Explore "The Big Four" by Agatha Christie on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Even now I can hardly bear to write of those days in March.
Poirot -- the unique, the inimitable Hercule Poirot -- dead! There was a particularly diabolical touch in the disarranged match-box, which was certain to catch his eye, and which he would hasten to rearrange -- and thereby touch off the explosion. That, as a matter of fact, it was I who actually precipitated the catastrophe never ceased to fill me with unavailing remorse. It was, as Doctor Ridgeway said, a perfect miracle that I had not been killed, but had escaped with a slight concussion.