Ten

Poirot left his third call until after luncheon. Luncheon was under-stewed oxtail, watery potatoes,and what Maureen hoped optimistically might turn out to be pancakes. They were very peculiar.

Poirot walked slowly up the hill. Presently, on his right, he would come to Laburnums, twocottages knocked into one and remodelled to modern taste. Here lived Mrs. Upward and thatpromising young playwright, Robin Upward.

Poirot paused a moment at the gate to pass a hand over his moustaches. As he did so a carcame twisting slowly down the hill and an apple core directed with force struck him on the cheek.

Startled, Poirot let out a yelp of protest. The car halted and a head came through the window.

“I’m so sorry. Did I hit you?”

Poirot paused in the act of replying. He looked at the rather noble face, the massive brow, theuntidy billows of grey hair and a chord of memory stirred. The apple core, too, assisted hismemory.

“But surely,” he exclaimed, “it is Mrs. Oliver.”

It was indeed that celebrated detective story writer.

Exclaiming, “Why, it’s M. Poirot,” the authoress attempted to extract herself from the car. Itwas a small car and Mrs. Oliver was a large woman. Poirot hastened to assist.

Murmuring in an explanatory voice, “Stiff after the long drive,” Mrs. Oliver suddenly arrivedout on the road, rather in the manner of a volcanic eruption.

Large quantities of apples came, too, and rolled merrily down the hill.

“Bag’s burst,” explained Mrs. Oliver.

She brushed a few stray pieces of half-consumed apple from the jutting shelf of her bust andthen shook herself rather like a large Newfoundland dog. The last apple, concealed in the recessesof her person, joined its brothers and sisters.

“Pity the bag burst,” said Mrs. Oliver. “They were Cox’s. Still I suppose there will be lots ofapples down here in the country. Or aren’t there? Perhaps they all get sent away. Things are soodd nowadays, I find. Well, how are you, M. Poirot? You don’t live here, do you? No, I’m sureyou don’t. Then I suppose it’s murder? Not my hostess, I hope?”

“Who is your hostess?”

“In there,” said Mrs. Oliver, nodding her head. “That’s to say if that’s a house calledLaburnums, halfway down the hill on the left side after you pass the church. Yes, that must be it.

What’s she like?”

“You do not know her?”

“No, I’ve come down professionally, so to speak. A book of mine is being dramatized—byRobin Upward. We’re supposed to sort of get together over it.”

“My felicitations, madame.”

“It’s not like that at all,” said Mrs. Oliver. “So far it’s pure agony. Why I ever let myself infor it I don’t know. My books bring me in quite enough money—that is to say the bloodsuckerstake most of it, and if I made more, they’d take more, so I don’t overstrain myself. But you’ve noidea of the agony of having your characters taken and made to say things that they never wouldhave said, and do things that they never would have done. And if you protest, all they say is thatit’s ‘good theatre.’ That’s all Robin Upward thinks of. Everyone says he’s very clever. If he’s soclever I don’t see why he doesn’t write a play of his own and leave my poor unfortunate Finnalone. He’s not even a Finn any longer. He’s become a member of the Norwegian ResistanceMovement.” She ran her hands through her hair. “What have I done with my hat?”

Poirot looked into the car.

“I think, madame, that you must have been sitting on it.”

“It does look like it,” agreed Mrs. Oliver, surveying the wreckage. “Oh well,” she continuedcheerfully, “I never liked it much. But I thought I might have to go to church on Sunday, andalthough the Archbishop has said one needn’t, I still think that the more old-fashioned clergyexpect one to wear a hat. But tell me about your murder or whatever it is. Do you remember ourmurder?”

“Very well indeed.”

“Rather fun, wasn’t it? Not the actual murder—I didn’t like that at all. But afterwards. Who isit this time?”

“Not so picturesque a person as Mr. Shaitana. An elderly charwoman who was robbed andmurdered five months ago. You may have read about it. Mrs. McGinty. A young man wasconvicted and sentenced to death—”

“And he didn’t do it, but you know who did, and you’re going to prove it,” said Mrs. Oliverrapidly. “Splendid.”

“You go too fast,” said Poirot with a sigh. “I do not yet know who did it—and from there itwill be a long way to prove it.”

“Men are so slow,” said Mrs. Oliver disparagingly. “I’ll soon tell you who did it. Someonedown here, I suppose? Give me a day or two to look round, and I’ll spot the murderer. A woman’sintuition—that’s what you need. I was quite right over the Shaitana case, wasn’t I?”

Poirot gallantly forbode to remind Mrs. Oliver of her rapid changes of suspicion on thatoccasion.

“You men,” said Mrs. Oliver indulgently. “Now if a woman were the head of Scotland Yard—”

She left this well-worn theme hanging in the air as a voice hailed them from the door of thecottage.

“Hallo,” said the voice, an agreeable light tenor. “Is that Mrs. Oliver?”

“Here I am,” called Mrs. Oliver. To Poirot she murmured: “Don’t worry. I’ll be verydiscreet.”

“No, no, madame. I do not want you to be discreet. On the contrary.”

Robin Upward came down the path and through the gate. He was bareheaded and wore veryold grey flannel trousers and a disreputable sports coat. But for a tendency to embonpoint, hewould have been good looking.

“Ariadne, my precious!” he exclaimed and embraced her warmly.

He stood away, his hands on her shoulders.

“My dear, I’ve had the most marvellous idea for the second act.”

“Have you?” said Mrs. Oliver without enthusiasm. “This is M. Hercule Poirot.”

“Splendid,” said Robin. “Have you got any luggage?”

“Yes, it’s in the back.”

Robin hauled out a couple of suitcases.

“Such a bore,” he said. “We’ve no proper servants. Only old Janet. And we have to spare herall the time. That’s such a nuisance don’t you think? How heavy your cases are. Have you gotbombs in them?”

He staggered up the path, calling out over his shoulder:

“Come in and have a drink.”

“He means you,” said Mrs. Oliver, removing her handbag, a book, and a pair of old shoesfrom the front seat. “Did you actually say just now that you wanted me to be indiscreet?”

“The more indiscreet the better.”

“I shouldn’t tackle it that way myself,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but it’s your murder. I’ll help all Ican.”

Robin reappeared at the front door.

“Come in, come in,” he called. “We’ll see about the car later. Madre is dying to meet you.”

Mrs. Oliver swept up the path and Hercule Poirot followed her.

The interior of Laburnums was charming. Poirot guessed that a very large sum of money hadbeen spent on it, but the result was an expensive and charming simplicity. Each small piece ofcottage oak was a genuine piece.

In a wheeled chair by the fireplace of the living room Laura Upward smiled a welcome. Shewas a vigorous looking woman of sixty-odd, with iron-grey hair and a determined chin.

“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Oliver,” she said. “I expect you hate people talking to youabout your books, but they’ve been an enormous solace to me for years—and especially since I’vebeen such a cripple.”

“That’s very nice of you,” said Mrs. Oliver, looking uncomfortable and twisting her hands ina schoolgirlish way. “Oh, this is M. Poirot, an old friend of mine. We met by chance just outsidehere. Actually I hit him with an apple core. Like William Tell—only the other way about.”

“How d’you do, M. Poirot. Robin.”

“Yes, Madre?”

“Get some drinks. Where are the cigarettes?”

“On that table.”

Mrs. Upward asked: “Are you a writer, too, M. Poirot?”

“Oh, no,” said Mrs. Oliver. “He’s a detective. You know. The Sherlock Holmes kind—deerstalkers and violins and all that. And he’s come here to solve a murder.”

There was a faint tinkle of broken glass. Mrs. Upward said sharply: “Robin, do be careful.”

To Poirot she said: “That’s very interesting, M. Poirot.”

“So Maureen Summerhayes was right,” exclaimed Robin. “She told me some long rigmaroleabout having a detective on the premises. She seemed to think it was frightfully funny. But it’sreally quite serious, isn’t it?”

“Of course it’s serious,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve got a criminal in your midst.”

“Yes, but look here, who’s been murdered? Or is it someone that’s been dug up and it’s allfrightfully hush hush?”

“It is not hush hush,” said Poirot. “The murder, you know about it already.”

“Mrs. Mc—something—a charwoman—last autumn,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Oh!” Robin Upward sounded disappointed. “But that’s all over.”

“It’s not over at all,” said Mrs. Oliver. “They arrested the wrong man, and he’ll be hanged ifM. Poirot doesn’t find the real murderer in time. It’s all frightfully exciting.”

Robin apportioned the drinks.

“White Lady for you, Madre.”

“Thank you, my dear boy.”

Poirot frowned slightly. Robin handed drinks to Mrs. Oliver and to him.

“Well,” said Robin, “here’s to crime.”

He drank.

“She used to work here,” he said.

“Mrs. McGinty?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Yes. Didn’t she, Madre?”

“When you say work here, she came one day a week.”

“And odd afternoons sometimes.”

“What was she like?” asked Mrs. Oliver.

“Terribly respectable,” said Robin. “And maddeningly tidy. She had a ghastly way of tidyingup everything and putting things into drawers so that you simply couldn’t guess where they were.”

Mrs. Upward said with a certain grim humour:

“If somebody didn’t tidy things away at least one day a week, you soon wouldn’t be able tomove in this small house.”

“I know, Madre, I know. But unless things are left where I put them, I simply can’t work atall. My notes get all disarranged.”

“It’s annoying to be as helpless as I am,” said Mrs. Upward. “We have a faithful old maid,but it’s all she can manage just to do a little simple cooking.”

“What is it?” asked Mrs. Oliver. “Arthritis?”

“Some form of it. I shall have to have a permanent nurse-companion soon, I’m afraid. Such abore. I like being independent.”

“Now, darling,” said Robin. “Don’t work yourself up.”

He patted her arm.

She smiled at him with sudden tenderness.

“Robin’s as good as a daughter to me,” she said. “He does everything — and thinks ofeverything. No one could be more considerate.”

They smiled at each other.

Hercule Poirot rose.

“Alas,” he said. “I must go. I have another call to make and then a train to catch. Madame, Ithank you for your hospitality. Mr. Upward, I wish all success to the play.”

“And all success to you with your murder,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Is this really serious, M. Poirot?” asked Robin Upward. “Or is it a terrific hoax?”

“Of course it isn’t a hoax,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s deadly serious. He won’t tell me who themurderer is, but he knows, don’t you?”

“No, no, madame,” Poirot’s protest was just sufficiently unconvincing. “I told you that as yet,no, I do not know.”

“That’s what you said, but I think you do know really .?.?. But you’re so frightly secretive,aren’t you?”

Mrs. Upward said sharply:

“Is this really true? It’s not a joke?”

“It is not a joke, madame,” said Poirot.

He bowed and departed.

As he went down the path he heard Robin Upward’s clear tenor voice:

“But Ariadne, darling,” he said, “it’s all very well, but with that moustache and everything,how can one take him seriously? Do you really mean he’s good?”

Poirot smiled to himself. Good indeed!

About to cross the narrow lane, he jumped back just in time.

The Summerhayes’ station wagon, lurching and bumping, came racing past him.

Summerhayes was driving.

“Sorry,” he called. “Got to catch train.” And faintly from the distance: “Covent Garden .?.?.”

Poirot also intended to take a train—the local train to Kilchester, where he had arranged aconference with Superintendent Spence.

He had time, before catching it, for just one last call.

He went to the top of the hill and through gates and up a well-kept drive to a modern house offrosted concrete with a square roof and a good deal of window. This was the home of Mr. andMrs. Carpenter. Guy Carpenter was a partner in the big Carpenter Engineering Works—a veryrich man who had recently taken to politics. He and his wife had only been married a short time.

The Carpenters’ front door was not opened by foreign help, or an aged faithful. Animperturbable manservant opened the door and was loath to admit Hercule Poirot. In his viewHercule Poirot was the kind of caller who is left outside. He clearly suspected that Hercule Poirothad come to sell something.

“Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter are not at home.”

“Perhaps, then, I might wait?”

“I couldn’t say when they will be in.”

He closed the door.

Poirot did not go down the drive. Instead he walked round the corner of the house and almostcollided with a tall young woman in a mink coat.

“Hallo,” she said. “What the hell do you want?”

Poirot raised his hat with gallantry.

“I was hoping,” he said, “that I could see Mr. or Mrs. Carpenter. Have I the pleasure ofseeing Mrs. Carpenter?”

“I’m Mrs. Carpenter.”

She spoke ungraciously, but there was a faint suggestion of appeasement behind her manner.

“My name is Hercule Poirot.”

Nothing registered. Not only was the great, the unique name unknown to her, but he thoughtthat she did not even identify him as Maureen Summerhayes’ latest guest. Here, then, the localgrape vine did not operate. A small but significant fact, perhaps.

“Yes?”

“I demand to see either Mr. or Mrs. Carpenter, but you, madame, will be the best for mypurpose. For what I have to ask is of domestic matters.”

“We’ve got a Hoover,” said Mrs. Carpenter suspiciously.

Poirot laughed.

“No, no, you misunderstand. It is only a few questions that I ask about a domestic matter.”

“Oh, you mean one of these domestic questionnaires. I do think it’s absolutely idiotic—” Shebroke off. “Perhaps you’d better come inside.”

Poirot smiled faintly. She had just stopped herself from uttering a derogatory comment. Withher husband’s political activities, caution in criticizing Government activities was indicated.

She led the way through the hall and into a good-sized room giving on to a carefully tendedgarden. It was a very new-looking room, a large brocaded suite of sofa and two wing chairs, threeor four reproductions of Chippendale chairs, a bureau, a writing desk. No expense had beenspared, the best firms had been employed, and there was absolutely no sign of individual taste. Thebride, Poirot thought, had been what? Indifferent? Careful?

He looked at her appraisingly as she turned. An expensive and good-looking young woman.

Platinum blonde hair, carefully applied makeup, but something more—wide cornflower blue eyes—eyes with a wide frozen stare in them—beautiful drowned eyes.

She said—graciously now, but concealing boredom:

“Do sit down.”

He sat. He said:

“You are most amiable, madame. These questions now that I wish to ask you. They relate to aMrs. McGinty who died—was killed that is to say—last November.”

“Mrs. McGinty? I don’t know what you mean?”

She was glaring at him. Her eyes hard and suspicious.

“You remember Mrs. McGinty?”

“No, I don’t. I don’t know anything about her.”

“You remember her murder? Or is murder so common here that you do not even notice it?”

“Oh, the murder? Yes, of course. I’d forgotten what the old woman’s name was.”

“Although she worked for you in this house?”

“She didn’t. I wasn’t living here then. Mr. Carpenter and I were only married three monthsago.”

“But she did work for you. On Friday mornings, I think it was. You were then Mrs. Selkirkand you lived in Rose Cottage.”

She said sulkily:

“If you know the answers to everything I don’t see why you need to ask questions. Anyway,what’s it all about?”

“I am making an investigation into the circumstances of the murder.”

“Why? What on earth for? Anyway, why come to me?”

“You might know something—that would help me.”

“I don’t know anything at all. Why should I? She was only a stupid old charwoman. She kepther money under the floor and somebody robbed and murdered her for it. It was quite disgusting—beastly, the whole thing. Like things you read in the Sunday papers.”

Poirot took that up quickly.

“Like the Sunday papers, yes. Like the Sunday Comet. You read, perhaps, the SundayComet?”

She jumped up, and made her way, blunderingly, towards the opened French windows. Souncertainly did she go that she actually collided with the window frame. Poirot was reminded of abeautiful big moth, fluttering blindly against a lamp shade.

She called: “Guy—Guy!”

A man’s voice a little way away answered:

“Eve?”

“Come here quickly.”

A tall man of about thirty-five came into sight. He quickened his pace and came across theterrace to the window. Eve Carpenter said vehemently:

“There’s a man here—a foreigner. He’s asking me all sorts of questions about that horridmurder last year. Some old charwoman—you remember? I hate things like that. You know I do.”

Guy Carpenter frowned and came into the drawing room through the window. He had a longface like a horse, he was pale and looked rather supercilious. His manner was pompous.

Hercule Poirot found him unattractive.

“May I ask what all this is about?” he asked. “Have you been annoying my wife?”

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands.

“The last thing I should wish is to annoy so charming a lady. I hoped only that, the deceasedwoman having worked for her, she might be able to aid me in the investigations I am making.”

“But—what are these investigations?”

“Yes, ask him that,” urged his wife.

“A fresh inquiry is being made into the circumstances of Mrs. McGinty’s death.”

“Nonsense—the case is over.”

“No, no, there you are in error. It is not over.”

“A fresh inquiry, you say?” Guy Carpenter frowned. He said suspiciously: “By the police?

Nonsense—you’re nothing to do with the police.”

“That is correct. I am working independently of the police.”

“It’s the Press,” Eve Carpenter broke in. “Some horrid Sunday newspaper. He said so.”

A gleam of caution came into Guy Carpenter’s eye. In his position he was not anxious toantagonize the Press. He said, more amicably:

“My wife is very sensitive. Murders and things like that upset her. I’m sure it can’t benecessary for you to bother her. She hardly knew this woman.”

Eve said vehemently:

“She was only a stupid old charwoman. I told him so.”

She added:

“And she was a frightful liar, too.”

“Ah, that is interesting.” Poirot turned a beaming face from one to the other of them. “So shetold lies. That may give us a very valuable lead.”

“I don’t see how,” said Eve sulkily.

“The establishment of motive,” said Poirot. “That is the line I am following up.”

“She was robbed of her savings,” said Carpenter sharply. “That was the motive of the crime.”

“Ah,” said Poirot softly. “But was it?”

He rose like an actor who had just spoken a telling line.

“I regret if I have caused madame any pain,” he said politely. “These affairs are always ratherunpleasant.”

“The whole business was distressing,” said Carpenter quickly. “Naturally my wife didn’t likebeing reminded of it. I’m sorry we can’t help you with any information.”

“Oh, but you have.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Poirot said softly:

“Mrs. McGinty told lies. A valuable fact. What lies, exactly, did she tell, madame?”

He waited politely for Eve Carpenter to speak. She said at last:

“Oh, nothing particular. I mean—I can’t remember.”

Conscious perhaps, that both men were looking at her expectantly, she said:

“Stupid things—about people. Things that couldn’t be true.”

Still there was a silence, then Poirot said:

“I see—she had a dangerous tongue.”

Eve Carpenter made a quick movement.

“Oh no—I didn’t mean as much as that. She was just a gossip, that was all.”

“Just a gossip,” said Poirot softly.

He made a gesture of farewell.

Guy Carpenter accompanied him out into the hall.

“This paper of yours—this Sunday paper—which is it?”

“The paper I mentioned to madame,” replied Poirot carefully, “was the Sunday Comet.”

He paused. Guy Carpenter repeated thoughtfully:

“The Sunday Comet. I don’t very often see that, I’m afraid.”

“It has interesting articles sometimes. And interesting illustrations .?.?.”

Before the pause could be too long, he bowed, and said quickly:

“Au revoir, Mr. Carpenter. I am sorry if I have—disturbed you.”

Outside the gate, he looked back at the house.

“I wonder,” he said. “Yes, I wonder. .?.?.”