Poirot sits in his office in his Detective Agency, Mrs. Lemon his Secretary types something in an immense speed while his friend Hastings sits on the couch, talking about his new automobile. The Laundry Service was sloppy again. My collar feels strange. Poirot says and Miss Lemon surpresses an Eye Roll, when the door opens. Poirot looks up. A distraught woman sits down in front of him, crying What is going on, Mademoiselle? Poirot asks, his interest piqued. A new case, maybe?
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