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163 stories from 11 authors
Eight years before he had seen his friend off at the North Wall and wished him godspeed.
Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea.
I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise.
The small engine attached to the Neuilly steam-tram whistled as it passed the Porte Maillot to warn all obstacles to get out of its way and puffed like a person out of breath as it sent out its steam, its pistons moving rapidly with a noise as of iron legs running.
Two gentlemen who were in the lavatory at the time tried to lift him up: but he was quite helpless.
For several days in succession fragments of a defeated army had passed through the town.
The grey warm evening of August had descended upon the city and a mild warm air, a memory of summer, circulated in the streets.
Now that war and the problems of war are things of the past, I think I may safely venture to reveal to the world the part which my friend Poirot played in a moment of national crisis.