It was a balmy English morning, and Detective Poirot breathed in the cold, fresh air as he waited to cross the street. As he did so, passers-by paused and looked at him curiously, before continuing along their daily business. Perhaps it was his slightly comical moustache, perhaps his balding head or short, round figure. But this did not disturb Poirot, he was too busy enjoying the wonders of English life. He crossed the street and reached his destination, the post office, still drawing stares. He entered and approached the counter, withdrawing his key from his pocket with a flourish. “Bonjour mademoiselle. Are you holding any mail for me?” The lady behind the counter jumped slightly in surprise. Quickly recomposing herself, she took Poirot’s key and left to find his box. She returned short