The Second Gong: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

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 – then turned to Harry. Geoffrey Keene’s dark cheek flushed as he dropped back.

      He recovered himself, however, a moment later 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 and, 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 though 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 uncertain 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 had 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.’