Mr Parker Pyne leaned over the rail of the steamer and looked at the lights of Palma. Beside him stood Dolores Ramona. He was saying appreciatively: "A very nice piece of work, Madeleine. I'm glad I wired you to come out. It's odd when you're such a quiet stay-at-home girl really." Madeleine de Sara, alias Dolores Ramona, alias Maggie Sayers, said primly: "I'm glad you're pleased, Mr Parker Pyne. It's been a nice little change. I think I'll go below now and get to bed before the boat starts. I'm such a bad sailor." A few minutes later a hand fell on Mr Parker Pyne's shoulder. He turned to see Basil Chester. "Had to come and see you off, Mr Parker Pyne, and give you Betty's love and her and my best thanks. It was a grand stunt of yours. Betty and Mother are as thick as thieves. Seemed a shame to deceive the old darling - but she was being difficult. Anyway it's all right now. I must just be careful to keep up the annoyance stuff a couple of days longer. We're no end grateful to you, Betty and I." "I wish you every happiness," said Mr Parker Pyne. "Thanks." There was a pause, then Basil said with somewhat overdone carelessness: "Is Miss - Miss de Sara - anywhere about? I'd like to thank her, too." Mr Parker Pyne shot a keen glance at him. He said: "I'm afraid Miss de Sara's gone to bed." "Oh, too bad - well, perhaps I'll see her in London sometime." "As a matter of fact she is going to America on business for me almost at once." "Oh!" Basil's tone was blank. "Well," he said. "I'll be getting along..." Mr Parker Pyne smiled. On his way to his cabin he tapped on the door of Madeleine's. "How are you, my dear? All right? Our young friend has been along. The usual slight attack of Madeleinitis. He'll get over it in a day or two, but you are rather distracting."
THE SECOND GONG Joan Ashby came out of her bedroom and stood a moment on the landing outside her door. She was half turning as if to go back into the room when, below her feet as it seemed, a gong boomed out. Immediately Joan started forward almost at a run. So great was her hurry that at the top of the big staircase she collided with a young man arriving from the opposite direction. 'Hullo, Joan! Why the wild hurry?' 'Sorry, Harry. I didn't see you.' 'So I gathered,' said Harry Dalehouse dryly. 'But as I say, why the wild haste?' 'It was the gong.' 'I know. But it's only the first gong.' 'No, it's the second.' 'First.' 'Second.' Thus arguing they had been descending the stairs. They were now in the hall, where the butler, having replaced the gongstick, was advancing toward them at a grave and dignified pace. 'It is the second,' persisted Joan. 'I know it is. Well, for one thing, look at the time.' Harry Dalehouse glanced up at the grandfather clock. 'Just twelve minutes past eight,' he remarked. 'Joan, I believe you're right, but I never heard the first one. Digby,' he addressed the butler, 'is this the first gong or the second?' 'The first, sir.' 'At twelve minutes past eight? Digby, somebody will get the sack for this.' A faint smile showed for a minute on the butler's face. 'Dinner is being served ten minutes later tonight, sir. The master's orders.' 'Incredible!' cried Harry Dalehouse. 'Tut, tut! Upon my word, things are coming to a pretty pass! Wonders will never cease. What ails my revered uncle?' 'The seven o'clock train, sir, was half an hour late, and as -' The butler broke off, as a sound like the crack of a whip was heard. 'What on earth -' said Harry. 'Why, that sounded exactly like a shot.' A dark, handsome man of thirty-five came out of the drawing room on their left. 'What was that?' he asked. 'It sounded exactly like a shot.' 'It must have been a car backfiring, sir,' said the butler. 'The road runs quite close to the house this side and the upstairs windows are open.' 'Perhaps,' said Joan doubtfully. 'But that would be over there.' She waved a hand to the right. 'And I thought the sound came from here.' She pointed to the left. The dark man shook his head. 'I don't think so. I was in the drawing room. I came out here because I thought the sound came from this direction.' He nodded his head in front of him in the direction of the gong and the front door. 'East, west, and south, eh?' said the irrepressible Harry. 'Well, I'll make it complete, Keene. North for me. I thought it came from behind us. Any solutions offered?' 'Well, there's always murder,' said Geoffrey Keene, smiling. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Ashby.' 'Only a shiver,' said Joan. 'It's nothing. A what-do-you-call-it walking over my grave.' 'A good thought - murder,' said Harry. 'But, alas! No groans, no blood. I fear the solution is a poacher after a rabbit.' 'Seems tame, but I suppose that's it,' agreed the other. 'But it sounded so near. However, let's come into the drawing room.' 'Thank goodness, we're not late,' said Joan fervently. 'I was simply haring it down the stairs thinking that was the second gong.' All laughing, they went into the big drawing room. Lytcham Close was one of the most famous old houses in England. Its owner, Hubert Lytcham-Roche, was the last of a long line, and his more distant relatives were apt to remark that 'Old Hubert, you know, really ought to be certified. Mad as a hatter, poor old bird.' Allowing for the exaggeration natural to friends and relatives, some truth remained. Hubert Lytcham-Roche was certainly eccentric. Though a very fine musician, he was a man of ungovernable temper and had an almost abnormal sense of his own importance. People staying in the house had to respect his prejudices or else they were never asked again. One such prejudice was his music. If he played to his guests, as he often did in the evening, absolute silence must obtain. A whispered comment, a rustle of a dress, a movement even - and he would turn round scowling fiercely, and goodbye to the unlucky guest's chances of being asked again. Another point was absolute punctuality for the crowning meal of the day. Breakfast was immaterial - you might come down at noon if you wished. Lunch also - a simple meal of cold meats and stewed fruit. But dinner was a rite, a festival, prepared by a cordon bleu whom he had tempted from a big hotel by the payment of a fabulous salary. A first gong was sounded at five minutes past eight. At a quarter past eight a second gong was heard, and immediately after the door was flung open, dinner announced to the assembled guests, and a solemn procession wended its way to the dining room. Anyone who had the temerity to be late for the second gong was henceforth excommunicated - and Lytcham Close shut to the unlucky diner forever. Hence the anxiety of Joan Ashby, and also the astonishment of Harry Dalehouse, at hearing that the sacred function was to be delayed ten minutes on this particular evening. Though not very intimate with his uncle, he had been to Lytcham Close often enough to know what a very unusual occurrence that was. Geoffrey Keene, who was Lytcham-Roche's secretary, was also very much surprised. 'Extraordinary,' he commented. 'I've never known such a thing to happen. Are you sure?' 'Digby said so.' 'He said something about a train,' said Joan Ashby. 'At least I think so.' 'Queer,' said Keene thoughtfully. 'We shall hear all about it in due course, I suppose. But it's very odd.' Both men were silent for a moment or two, watching the girl. Joan Ashby was a charming creature, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with an impish glance. This was her first visit to Lytcham Close and her invitation was at Harry's prompting. The door opened and Diana Cleves, the Lytcham-Roches' adopted daughter, came into the room. There was a daredevil grace about Diana, a witchery in her dark eyes and her mocking tongue. Nearly all men fell for Diana and she enjoyed her conquests. A strange creature, with her alluring suggestion of warmth and her complete coldness. 'Beaten the Old Man for once,' she remarked. 'First time for weeks he hasn't been here first, looking at his watch and tramping up and down like a tiger at feeding time.' The young men had sprung forward. She smiled entrancingly at them both - they turned to Harry. Geoffrey Keene's dark cheek flushed as he dropped back. He recovered himself, however, a moment as Mrs Lytcham-Roche came in. She was a tall, dark woman, naturally vague in manner, wearing floating draperies of an indeterminate shade of green. With her was a middle-aged man with a beaklike nose and a determined chin - Gregory Barling. He was a somewhat prominent figure in the financial world, well-bred on his mother's side, he had for some years been an intimate friend of Hubert Lytcham-Roche. Boom! The gong resounded imposingly. As it died away, the door was flung open and Digby announced: 'Dinner is served.' Then, well-trained servant that he was, a look of complete astonishment flashed over his impassive face. For the first time in his memory, his master was not in the room! That his astonishment was shared by everybody was evident. Mrs Lytcham-Roche gave a little nervous laugh. 'Most amazing. Really - I don't know what to do.' Everybody was taken aback. The whole tradition of Lytcham Close was undermined. What could have happened? Conversation ceased. There was a strained sense of waiting. At last the door opened once more; a sigh of relief went round only tempered by a slight anxiety as to how to treat the situation. Nothing must be said to emphasize the fact that the host himself transgressed the stringent rule of the house. But the newcomer was not Lytcham-Roche. Instead of the big, bearded, viking-like figure, there advanced into the long drawing room a very small man, palpably a foreigner, with an egg-shaped head, a flamboyant moustache, and most irreproachable evening clothes. His eyes twinkling, the newcomer advanced toward Mrs Lytcham-Roche. 'My apologies, madame,' he said. 'I am, I fear, a few minutes late.' 'Oh, not at all!' murmured Mrs Lytcham-Roche vaguely. 'Not at all, Mr -' She paused. 'Poirot, madame. Hercule Poirot.' He heard behind him a very soft 'Oh' - a gasp rather than an articulate word - a woman's ejaculation. Perhaps he was flattered. 'You knew I was coming?' he murmured gently. 'N'est ce pas, madame? Your husband told you.' 'Oh - oh, yes,' said Mrs Lytcham-Roche, her manner unconvincing in the extreme. 'I mean, I suppose so. I am so terribly unpractical, M. Poirot. I never remember anything. But fortunately Digby sees to everything.' 'My train, I fear, was late,' said M. Poirot. 'An accident on the line in front of us.' 'Oh,' cried Joan, 'so that's why dinner was put off.' His eye came quickly round to her - a most uncannily discerning eye. 'That is something out of the usual - eh?' 'I really can't think -' began Mrs Lytcham-Roche, and then stopped. 'I mean,' she went on confusedly, 'it's so odd. Hubert never -' Poirot's eyes swept rapidly round the group. 'M. Lytcham-Roche is not down yet?' 'No, and it's so extraordinary -' She looked appealingly at Geoffrey Keene. 'Mr Lytcham-Roche is the soul of punctuality,' explained Keene. 'He has not been late for dinner for - well, I don't know that he was ever late before.' To a stranger the situation must have been ludicrous - the perturbed faces and the general consternation. 'I know,' said Mrs Lytcham-Roche with the air of one solving a problem. 'I shall ring for Digby.' She suited the action to the word. The butler came promptly. 'Digby,' said Mrs Lytcham-Roche, 'Your master. Is he -' As was customary with her, she did not finish her sentence. It was clear that the butler did not expect her to do so. He replied promptly and with understanding. 'Mr Lytcham-Roche came down at five minutes to eight and went into the study, madam.' 'Oh!' she paused. 'You don't think - I mean - he heard the gong?' 'I think he must have - the gong is immediately outside the study door.' 'Yes, of course, of course,' aid Mrs Lytcham-Roche more vaguely than ever. 'Shall I inform him, madam, that dinner is ready?' 'Oh, thank you, Digby. Yes, I think - yes, yes, I should.' 'I don't know,' said Mrs Lytcham-Roche to her guests as the butler withdrew, 'what I would do without Digby!' A pause followed. Then Digby re-entered the room. His breath was coming a little faster than is considered good form in a butler. 'Excuse me, madam - the study door is locked.' It was then that M. Hercule Poirot took command of the situation. 'I think,' he said, 'that we had better go to the study.' He led the way and everyone followed. His assumption of authority seemed perfectly natural. He was no longer a rather comic-looking guest. He was a personality and master of the situation. He led the way out into the hall, past the staircase, past the great clock, past the recess in which stood the gong. Exactly opposite that recess was a closed door. He tapped on it, first gently, then with increasing violence. But there was no reply. Very nimbly he dropped to his knees and applied his eye to the keyhole. He rose and looked round. 'Messieurs,' he said, 'we must break open this door. Immediately!' As before no one questioned his authority. Geoffrey Keene and Gregory Barling were the two biggest men. They attacked the door under Poirot's directions. It was no easy matter. The doors of Lytcham Close were solid affairs - no modern jerry-building here. It resisted the attack valiantly, but at last it gave before the united attack of the men and crashed inward. The house party hesitated in the doorway. They saw what they had subconsciously feared to see. Facing them was the window. On the left, between the door and the window, was a big writing table. Sitting, not at the table, but sideways to it, was a man - a big man - slouched forward in his chair. His back was to them and his face to the window, but h