about, before Michaels straightened again, and Higgins stood up.

“There’s a draft in here,” Higgins muttered, “I’ll be warmer if I’m sat closer to the kitchen.”

With near simultaneous sighs of relief, both Mr. Hagen and Michaels took their seats.

Mrs. Oliver was delighted to find that luncheon was a decidedly English affair, with dishes that would not have been out of place in a place like the Ritz or Bertram’s. Given the decor and overall theme, she had worried that there might be some attempt at middle eastern cuisine. She enjoyed foreign foods, but found that they never quite worked when attempted by English chefs.

The conversation proved to be as pleasant as the meal. Quite a few of the Shadows were present, as well some professional writers of her acquaintance. Michaels was at her left, while the seat Higgins had reluctantly vacated had been taken by Christopher Chambers. Elizabeth Kochanski was next to Michaels, and there were also two other gentlemen and one lady whose names Mrs. Oliver did not catch. Daisy, Mr. Hagen’s assistant, sat directly opposite Mrs. Oliver, and seemed too nervous to talk, poor creature. Next to her was Mr. Hagen, who remained thankfully silent.

“Goodness,” said Miss Kochanski when the first course had been cleared away, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a meal like this before. Come to that, I’ve never been to a restaurant like this before, or this sort of fancy hotel. I feel like I’m in one of your books.”

“I’m very glad you’re enjoying yourself,” said Mrs. Oliver. “At least I hope that’s what you meant.”

“Oh dear,” said Miss Kochanski, “yes, I suppose I could have meant that there was an atmosphere of murder about the place, or that I suspected everyone was a spy for some made up country.”

“Ellie!”Michaels said, reproachfully.

“She’s quite right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Very observant of you to have noticed. I do prefer to make things up. The way I see it, if you’re going to say unpleasant things about a country, you may as well make it a fake one. I can say whatever I like about the nefarious plots of Morvanian politicians, because there are no real Morvanians to take offense. And of course, you never get the lineage of the royal family mixed up, or forget the names of the capitals or anything like that.”

“Very clever, I always thought,” Chambers agreed. “I enjoy reading about made up places a lot more than actual ones.”

“I don’t,” Miss Kochanski said, firmly. “I like seeing what it’s like in places like Paris and New York and Rome.”

“It’s much better to just go there on your own,” Chambers said. “Travel broadens the mind, you know.”

“Mine is quite broad enough, thank you. And that’s fine for you to say; you can afford it. Shop girls don’t make enough money to travel the world.”

Chambers took a sip of wine. Did he look embarrassed? “You know how it is, Ellie. Father does his best, but-”

“Oh, let’s not talk about that now,” Miss Kochanski cut him off. “We’ve got the Grand Dame of Crime here with us! Tell me, how did you come up with that clever twist in Earl Grey? I never would have thought the newspaper meant anything at all, until the last act…”

They went on to talk about plot twists and the difficulty of surprising readers. Michaels held that it was important to play fair, with which Mrs. Oliver agreed. Chambers argued that in order to truly surprise your audience, you needed to do the unexpected. Miss Kochanski felt that twists could very easily be overused, and that the best surprise would be not to have one.

“I suppose,” Michaels said, “you might surprise people by killing the wrong person.”

“What do you mean?” Miss Kochanski drank the rest of her wine, and giggled in surprise when a waiter promptly refilled it.

“Suppose you killed the narrator. Or the detective.”

“It’s funny you should mention that,” Mrs. Oliver said. “I wasn’t going to say anything, certainly not before I’d spoken to Mr. Hagen, but I might as well tell you now.”

“What?” Mr. Hagen blinked, suddenly alert.

“Oh dear,” Daisy muttered, “what’s he doing now?”

At the other end of the table, Stanley Higgins was swearing and fidgeting with something on his lap. Abruptly, he pulled his chair back and tossed a bunch of papers on the table, hard enough to spill the wine of those sitting next to him. “She’s going to kill him,” he snarled.

“My goodness!” Mrs. Oliver recognized the lavender ink on the scattered pages. “That’s my Hjerson manuscript!”

Higgins turned toward her, pointing a shaking finger. “You’re going to kill Sven Hjerson!”

“I’m so sorry,” Daisy said again, wiping an errant page of Mrs. Oliver’s manuscript with her handkerchief. Mrs. Oliver took it from her, gently. It was not her only copy, naturally, but Daisy was only succeeding in smearing the ink. Her handkerchief was slowly turning the color of Mrs. Oliver’s hair. “I should have checked to see if you’d left anything behind after your talk. This is all my fault.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’m always forgetting things. Besides, he had no right to read it, much less take it.”

After Higgins had been forcefully removed and taken to his room by hotel staff, the rest of the diners had been urged to remain by Mr. Hagen. Most, however, opted to leave before dessert was served, whispering eagerly to one another as they did. Evan Michaels had remained the longest, calmly and cheerfully steering the conversation away from what had just happened. He even managed to convince the hotel not to throw Higgins out, possibly in consideration of the other club members for whom Higgins was footing the bill. All in all, he did a better job of smoothing things over than Mr. Hagen or Daisy, though the latter certainly tried.

“He’ll be the only one who reads it, if I have any say in the matter.” Mr. Hagen groused. “Really, Ariadne. When were you going to tell me?”

“I was getting to it. I don’t understand why you’re making such a fuss. It’s just an idea, it’s not like I’ve actually written it. All that fool saw was my margin notes.”

“You can’t just kill the most popular detective in Britain. There would be an outrage.”

“They might not believe him,” Daisy said, doubtfully. “He was drunk, and very rude.”

“They probably wouldn’t, if he hadn’t thrown the manuscript on the table. Everyone could see your,” Mr. Hagen said the words as though they caused him actual pain, “margin notes.”

“It’s not as though he’s a real person! I do wish people would stop talking about him as though he were. Conan Doyle killed his famous detective, I don’t see why I can’t do the same.”

“He did, and do you know what happened?”

Mrs. Oliver sighed. “You’re going to say there was an outrage, aren’t you.”

“I am, because there was. 20 000 people canceled their subscriptions to The Strand, when the story in which Sherlock Holmes died was published. Fans wore black armbands in mourning. Thousands sent threatening letters both to him and the magazine. For years.” Hagen’s voice rose uncharacteristically, and Daisy gave out a little yip of startlement.

“I don’t have to do it right away,” Mrs. Oliver said, putting the reassembled manuscript in her purse. “Not in this story, certainly. I think I’d just like to have the option.”

“The important thing right now is to keep the rumor from spreading.”

“How?” Daisy sat back down at the table, found a wine glass someone had not emptied, and drank it, almost absent mindedly. “There were twenty people here, and they’ve all gone off to talk to their friends. They could have telephoned to a different country, for all we know, although,” she added, looking around for another glass, “I suppose that would be frightfully expensive, especially at a hotel.”

Mr. Hagen moved the nearby glasses away from her. “Control yourself, Daisy. This is no time to panic.”

“Sorry,” Daisy muttered, her curls bouncing as she shook her head. “No, of course not.”

“We’ll make an announcement at the cocktail hour.” He turned to Mrs. Oliver. “You’ll let them know that The Death of Sven Hjerson is the title of an upcoming novel.”

“I thought you didn’t want me to kill him off?”

“And,” he added, “that you’re going to bring him back. That it’s about him faking his death or something.”

“I can’t say that, it would spoil the ending! Not that I’m promising to write the wretched thing. Besides, I’ve already done a fake death plot.”

“I don’t know; you’re the author, make something up. Be vague about it. And we’ll give out some free tickets to Earl Grey. That should be enough.”

“Fine,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but this isn’t at all how I usually go about writing my books. At least now I’ll have something to say when people ask me where I get my ideas from.”

Elizabeth Kochanski was sitting in the lobby, valiantly attempting not to cry, when Mrs. Oliver finally left the restaurant. She kept wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, which had become stained with eye make-up, and Mrs. Oliver fought the urge to offer her a handkerchief. The poor girl was clearly upset, but no - she needed to go straight up to her room and prepare. The cocktail reception was just a few hours away, and she had no idea what she was going to say. Quite how she’d let that awful Mr. Hagen persuade her not only to scrap the idea of killing off Hjerson, but to write an entirely new novel about him right away so easily, disturbed her. The man had an uncanny way of making you do things just so you wouldn’t have to speak to him any longer.

“He’s dead,” sniffed Miss Kochanski, and Mrs. Oliver’s heart sank. She could hardly leave her like this.

“Not you too.” She patted Miss Kochanski’s shoulder, and searched through her handbag for a clean handkerchief, but the manuscript was taking up so much space that it was impossible to find anything. “Come now. He’s only a fictional Finn.”

“What?” Miss Kochanski looked up at her, cheeks streaked with mascara-laced tears. “Oh. No, I meant Polly.”

“The parakeet?”

“Yes!” She burst out in tears again. “I’m sorry, it’s so silly…”

“Not at all,” said Mrs. Oliver, who was very fond of animals. “I’m very sorry to hear it. He looked fine this morning.”

“I went out to get some air now that it’s stopped raining, and when I came back in, he wasn’t in his cage, so I asked the man who was working there. And he said he was dead. Just like that. Like it didn’t mean anything.”

“Men,” muttered Mrs. Oliver disparagingly. “Entirely incapable of empathy, most of them.”

“I’m being very silly.”

“Feelings,” said Mrs. Oliver, “are never silly. If there’s anything I can fault the English for, it’s the degree to which we try to do away with them. Unhealthy, I’ve always thought.”

“He was so sweet and bright and pretty. Just doing his job as a mascot, and now he’s dead. And they’ve thrown him away like he didn’t matter at all.”

Mrs. Oliver sat with her a moment and offered suitable words of encouragement, but all the while she couldn’t help thinking that girls, no matter how delicate or fine of feeling, did not burst into tears in hotel lobbies over dead birds. And Elizabeth Kochanski was certainly not delicate.

The rumors of Sven Hjernson’s death are very much exaggerated, as you will find in my

As you all know, there’s a new Hjerson coming out just in time for Christmas, and you must have all been very good this year, because

Those of you who joined us for our special luncheon may have found it to be a little more exciting than

Mrs. Oliver looked down at the notebook in front of her, and sighed. It was no use. No matter how she tried to phrase it, the whole thing sounded ridiculous. Why would she write a note to herself about a future book in the manuscript of another? The fact of the matter was that Higgins had been right, and it was no good to pretend otherwise. She had, indeed, planned to kill Sven Hjerson. She could sympathize with Mr. Hagen’s point of view, particularly as it coincided with the interests of her bank account, but the proverbial cat was out of the bag. It might be best to improvise something on the spot. Ariadne Oliver could be very convincing, when she needed to be, and she was good at thinking on her feet. If they let people have a few cocktails before she started speaking, then perhaps-

Raised voices sounded in the corridor - Mrs. Oliver realized that she had not shut the door properly. “Not good,” she told herself as she hurried over to it. “This is how you get when you overexert yourself, Ariadne. Soon you’ll start talking to yourself. Well, no, too late.”

Here, the voices were louder; they were coming from the room directly opposite hers, which happened to be that of Stanley Higgins. One person, obviously Higgins, was mostly yelling expletives. The other, who sounded like Cristopher Chambers, seemed to be trying to reason with him. Keeping very still, Mrs. Oliver concentrated on Chambers’s words: “...like before” something about a woman, “crying” and “end up hurting her,” he was saying. A crying woman? Someone who had been hurt, presumably by Higgins…

Abruptly, Christopher Chambers emerged. “You know I’m right,” he said into the darkness of the other room, but Higgins only slammed the door in his face. Mrs. Oliver coughed, politely, and he turned. “Ah.” He smiled, faintly. “Sorry you had to see that. I had to give Mr. Higgins a stern talking to.”

“He’s had more than one of those today, from what I understand.”

“I’m afraid so. Evan keeps having to remind him of what happened at the theater. One day, that drunken fool is going to ruin things for the rest of us, it’s really only a matter of time.”

“This was not about the theater though, was it?”

“Beg pardon?”

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Mrs. Oliver said, innocently, “that you were talking about a girl. Someone who had been hurt. I happened to run into Elizabeth Kochanski on my way up to my room.” She could see by the way he avoided her eyes that her assumption had been correct.

“Look,” Chambers lowered his voice, “it’s all rather a beastly business. I’d prefer not to speak about it here. I’d suggest we relocate to the bar, but they’ve closed it. Probably worried they’ll get in trouble for serving Higgins. Rather pointless, if you ask me, the damage is done. Now the rest of us have to get punished for it.”

“I’ll have some tea sent up to my room,” Mrs. Oliver said. “You’d better come inside.” She’d make sure to close the door properly, this time.

Tea in hand, Chambers warmed up both literally and figuratively. After a few pleasantries, the conversation quickly returned to Miss Kochanski. “Ellie is a good friend,” he explained, “a wonderful writer. Her stories are excellent, really well done, but she’s never been able to get them published. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how much easier it is for a man to get his work noticed, and with a surname like Kochanski…”

Mrs. Oliver nodded in understanding. “Not exactly English.”

“Her parents came here from Poland after the war, the first one, I mean. Their health was poor and she lost both of them recently. It hasn’t been easy for Ellie, but she’s very proud of her heritage, and she refuses to use a pen name. We’ve all tried to help her out; Evan practically lets her run the club on her own, and pays her what little he can manage. He wants to step down, you see, he’s got a heart condition and his doctor’s told him to cut down on stress. My father runs a chain of fabric shops-”

“Of course,” Mrs. Oliver exclaimed, “Chambers! My mother used to take me there when I was a little girl. I remember spending hours running around, looking at all the different patterns and colors-” She shook her head. “Sorry, do go on.”

“I was able to get her a job in one of our London shops, at least for a while. And Stanley…”

“He’s got connections.”

“His father does. He runs the bank where Evan works, but he’s made his money elsewhere. Diamonds, or at least that’s what the rumors say. We all warned her not to, but Ellie went to him for help. Unfortunately, Stanley took,” he hesitated, “liberties with her.”

“You mustn’t think I’m shocked,” Mrs. Oliver said, calmly. “I assumed as much.”

“Evan found out, and nearly kicked Stanley out of the Shadows, but Stanley threatened to get him fired. Besides, we couldn’t afford to do things like attend these functions if Stanley wasn’t paying more than his share.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Quite the conundrum.”

“I don’t know what Stanley said to Ellie today, but I’ve never seen her like this before.” He set his cup down, and shook his head, smiling. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Isn’t that what the characters in your stories always say to Hjerson?”

“He’s a foreigner, I’m a middle aged woman.” Middle age was perhaps charitable, at this point in her life. “People tell us things, because we don’t count. We’re invisible, in a way; not quite people. I think a woman of a certain age would make a marvelous detective.”

“I certainly don’t think you-”

Mrs. Oliver waved aside his alarm. “It’s just how things are. Now, regarding Mr. Higgins, there’s very little I can do. But I can have a word with my publishers about a certain talented young, female writer.” Assuming she was still in their good books after tonight. “I’d have to read some of her work first, of course.”

Chambers brightened. “That would be extremely kind of you. I can get you a copy of some of her recent work.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We’ll see how the evening goes.”

The ballroom was unrecognizable from its usage as a lecture hall earlier in the day. The lectern, tables of books and all the chairs had been removed, and the series of large chandeliers were now lit, giving the whole room a warm, welcoming glow. It was the only area in the hotel other than the guest rooms that was not covered in various exotic, or exotic-seeming plants. The columns and gold paint were very much in evidence, however. Mrs. Oliver found herself grateful for the lighting, as the lack of greenery made the white and gold appear cold and dead. It put her in mind of a mausoleum. She said as much to Daisy, who was enjoying a moment to herself while Mr. Hagen was off speaking to the hotel staff.

“Do you think so? I wouldn’t say that at all. I think it’s all very grand and luxurious,” replied Daisy. “Like something out of your books.” She had gotten herself a generous pink gin, which she was sipping at every few seconds, like a squirrel trying to open a nut. Mrs. Oliver had been supplied with a competently made cherry cordial, and assurances that she would be able to have supper at the hotel in the evening, as soon as the festivities were done.

“People keep saying that,” Mrs. Oliver mused. What was it about this hotel that made people think of the settings of death and murder? Even her own thoughts just now - a mausoleum. Death and decay. She shook her head, nearly panicking when she felt her newly rearranged hair loosening. She would have to find an excuse to head up to her room and fix it as soon as she’d said her bit. “I wonder if that Higgins person will make trouble again.”

“I hope not,” Daisy frowned, and pecked at her drink again. “I don’t like thinking about him, he makes me uncomfortable. I’m sure Mr. Hagen will make sure the staff know not to let him in.” She frowned. “He’s been gone an awfully long time.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” said Mrs. Oliver. “As soon as he returns, I expect I’ll have to address the troops, which I’m not looking forward to.”

It was five minutes to the hour, and people were still arriving, waiters circulating around them like lily pads floating on a pond. There was a table selling drinks tickets, and even a girl selling discounted tickets to Earl Grey. Never having been good with faces, Mrs. Oliver still fancied that quite a few of those arriving had not been at the talk or the luncheon, which made her question the wisdom of Mr. Hagens plan yet again. What good would it do to convince a room full of people that she wasn’t planning on killing off Sven Hjerson, when most of them hadn’t heard about it in the first place?

Elizabeth Kochanski stood by the entrance, glancing over her shoulder. Now and then she would turn her attention to the crowd, but then her eyes would drift slowly back toward the hallway. Probably on the lookout for Higgins, Mrs. Oliver thought. It would appear it was not just Daisy he’d made uneasy. She looked magnificent in a deep blue, low cut dress with matching pumps, which made Mrs. Oliver wistful for the days when she herself could wear heels like that without significant ankle pain.

“There he is,” said Daisy, nodding at Mr. Hagen, who was rapidly approaching in the same atrocious suit he had been wearing all day. It was impossible to tell if she was relieved or disappointed.

Mrs. Oliver sighed, “I suppose I should get ready.”

“We still have a minute or two.” Daisy had a far-away look in her eyes. She held her drink like it wasn’t really there. “I feel like there’s something missing. Or someone.”

“Really? I don’t see who.” Not all of the Shadows were here, but she could see the Lee brothers flirting with the ticket girl, and Chambers was toasting her from across the room. “Is anyone in particular supposed to be here?” She could no longer see Miss Kochanski.

“It’s just a feeling,” Daisy said. “I don’t know, it’s as though I’ve nearly finished a puzzle, and one of the pieces are wrong.”

“Missing, you mean?”

“No,” Daisy insisted. “Wrong.” Before she could elaborate, Mr. Hagen tapped his glass for attention.

“Ladies and gentlemen! Thank you all for coming, and for allowing us to entertain you this evening. Earlier today, some of you had the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Ariadne Oliver herself talk about her new Sven Hjerson novel, which will be in shops in time for Christmas. I am delighted to reveal that-”

There was a soft whimper, and something blue in the corner of her eye. Mrs. Oliver turned sharply and saw Miss Kochanski at her side, pale and shaking. Her eyes were wide, and her lips trembled. She’d clearly had a shock.

“Just a moment!” Mrs. Oliver nudged Mr. Hagen, then raised her voice. “There’s a new Sven Hjerson coming next year, too! And as many of you may have already guessed, its title is The Death of Sven Hjerson! I hope you’ll forgive the little bit of theater we set up over luncheon - but if you enjoyed it, you’ll probably enjoy Earl Grey, a wonderful new mystery playing at The Prince of Wales. Get your tickets half price off tonight!” She exhaled deeply as the crowd erupted in applause and laughter.

“Oh my god, he’s dead,” Miss Kochanski said. Her teeth were chattering as though she’d been out in the rain again. Mrs. Oliver took her aside, and sent Daisy off to get some brandy.

“Who’s dead, my dear?” It wasn’t a bird, this time, that much was certain. Daisy returned with a glass, and Miss Kochanski swallowed it down in one.

“Half price?” Mr. Hagen hissed under his breath. “What are you playing at; it’s only twenty percent!” Mrs. Oliver shushed him.

“He wasn’t here, he was late. He’s always late, and I get so cross with him! He said he was going to lie down after luncheon, and I haven’t seen him since, so I went to check, and he’s dead.” She took a deep breath, as though saying the name required extra oxygen. “Evan is dead.”

“We are not calling the police.” The hotel’s manager, an older, white-haired gentleman by the name of Cartwright, had secured himself, Mr. Hagen, Mrs. Oliver and Miss Kochanski in his office. Out of the four, only Miss Kochanski and Cartwright had actually seen the body, which had been safely locked away and was under guard by Bill, temporarily relieved from his reception duties. The cocktail hour had been cut short with an excuse about Mrs. Oliver having another engagement, and the bar reopened. If any of the guests had noticed something amiss, they showed no signs of it. “We’ve been open less than a year. If this gets out, it could ruin us.”

“Whereas,” said Mrs. Oliver, “if you’d have been open for twenty years, having a man murdered in your hotel would have simply added ambiance.”

“Ariadne, please.” Mr. Hagen was leaning heavily against Mr. Cartwright’s desk. “How do you know he was murdered?”

“He was found with a copy of The Lotus Murder on his chest,” Mrs. Oliver said, meaningfully.

“What’s so odd about that? He was the president of your fan club.”

“That’s the one where Hjernson fakes his death to fool the murderer.” Miss Kochanski, who had folded herself into an overstuffed chair, wiped at her eyes. “It has a picture of him lying dead in a pool of blood on the cover.”

“Much too garish, I always thought. But people like it, or so Mr. Hagen tells me. I suppose it takes attention away from the plot; I was never happy with the twin idea. To this day people ask me if Hjerson really has a brother.”

“But you said Michaels had a heart condition,” Mr. Hagen said to Miss Kochanski. Isn’t it more reasonable to assume he died in his sleep?”

“He had pills that he took for that. If he felt an attack coming on, he’d take one. At night they were always on his bedside table. He said the attacks woke him up, and he’d only have a few moments to take one. That’s how I knew something was wrong.”

“You mean,” said Mrs. Oliver, “that when you entered his room, his pills were not there.”

“Yes! When I saw him…” she wiped at her eyes again. “Sorry, I need a moment.”

“Take your time,” Mrs. Oliver told her, ignoring Mr. Hagen’s impatient stare, and the pacing of Mr. Cartwright, who had been trying and failing to light a cigar for the past five minutes. He was wearing an unfortunate burgundy suit, and his face was rapidly turning a matching color. “Who was the last person to have seen him?”

“One of the maids let him in.” Cartwright stopped pacing for long enough to answer. “I questioned all of them as soon as we found the body. Apparently he’d locked himself out; the key was in the room when we found him.”

“That was Evan, all right. Never could remember anything.” Having braced herself, Miss Kochanski continued. “Anyway, his pills weren’t there. It was the first thing on my mind, when I saw him like that. I ran over to the bed, but I couldn’t see them. I looked everywhere.”

“The police aren’t going to like that,” Mr. Hagen muttered.

“No police,” Mr. Cartwright face was getting redder by the moment. “It’s out of the question.”

“How did you get into the room,” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“I got one of the maids to let me in. I kept knocking, but he wouldn’t answer. That’s not like him, so I knew something was wrong.”

“The door was locked, then?”

“That settles it,” Mr. Cartwright exclaimed, “it can’t have been murder!”

“Perhaps he forgot to bring his pills with him,” suggested Mrs. Oliver.

Miss Kochanski shook her head. “He didn’t. I kept reminding him, I always have to. He showed them to me when we checked in, after the talk, because I asked him again. He opened up his overnight bag, and the bottle was inside.”

“I see your point, my dear,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but that isn’t really much to go on.”

“I don’t see her point,” Cartwright protested. “What does it matter? He died of heart trouble, and the door was locked.”

“It matters,” Mrs. Oliver said sharply, “because if someone deliberately removed those pills, they essentially killed him.”

“Are you suggesting someone murdered him by removing his medication and hoping he would fall ill? That would be a bit of a gamble, wouldn’t it?”

“A bit, yes.” She turned to Miss Kochanski. “How often did he have these attacks?”

“Quite often, and more and more, recently. His doctor warned him not to strain himself, but he is… was the sort of person who couldn’t do things by halves. It was always full steam ahead, with Evan.”

Mr. Cartwright sighed. “You’re absolutely certain he had the pills with him?”

“Yes. I’d know that bottle anywhere, and I know what I saw.”

“What’s the use of speculating?” Mr. Hagen pulled out a cigarette case, and offered one to Miss Kochanski, who declined. Mr. Cartwright took one without asking, having given up on his cigar. “If you don’t want the police involved-”

“I do not want the police involved!”

“Well, you’re out of luck. We’re not exactly in a remote manor house in the countryside, we’re in a London hotel two streets away from Kensington Gardens! If we don’t alert them, they’ll find out on their own, and believe me, you’d much prefer the former. If you want to make this go away as quickly and quietly as possible, you’d do well to hire a private investigator, as soon as possible. That way, you might have a solution to present to the police when they arrive, and the whole thing can be over and done with quickly.”

“Quite right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s much better to just own up to a thing rather than try to cover it up.” She shot Mr. Hagen a meaningful look, which he pretended not to notice. “It’s a shame Poirot is in Liverpool, or I’d ring him up. He’d get this sorted right away.”

“Of course,” Cartwright lit up, “you know Hercule Poirot! Please, Mrs. Oliver, you must call him. I’d be forever in your debt.”

“Who’s Hercule Poirot?” Miss Kochanski asked.

“He wouldn’t like to hear you say that. And no, I can’t. As I said, he’s in Liverpool. Something about a royal visit and a theft, though now that I say that, I’m not certain I was supposed to tell anyone about that.” Mrs. Oliver waved a hand. “The point is, he can’t come.”

“If he took a late train, perhaps-” Cartwright suggested, pleadingly.

“He wouldn’t be here until tomorrow morning. A few hours past midnight, at best.”

“Then you’ll have to solve it.”

“What,” said Mrs. Oliver and Mr. Hagen in the same breath.

“You’re the Grand Dame of crime, you must have some idea!”

“She’s not a detective,” Miss Kochanski said, annoyingly quickly. “She’s a writer. She’s good at fictional murders, not real ones. It’s not the same thing.”

“Not in the slightest,” agreed Mrs. Oliver. “You’ll have to find someone else.” Though of course, she thought, as Cartwright began to lament the difficulties of finding a decent private investigator at such short notice and so late in the evening, she couldn’t very well just sit there twiddling her thumbs until the police arrived. After all, she was the Grand Dame of Crime.

In an attempt to keep the guests occupied, the bar had been reopened, though Mrs. Oliver suspected they were carefully watering out the drinks. The last thing they needed was more people getting too drunk and making accusations. Not being a drinker herself, she had retired to her room. Seated at the desk which doubled as a dressing table, she opened a new page in her notebook and carefully wrote: Suspects?

When plotting a new story, she would often make a list of all the characters that could potentially be the murderer, before deciding which one of them it actually was. Motive was key. You had to have a reason for murdering someone, unless it was a crime of passion, or temporary insanity. But even then, there would be something that triggered the action in you. A catalyst. And of course, it had to be someone with a connection to the victim. It wasn’t that no one was ever killed by random strangers, but when they were, there was rarely any question of the killer’s identity. No, whoever murdered Evan Michaels must have known him; known him well enough to be familiar with his heart condition. Well enough to have a reason.

Who did have a reason to kill Michaels? Not any of the Shadows, certainly. He had been helping Elizabeth Kochanski, giving her work, and while she would undoubtedly take over as club president with him gone, that was hardly motive enough for murder. If anything, it meant she would lose the little bit of extra income Michaels had provided her with. Stanley Higgins was unpleasant and unpredictable, which would make him the obvious suspect in a detective story, and therefore a poor choice of murderer. Christopher Chambers spoke highly of Michaels, and the two had enjoyed one another’s company at luncheon, conversing in the easy manner of old friends. She supposed she could speak to some of the other Shadows, but by all accounts, Michaels had been a mediator and a diplomat. It was difficult to see how anyone would be anything but inconvenienced by his death.

Mrs. Oliver paused, tapping the pen against her chin. How had they killed him? Removing the pills would ensure he died if he suffered an attack, yes, or at least make it very likely that he would die. But as Mr. Cartwright had pointed out, it would be quite a bit of a gamble. If you wanted someone dead, why leave it up to chance? Perhaps the murderer felt that an indirect method of killing meant that it was not actually murder? A weak-willed or weak-minded person might certainly think so. She wrote coward, and added a question mark, then looked up into the mirror.

“Oh, for goodness sake…” Little dots of ink littered her chin, the result of her pen-tapping. She would have to hurry if she wanted to remove them before they dried. Her sponge bag, she remembered, was in the bathroom. As she rose to get it, her eyes fell to the door. “Did I close it properly? Why am I always forgetting?” No, it was closed this time, and locked. She was about to move on when she heard a loud slam, followed by hurried footsteps. Holding her breath, she opened her own door, looked out into the hallway, and saw the skirt of a blue dress disappearing around the corner. Miss Kochanski. Had she been in Higgins’s room?

“Beg pardon, ma’am?”

One of the maids, Mrs. Oliver realized, was standing right there, looking at her expectantly. She was a woman of about thirty, with light brown curls done up in the sort of style Mrs. Oliver never could have forced her own hair into - she must have been about to knock. Collecting herself, Mrs. Oliver gave her a curt nod, and adjusted her string of pearls. “Yes?”

“I’m ever so sorry to disturb you, ma’am, and it’s none of my business, really…”

“That’s quite all right -- what isn’t your business?”

The woman still hesitated, and Mrs. Oliver resisted the urge to sigh. Why couldn’t people just speak their minds? Times had moved on; servants were no longer caned for daring to speak out of turn or gaze upon the lady of the house with lustful eyes, or whatever people used to think were appropriate excuses for getting their aggression out on the lower classes. She credited herself for not saying any of this out loud. Instead, she said:

“I’m sure you wouldn’t have come to me if it wasn’t important. Now, how can I help you?

“Well, I found this while I was cleaning 204.” She took a small object out of the pocket of her uniform, and held it out. “It was in the bin, under some crumpled sheets of paper. I thought it was odd because, you know, the paper didn’t have anything written on it. Why would anyone throw that away, I thought.”

Mrs. Oliver looked at the door opposite. 204. Stanley Higgins’s room. “I see.” She took the item, and looked it over thoughtfully.

“Please don’t think we’re snooping or anything like that, ma’am, but we’ve heard about what happened. The staff, I mean. There’s talk about that gentleman being poisoned. So I thought, you know, it might be important.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “it might be, indeed.”

“I was going to tell Mr. Cartwright about it, but he’s still in his office, and yells at anyone who knocks, ma’am.”

“I appreciate the warning. Thank you, you’ve been very helpful.” She sent the maid away with reassurances that she would not, so to speak, be caned or reported for lustful gazing, and retreated back into her room.

Well. There was no question now, was there? If what the maid had found was what Mrs. Oliver thought it was, the murderer could only be one person. She sat back down at her desk, and looked at what she’d written. With some hesitation, pausing now and again to tap the pen against her chin, she circled a name. Yes, only one person. But it didn’t feel right.

“It’s getting late. Any news from that fool Cartwright?” Mr. Hagen lit one of his little French cigarettes, and slipped the case back into his pocket. He did not offer one to Daisy, though Mrs. Oliver doubted she smoked. He knew better than to ask Mrs. Oliver. She was not entirely certain why she had come down to the bar, only that perhaps speaking to the utterly unimaginative Mr. Hagen might settle her mind. Thus far, it was not working. She really ought to tell everyone what she had found out, but every time she was about to, something stopped her. A feeling, right at the back of her mind.

“No,” said Daisy, “he’s still in his office. He came out once to ask me if I knew the number to any private detectives, and I suggested he try the phone book, and he said he had.”

“It’s half past nine in the evening, what does he expect? These people have office hours.”

“I really think,” said Daisy, “we ought to phone the police.”

“Of course we should! But Cartwright wants a solution first. And unless you’ve got one,” he gestured to Mrs. Oliver, “that’s not happening.” He narrowed his eyes. “Have you got one?”

“I might,” she said, thinking about the object in her purse. She hadn’t wanted to leave it in her room. “Which is to say, I have a number of ideas that all point to one thing, but it makes no sense.”

“That’s not good enough. Look, unless by some miracle Cartwright manages to rustle up a PI in the next few hours, I’m calling the police. I’ll give him until midnight.”

“If you’ll excuse me,” said Mrs. Oliver, surrendering to the inevitable, “I have a telephone call of my own to make.”

Hercule Poirot attempted to count his blessings. There were, he concluded, at least four: He was currently out of the rain and tolerably warm, he had been provided, at long last, with a passable meal, even if it was just the cheese course from the luncheon earlier in the day, of which there was some left over. He was no longer on a noisy train where his fellow passengers made it impossible to get so much as a stolen second of sleep, and the dampness had appeared to have no discernible effect on his mustache. Having finished his cheese and the accompanying crackers, as well as a disappointing chocolate which had misleadingly been presented to him as a praline, he now gave his undivided attention to Mrs. Oliver.

“I really don’t know where to begin.” She attempted to smooth down her hair, and only succeeded in dislodging several hair pins. “I was unable to persuade Mr. Hagen to wait until you arrived, so I’m certain he’s called the police by now. We don’t have much time.”

“You must start at the very beginning,” Poirot said, firmly. “You must omit no detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem.”

“Very well,” Mrs. Oliver sighed. “But you know me, whenever there are details I tend to get lost in them. And as I said, we’re short on time.”

“I shall endeavor to guide you, Madame.”

And so she told him everything. Poirot listened attentively, now and then pausing to gently nudge her narrative back on track. He refilled her cup of tea as she spoke, and poured himself another generous measure of brandy. “I think that’s it,” she said, finally, exhaling deeply. “I can’t believe it all happened in just one day. Feels like I’ve been here a week, at least.”

“You have given me an account most accurate,” Poirot assured her. “I have only one or two questions.”

“Yes? What about?”

“The stories of Mademoiselle Kochanski - Did Monsieur Chambers provide you with them?”

“As a matter of fact, he did. Stopped by just before the cocktail hour to drop them off. Why, is that important?” She shut her mouth and held up a hand. “Yes, of course it is, it all is, so you keep saying.”

“I should like to see those stories, if I may?”

“I can get them for you, they’re in my room. If you really think it’s necessary.”

“I do. As for my final question…”

“You want to know what the maid found in Stanley Higgins’s room, I expect. Don’t worry, that I did bring with me.” She rummaged in her bag, removing a stained handkerchief, a paper bag of boiled sweets, several apples, and finally an object wrapped in what looked like hotel stationary paper. “It was all I had to hand,” she explained, handing it to Poirot.

“You are absolutely correct, Madame.” Poirot opened the bundle methodically, revealing a small, empty bottle of pills. “The label has been removed,” he mused.

“Not very skillfully,” said Mrs. Oliver with distaste. “Whoever did it has never had to re-label a jam jar, is all I can say. You can’t tell what was written on it, though.”

“Indeed not. However, the fact that it was removed at all, it tells us something, that.”

“Yes, that whoever threw it away didn’t want us to know what was in it. The maid said it had been hidden, too.”

“Perhaps, perhaps…”

“Obviously, I should think. Anyway, you see my dilemma? It all points to one thing. Stanley Higgins murdered Evan Michaels. But it’s all wrong.”

“Yes,” said Poirot slowly, “I think I do.”

“I shouldn’t have been able to solve it. I’m not a detective, however much I like to think I could be. I’m good at fictional crimes, but life is not like fiction. There’s too much evidence, much too conveniently found. Too many indictments against his character, too, like the person writing this murder mystery wanted to make absolutely certain we knew Higgins was a bad man.” She picked up one of the apples and bit into it, frowned, and sat it back down. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

“No, Madame, you are not. But I think, yes, I believe I have the beginnings of an idea.” He leaned back in his chair, and let himself luxuriate for a moment in the pleasures of warmth and comfort.

The ballroom had been transformed for a third and, Mrs. Oliver dearly hoped, final time. The lectern was back, as were a number of chairs that had been assembled into a semi-circle in front of it. In the bright light of the chandeliers, the lectern cast a long, angular shadow that appeared to reach into the room beyond. It all gave the impression of the stage setting of one of those Theater of the Absurd plays, of which Mrs. Oliver was not a fan. “Why do we have to meet in here,” she said to Poirot as she entered. “Surely Cartwright’s office would be far better suited, or the lobby, or one of our rooms.”

“The lobby would be too public. The good Monsieur Cartwright would not approve. A hotel room would not fit everyone comfortably, and as for the office-” Poirot made a face, “it smells of the cigar smoke. It does not agree with me.”

“You’re just making excuses. You’ve quite literally set the stage for a drama, with yourself right in the middle of it. No,” she added, when Poirot was about to protest, “you can’t fool me, I’ve known you for too long. Go ahead, have your little harlequinade. I suppose you’ve earned it, after I dragged you down here at this hour.”

Poirot inclined his head with a smile. “You are very kind, chère Madame. I must also thank you for the stories of Mademoiselle Kochanski. They have been of great help to me.”

“I can’t see how, I only gave them to you half an hour ago, and you’ve spent most of that time getting all this set up. You can’t have read through any of them.”

“Nevertheless, they were of vital importance.”

“If you say so. Everyone else will be arriving soon, I expect.” She really ought to sit down, but felt too full of nervous energy. “I keep thinking about that bird,” she said, looking out through the door into the lobby.

“Pardon? The bird, you say?”

“That lovely parakeet I told you about. Polly. I talked to that girl Alice about it just now, when I invited her to come here. Can’t think of what you might need her for, but I know better than to ask. She said it probably died of heart failure. Isn’t that something? Just like Michaels. In a way, I’m a little relieved.”

“Yes? Why is that?”

“When I heard it had died, for a moment I thought someone might have-” She stopped abruptly, and met Poirot’s calm, bright green eyes. “Oh, I see,” she said, softly. “That’s really very clever. I’m right, aren’t I? That’s how it was done?”

Poirot’s eyes glittered. “Oh yes, mon amie. That is how it was done. You are a true detective after all.”

“Messieurs-dames!” Hercule Poirot clapped his hands together like a cabaret presenter, and addressed his captive audience, who had awkwardly taken their seats. “You have gathered at this magnificent hotel to celebrate the most excellent works of fiction written by my dear friend, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver.”

Mrs. Oliver gave a hesitant smile, struggling to hold it for very long. Compliments from strangers were difficult enough, but heartfelt praise from a friend was absolutely impossible to deal with.

“You are all, in this room, very well acquainted with fiction, non? Miss Kochanski and Mr. Higgins, you are both writers of significant skill, so everyone says. Mr. Chambers is a talented editor and plotter, who helps his friends with their writing. And Miss Wahlberg,” he turned to Alice, the receptionist, who was seated nervously at the far left of the semi-circle, “you are a great fan of Mrs. Oliver’s works.”

“I’ve read them all,” Alice said, breathlessly.

“Mr. Hagen and Mrs. Knight,” he nodded to Daisy, who seemed startled to be referred to by her surname, “you work with the publishing of Mrs. Oliver’s novels.”

“And short story collections, and plays,” Mr. Hagen added. Poirot indicated agreement.

“I suppose I’m the odd one out,” said Mr. Cartwright. “I’m not much of a reader.”

Poirot made a gesture of apology. “You are right, of course. The good Monsieur Cartwright is here as our gracious host, and that alone.”

“I’m glad you don’t think I murdered a man in my own hotel,” Cartwright snorted.

“So we’ve established why Cartwright is here.” Higgins shifted in his chair. “Great. Why are we here, Mr. Parrot?”

“Stanley, don’t.” Miss Kochanski put a hand on his shoulder. “Stop being rude. You know his name, he told you. He told all of us.”

Higgins rolled his eyes. “Shut up, Ellie-”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Chambers snapped. “You should be honored he mentioned your name in the same sentence as hers.”

Poirot held his hand up. “Calmez vous, gentlemen. I am well aware that it has been a long day, and a trying evening for all of you, but I beg your patience for but a moment longer. I have brought you here to present to you, a panel of experts, two murder mystery stories.”

Miss Kochanski frowned. “Two? But there’s only been one murder.”

“Ah!” Poirot held up a finger. “That, we shall return to later. For now, allow me to present the first story, with the help of the good Madame Oliver.” He gestured for her to go on. Mrs. Oliver cleared her throat.

“It’s really very simple,” she began. “By which I mean, it’s much too complicated. That’s what made me realize it was the wrong way around.”

“What on Earth are you rambling on about,” Mr. Hagen said.

“The murder mystery that I solved. It’s not a very good one. I always begin with motive, when I’m writing, I mean. A murderer can acquire the means, and take the opportunity, but they have to have a motive to begin with. When I sat down to make a list of people who might have a reason to kill Evan Michaels, there was only one possible suspect: Stanley Higgins.”

“That maniac!” Cartwright seethed. Higgins returned his angry glare with languid indifference. “He’s been nothing but trouble since he entered this hotel. Well, he can forget about staying anywhere in London where I’ve got connections, that’s for certain.”

Poirot gestured for silence. “Madame Oliver, please continue.”

“I’ll do my best.” She cleared her throat. “As I was saying, Stanley Higgins was the only person who could possibly have wanted to kill Evan Michaels. Michaels humiliated him in public during the luncheon, of course, and everyone knew there had been ill will between the two of them for some time. Furthermore, he seemed entirely unpleasant, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.” She glanced at Higgins, who shrugged. “The more I learned about him, the more I thought that it would only be a matter of time before someone tried to kill him. But no one did. Instead, Evan Michaels, a man beloved by everyone except Stanley Higgins, was murdered.”

“So,” said Alice, slowly, “that’s what you meant by the wrong way around. That it would have made more sense for Mr. Higgins to be murdered?”

“I’m glad everyone is so eager to get rid of me,” said Higgins.

“I don’t know about sense,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but essentially, yes. And yet, not only does Higgins remain alive, everything points to him being the murderer. He had motive, albeit flimsy, and while he did not have an obvious opportunity, neither did anyone else. There are countless ways to get into a locked hotel room. You could pick the lock, for one.”

“Like in The White Cockatoo,” suggested Chambers, “where the murderer lets himself into the victim’s room by picking the lock, hides in the wardrobe and scares the victim to death? Surely you’d know that one, Stanley, you wouldn’t shut up about it at last year’s Christmas party.”

“So what? You all read that book too!”

“And of course,” Mrs. Oliver continued, “there are these.” At this, she opened her purse and once again took out the small bottle of pills.

“What’s that?” Chambers asked, leaning forward to get a better look.

Miss Kochanski gasped. “Those are Evan’s pills! I’d know that bottle anywhere. Where did you find them?”

“One of the maids found it in the waste paper basket in Stanley Higgins’s room.”

“Well, I didn’t throw it away; I’ve never seen it before,” Higgins grunted. “I didn’t even know Evan took pills.”

“Yes you did,” Miss Kochanski said, “we all did. It’s no good hiding the truth, especially if you want people to believe you’re innocent.”

“Quite so!” Poirot, who had been standing off to one side, listening intently, stepped back behind the lectern. “And so we have it - our first story. Stanley Higgins, drunk and angered by his public humiliation, sneaks into the hotel room of the man with whom he has long-standing feud by picking the lock, steals the bottle of pills, hides in the closet, waits until Evan Michaels returns, then exits the closet, scaring Evan Michaels to death. He then places a Sven Hjerson novel on his victim’s chest to announce that a murder has been committed, and finally exits, locking the door behind him.” He clapped his hands together. “Am I correct, Madame?”

“Quite,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Like I said, much too complicated. But it’s the only way Michaels could have been murdered.”

“That’s patently absurd,” Mr. Hagen exclaimed.

“I don’t see any other way it could have been done,” said Chambers. “After all, if Mrs. Oliver and Hercule Poirot can’t find a better solution…” He shrugged. “What is it Hjerson always says?”

“If the only solution is impossible, it probably isn’t.” Alice smiled, shyly. “I’ve got a pillow with that embroidered on it.”

“Very inspirational, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Oliver, hoping no one would ever ask her to sign such a monstrosity.

“However,” Poirot raised his voice, and again all eyes were on him, “did I not say there were two stories? In our second story, which I will now present, Evan Michaels was not murdered.”

The room filled with gasps and muttered confusion.

“Are you saying he died of natural causes?” Cartwright brightened. “The police might believe that, if the statement came from you.”

“I am saying,” Poirot raised his voice, his bright green eyes scanning the room, “that what has been committed here tonight was not a murder, but an attempted murder: That of Stanley Higgins.”

“Me?” Higgins burst out laughing. “Why would anyone want to kill me? That’s preposterous.”

“Not at all. As Madame Oliver so eloquently explained, you are the far more likely murder victim. You are, if I may be blunt, disliked, dishonest, disorderly, and generally disagreeable.”

“It’s true,” said Daisy, muttering, “I felt it, at the cocktail hour. I had the strangest feeling, like I was looking at a lopsided picture. Or a puzzle with a piece that was jammed in the wrong way. I think… I think I was waiting for someone to say Higgins had been murdered. But then Ellie came in, and…” she shook her head.

“It never sat right with me, either,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Like the parakeet. The simplest thing would have been for it to have died of natural causes, and it did. So did Michaels.”

“If I may continue?” The group settled. Miss Kochanski, Mrs. Oliver noticed, had taken Stanley Higgins’s hand. “Michaels is dead. Our would-be murderer comes across his body. Here, they realize, is a unique opportunity. If they can make it look as though a murder has been committed, and that Stanley Higgins committed that murder - well, then Higgins is finished. Perhaps they are unaware that the death penalty is still very much in use in England, or perhaps they have grown such a deep dislike, even hatred of Higgins, that they do not care.”

“Wait a minute,” Higgins looked around, nervously. “I could hang for this? Good god, I didn’t…”

“Not if we can help it,” Mrs. Oliver stated, plainly.

Poirot continued. “Michaels was forgetful. He had a habit of leaving his key in the reception when not in his room, but at times he forgot that he had. This afternoon, when he returned to his room, his key was still in the reception. A maid let him in. And so, all the murderer had to do,” he said, enunciating each word carefully, “was pick up the key.”

Slowly, all eyes turned to Alice. “Oh!” She began to stutter. “N… no, don’t look at me like that. I didn’t do it, I don’t know any of these people.”

“Don’t you?” Cartwright raised his voice, sharply. “You practically begged me to let you go see Mrs. Oliver’s talk, and you’re always reading those books. Don’t think I don’t notice, you leave them everywhere.”

“I only read when it’s a slow day, and not in front of guests. Anyway, begging your pardon Mr. Poirot, sir, but you’re wrong. Poor Mr. Michaels did pick up his key. I remember, it was just after lunch.” She was speaking quickly, almost breathlessly, barely looking up. “It had been quiet for a bit, so I was reading my book. Quite a good one it was, The Woman in the Wood. Then I saw Mr. Michaels and Miss Kochanski come in, out of the corner of my eye, like, so I put it down. They spoke for a bit, and I could see her getting upset, so I just minded my own business. She stormed out, and he came over and asked for his key, and I gave it to him. It was just before my shift ended.” She looked up, hesitantly.

“But…” Miss Kochanski frowned. “I didn’t speak to Evan after lunch. He left before me, he wanted to go have a lie down.”

“That’s an obvious lie,” Chambers said. “Poirot solved it. Do you think you’re smarter than Hercule Poirot?”

“No,” said Poirot quietly, “she does not. But you do.”

Everything was still. Chambers had frozen in place, his mouth half-open. “What,” he said, finally.

“It wasn’t Evan I was arguing with after luncheon, it was you.” Miss Kochanski stared at him. “Tom fired me today, that’s why I was late. Your father gets in these moods, but he always takes me back, all I needed was for you to have a word with him. But you said no. You were terribly short with me. I didn’t know what to do, so I just ran out. I went for a long walk trying to clear my mind, but it didn’t work, and when I came back that lovely little bird was dead, and the man I spoke to was just so brutal when he told me about it that I burst into tears.”

“I’m sorry, Miss,” said Alice, “that must have been Bill, he’s on the evening shift with Edward. I wish I’d have been there for you.”

“That’s not true,” Chambers protested. “I’m sorry if my father fired you, but that’s his own business. I would have helped if I could, but we never had that conversation.”

“You told me,” Mrs. Oliver said, “that she was upset because Stanley Higgins had made unwelcome advances.”

Higgins spluttered. “Advances?”

“We’re engaged to be married.” Miss Kochanski squeezed his hand. “Stanley has his problems, but he’s a good person when he’s not drinking. And we’re working on that, aren’t we?” She kissed his cheek, and Higgins leaned toward her, closing his eyes.

“You didn’t sit together at the luncheon,” Mr. Hagen said.

“Of course not,” said Dasiy, “married and engaged couples aren’t seated together.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Alice, “it’s just that they look very much alike. I suppose I might have made a mistake.”

“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “They do look so very much alike. And so,” he addressed Chambers, “assuming you were Michaels, Mademoiselle Wahlberg gave you his key, a fact you did not notice until you had gone up the stairs and finally looked at the number on the key fob. You entered his room. You saw that he was dead. You quickly searched the room. Evan Michaels is forgetful; he has brought with him his bottle of pills, but it is empty.”

Miss Kochanski gasped. “I never thought to check. Oh, Evan…”

“And so, you take the bottle. You roughly tear the label off. There is no need to be careful; Stanley Higgins would not have been. The key is wiped for fingerprints and left on the desk - and voila! There is no evidence that you were ever in the room.

What remains now is to plant the evidence. At the first opportunity, you make an excuse to visit Higgins in his room. You know that Madame Oliver’s room is across the hall, and so you raise your voice, hoping she will hear you.”

“You were lecturing me about my behavior.” Higgins leaned toward him. “You said I’d be thrown out of the club if I kept being rude to Mrs. Oliver, that I was an embarrassment to everyone. You even said it was a crying shame I was wasting my talents, you jealous bastard.” Miss Kochanski hushed him.

“I assumed you were talking about Elizabeth Kochanski,” Mrs. Oliver said to Chambers. “And when I said as much, you did not correct me. In fact, you encouraged the idea.”

“Enough!” Chambers sat as stiff as a board. “Are you saying I was trying to frame Stanley for murder? What possible reason could I have?”

“A good many reasons,” Poirot replied. “Stanley Higgins is not a well liked person. He is a known troublemaker at events which feature the works of Ariadne Oliver, to the point where her publisher’s representative recognizes him on sight. He drinks too much; he makes a nuisance of himself, forcing other people to intervene on his behalf. He is rude to the staff at hotels and theaters. Many of his fellow members in The Shadows want to get rid of him, but Higgins is the one in control. He has the money, the influence, and despite all of his indiscretions, Evan Michaels still allows him to remain in the club, which is all he seems to care about.

But you, Monsieur Chambers, you have had enough. For you, it is personal. By your own admission, you are not a great writer, but Higgins is. You would do anything to have his talent, and he does nothing at all with it. These things, they irritate you, they may even anger you, but you hold it in. But there is one more thing, is there not, that Higgins has and that you wish to possess? The thing that pushed you over the edge, that drove you to action - his engagement to Mademoiselle Kochanski.”

“Damn you!”

Chambers jumped out of his chair with such force that it fell over, the thud of wood on stone resounding in the near empty ballroom. Miss Kochanski settled closer to Higgins, who put his arm around her, giving Chambers a death stare. “Don’t try anything. I’m not quite the coward you’d made me out to be.”

“Shut up!” Chambers spat, his eyes wide. “You’re a weak, pathetic excuse for a man! You’ve got talent, you’ve got money, you’ve been given every opportunity in life, and what do you do with it? You sit around reading books and have long, rambling arguments about details no one cares about, with friends you’ve had to buy because no one would stand to be around you if you didn’t throw money at them. All you care about are trashy detective stories written by a batty old woman-”

Mrs. Oliver schooled her face to calm. The change in Christopher Chamber’s face was astounding. Any resemblance to the gently, cheerful Evan Michaels was gone; his features angular rather than soft, his lips pulled back in a snarl. To her right, Daisy was trembling, clutching the seat of her chair with both hands.

“-and when she actually produces something half-decently interesting, you complain that it doesn’t have your favorite detective in it!”

“I should mention,” said Mr. Hagen, as glacially cold as ever, “that I have telephoned the police, and that they should be arriving at any moment.”

“And what are they going to do,” Chambers scoffed, “arrest me for lying?”

“They will arrest you,” Poirot said, firmly, “for attempted murder.”

“This is ridiculous.” Chambers kneeled down next to Miss Kochanski, who shifted away from him. “Ellie. Come on, let’s get out of here. You know there’s no real future with Stanley, he’s going to drink himself to ruin before the ink dries on your marriage certificate. When the Lee brothers told me you’d gotten engaged, I was furious, I’ll admit it. But I’ve had some time to think, and all I want is what’s best for you.” He tried to reach for her hand, but she snatched it away.

“They’re wrong, you know,” said Mrs. Oliver. She could hear footsteps outside; the police had arrived, no doubt, and would be here at any moment.

“What,” said Chambers, not quite addressing her, still looking at the space in which Elizabeth Kochanski’s hand had just been.

“You’re not a very good plotter. In the end, an old, batty writer of trashy pulp saw through it.”

Chambers stared. Perhaps he might have lunged for her, but at that moment, the police came through the door.

“What I still don’t understand,” said Mrs. Oliver the next morning, “is what good Elizabeth Kochanski’s stories were to you. You couldn’t have read them.”

They were in the restaurant at The Mesopotanian, Poirot having joined her for a late breakfast. “There was no need to do so.” He continued the process of carefully salting his eggs. “The mere fact that Monsieur Chambers had brought with him the writings of Mademoiselle Kocanski to this hotel…” he gestured expansively. “It speaks volumes, that.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I suppose that makes sense. What silly things men do, when they’re in love.”

Poirot smiled at her over the top of his half-eaten egg. “And what of les femmes - do they not also do silly things?”

“Women are much more sensible,” insisted Mrs. Oliver. “You wouldn’t see a woman staging a murder just to prove to a man how clever she was.”

“You think, then, that this was his reasoning?”

“Naturally. Really, all that work. It must have taken him months.”

Poirot looked up, depositing his spoon just-so by the side of his plate. “Months, Madame?”

“Setting it all up, I mean. It’s not a terrible idea; I know I said that, but I was a bit cross with him, you know. It’s honestly quite clever. He encourages Higgins to attend the premiere of a play which he knows will annoy him, buys him drinks, perhaps; there would be very little encouragement required, there! He makes certain Higgins attends the convention. Once here, he continues to supply Higgins with drinks, all the while egging him on to harass the staff and just generally be unpleasant.”

“Go on,” said Poirot, pouring himself some more coffee, “I am intrigued.”

“Then, at the luncheon, he tells Higgins to sit next to me, knowing that will cause another incident. Perhaps he even made certain that Higgins found my forgotten manuscript, or perhaps that was a stroke of luck in his favor.” She shrugged, taking a bite of buttered toast. “Men are so exhausting. Present company excluded, of course.”

To this, Poirot inclined his head, toasting her with his coffee.

“You know,” Mrs. Oliver reflected, “if Hjerson was a woman, that might help. With writing him, I mean.”

“That may prove an even less popular choice than killing him,” Poirot hid a smile behind his napkin.

“Oh, I’m not really serious. But a female detective, perhaps someone of a sensible age… ” She thought about the ink-stained manuscript in her purse, and the new Hjerson she had to write after that one, but after that… “Yes. I think I’ll do that, some day.”