The Third-Floor Flat: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

in the other flats think?’

      ‘Ghosts or burglars, I expect,’ said Donovan. ‘Hauling this rope is quite heavy work. The porter of Friars Mansions does more work than I ever suspected. I say, Jimmy, old son, are you counting the floors?’

      ‘Oh, Lord! No. I forgot about it.’

      ‘Well, I have, which is just as well. That’s the third we’re passing now. The next is ours.’

      ‘And now, I suppose,’ grumbled Jimmy, ‘we shall find that Pat did bolt the door after all.’

      But these fears were unfounded. The wooden door swung back at a touch, and Donovan and Jimmy stepped out into the inky blackness of Pat’s kitchen.

      ‘We ought to have a torch for this wild night work,’ exclaimed Donovan. ‘If I know Pat, everything’s on the floor, and we shall smash endless crockery before I can get to the light switch. Don’t move about, Jimmy, till I get the light on.’

      He felt his way cautiously over the floor, uttering one fervent ‘Damn!’ as a corner of the kitchen table took him unawares in the ribs. He reached the switch, and in another moment another ‘Damn!’ floated out of the darkness.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Jimmy.

      ‘Light won’t come on. Dud bulb, I suppose. Wait a minute. I’ll turn the sitting-room light on.’

      The sitting-room was the door immediately across the passage. Jimmy heard Donovan go out of the door, and presently fresh muffled curses reached him. He himself edged his way cautiously across the kitchen.

      ‘What’s the matter?’

      ‘I don’t know. Rooms get bewitched at night, I believe. Everything seems to be in a different place. Chairs and tables where you least expected them. Oh, hell! Here’s another!’

      But at this moment Jimmy fortunately connected with the electric-light switch and pressed it down. In another minute two young men were looking at each other in silent horror.

      This room was not Pat’s sitting-room. They were in the wrong flat.

      To begin with, the room was about ten times more crowded than Pat’s, which explained Donovan’s pathetic bewilderment at repeatedly cannoning into chairs and tables. There was a large round table in the centre of the room covered with a baize cloth, and there was an aspidistra in the window. It was, in fact, the kind of room whose owner, the young men felt sure, would be difficult to explain to. With silent horror they gazed down at the table, on which lay a little pile of letters.