Page:The Big Four (Christie).pdf/53

Rh Poirot had just accused me of being imaginative, but I now felt that he was far more wildly so than I had ever been. Did he seriously think these slivers of ice were crystals of a deadly poison? That was the only construction I could put upon his extraordinary agitation.

“It's frozen meat,” I explained gently. “Imported, you know. New Zealand.”

He stared at me for a moment or two and then broke into a strange laugh.

“How marvellous is my friend Hastings! He knows everything—but everything! How do they say—Inquire Within Upon Everything. That is my friend Hastings.”

He flung down the leg of mutton on to its dish again and left the larder. Then he looked through the window.

“Here comes our friend the Inspector. It is well. I have seen all I want to see here.” He drummed on the table absent-mindedly, as though absorbed in calculation, and then asked suddenly, What is the day of the week, mon ami?”

“Monday,” I said, rather astonished. “What?”

“Ah! Monday, is it? A bad day of the week. To commit a murder on a Monday is a mistake.”

Passing back to the living-room, he tapped