万圣节前夜的谋杀23

Twenty-two

It was not very characteristic of Hercule Poirot to ask the opinions of oth-ers. He was usually quite satisfied with his own opinions. Nevertheless,there were times when he made exceptions. This was one of them. He andSpence had had a brief conversation together and then Poirot had got intouch with a car hire service and after another short conversation with hisfriend and with Inspector Raglan, he drove off. He had arranged with thecar to drive him back to London but he had made one halt on the waythere. He drove to The Elms. He told the driver of the car that he wouldnot be long—a quarter of an hour at most—and then he sought audiencewith Miss Emlyn.

“I am sorry to disturb you at this hour. It is no doubt the hour of yoursupper or dinner.”

“Well, I do you at least the compliment, Monsieur Poirot, to think youwould not disturb me at either supper or dinner unless you have a validreason for so doing.”

“You are very kind. To be frank, I want your advice.”

“Indeed?”

Miss Emlyn looked slightly surprised. She looked more than surprised,she looked sceptical.

“That does not seem very characteristic of you, Monsieur Poirot. Are younot usually satisfied with your own opinions?”

“Yes, I am satisfied with my own opinions, but it would give me solaceand support if someone whose opinion I respected agreed with them.”

She did not speak, merely looked at him inquiringly.

“I know the killer of Joyce Reynolds,” he said. “It is my belief that youknow it also.”

“I have not said so,” said Miss Emlyn.

“No. You have not said so. And that might lead me to believe that it is onyour part an opinion only.”

“A hunch?” inquired Miss Emlyn, and her tone was colder than ever.

“I would prefer not to use that word. I would prefer to say that you hada definite opinion.”

“Very well then. I will admit that I have a definite opinion. That does notmean that I shall repeat to you what my opinion is.”

“What I should like to do, Mademoiselle, is to write down four words ona piece of paper. I will ask you if you agree with the four words I havewritten.”

Miss Emlyn rose. She crossed the room to her desk, took a piece of writ-ing paper and came across to Poirot with it.

“You interest me,” she said. “Four words.”

Poirot had taken a pen from his pocket. He wrote on the paper, folded itand handed it to her. She took it, straightened out the paper and held it inher hand, looking at it.

“Well?” said Poirot.

“As to two of the words on that paper, I agree, yes. The other two, that ismore difficult. I have no evidence and, indeed, the ideas had not enteredmy head.”

“But in the case of the first two words, you have definite evidence?”

“I consider so, yes.”

“Water,” said Poirot, thoughtfully. “As soon as you heard that, you knew.

As soon as I heard that I knew. You are sure, and I am sure. And now,”

said Poirot, “a boy has been drowned in a brook. You have heard that?”

“Yes. Someone rang me up on the telephone and told me. Joyce’sbrother. How was he concerned?”

“He wanted money,” said Poirot. “He got it. And so, at a suitable oppor-tunity, he was drowned in a brook.”

His voice did not change. It had, if anything, not a softened, but aharsher note,

“The person who told me,” he said, “was riddled with compassion. Upsetemotionally. But I am not like that. He was young, this second child whodied, but his death was not an accident. It was, as so many things in life, aresult of his actions. He wanted money and he took a risk. He was cleverenough, astute enough to know he was taking a risk, but he wanted themoney. He was ten years old but cause and effect is much the same at thatage as it would be at thirty or fifty or ninety. Do you know what I think offirst in such a case?”

“I should say,” said Miss Emlyn, “that you are more concerned withjustice than with compassion.”

“Compassion,” said Poirot, “on my part would do nothing to help Leo-pold. He is beyond help. Justice, if we obtain justice, you and I, for I thinkyou are of my way of thinking over this—justice, one could say, will alsonot help Leopold. But it might help some other Leopold, it might help tokeep some other child alive, if we can reach justice soon enough. It is not asafe thing, a killer who has killed more than once, to whom killing has ap-pealed as a way of security. I am now on my way to London where I ammeeting with certain people to discuss a way of approach. To convertthem, perhaps, to my own certainty in this case.”

“You may find that difficult,” said Miss Emlyn.

“No, I do not think so. The ways and means to it may be difficult but Ithink I can convert them to my knowledge of what has happened. Becausethey have minds that understand the criminal mind. There is one thingmore I would ask you. I want your opinion. Your opinion only this time,not evidence. Your opinion of the character of Nicholas Ransom and Des-mond Holland. Would you advise me to trust them?”

“I should say that both of them were thoroughly trustworthy. That is myopinion. They are in many ways extremely foolish, but that is only in theephemeral things of life. Fundamentally, they are sound. Sound as anapple without maggots in it.”

“One always comes back to apples,” said Hercule Poirot sadly. “I must gonow. My car is waiting. I have one more call still to pay.”

 

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