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Chapter 1

The Majestic Hotel

No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St Loo It is well na Places and reminds one forcibly of the Riviera The Cornish coast is toas that of the south of France

I remarked as much to m

y friend, Hercule Poirot ‘So it said on our menu in the restaurant car yesterday, inal’

‘But don’t you agree?’

He was s to himself and did not at once answer my question I repeated it

‘A thousand pardons, Hastings My thoughts andering Wandering indeed to that part of the world you mentioned just now’

‘The south of France?’

‘Yes I was thinking of that last winter that I spent there and of the events which occurred’

I remembered A murder had been committed on the Blue Train, and theone—had been solved by Poirot with his usual unerring acumen

‘Hoish I had been with you,’ I said with deep regret

‘I too,’ said Poirot ‘Your experience would have been invaluable to me’

I looked at hi habit, I distrust his compliments, but he appeared perfectly serious And after all, why not? I have a very long experience of the methods he employs

‘What I particularly s,’ he went on dreaht relief My valet, Georges, an admirable man hoination whatever’ This remark seemed to me quite irrelevant

‘Tell me, Poirot,’ I said ‘Are you never tempted to renew your activities? This passive life—’