It should now be a piece of cake to find Norma and discover what trouble she got herself into, but this is where things get difficult and force Poirot to cast a wide net, because there’s simply no obvious murder in sight. It seems that Poirot’s old friend, the mystery writer Ariadne Oliver, remembers discussing Poirot at a party with some “dreary” girl, and eventually her scatty memory yields a name: Norma Restarick. Fortunately, finding out her name turns out to be much easier than anticipated. Though Poirot’s ego is understandably wounded, he feels a genuine concern for the girl, who doesn’t strike him as capable of taking care of herself. The purpose of her visit is to consult him about a murder she might have committed – but she never gets to clarify this bizarre phrase, because the girl takes off almost immediately at the sight of the great detective. One morning, as he’s enjoying his steaming cup of chocolate with a brioche, Poirot’s gastronomic satisfaction is interrupted by an unexpected visitor, one of the modern young women who deeply offend his old-fashioned views on proper femininity. This foray into the swinging sixties doesn’t seem to be highly thought of among Agatha Christie fans, but I enjoyed it quite a lot, maybe because the idea of Hercule Poirot among mods and beatniks is just too much fun.
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