Agatha Christie - The Dead Man’s Mirror - A Hercule Poirot Short Story

‘What’s that?’ asked Hugo without much interest.

‘Nothing very much. A tiny sliver of looking-glass.’

Hugo said:

‘Funny the way that mirror was smashed by the shot. A broken mirror means bad luck. Poor old Gervase … I suppose his luck had held a bit too long.’

‘Your uncle was a lucky man?’

Hugo gave a short laugh.

‘Why, his luck was proverbial! Everything he touched turned to gold! If he backed an outsider, it romped home! If he invested in a doubtful mine, they struck a vein of ore at once! He’s had the most amazing escapes from the tightest of tight places. His life’s been saved by a kind of miracle more than once. He was rather a fine old boy, in his way, you know. He’d certainly “been places and seen things” – more than most of his generation.’

Poirot murmured in a conversational tone:

‘You were attached to your uncle, Mr Trent?’

Hugo Trent seemed a little startled by the question.

‘Oh – er – yes, of course,’ he said rather vaguely. ‘You know, he was a bit difficult at times. Frightful strain to live with, and all that. Fortunately I didn’t have to see much of him.’

‘ He was fond of you ?’

‘Not so that you’d notice it! As a matter of fact, he rather resented my existence, so to speak.’

‘How was that, Mr Trent?’

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