Three

In a flat in London the telephone bell rang. The owner of the flat, HerculePoirot, stirred in his chair. Disappointment attacked him. He knew beforehe answered it what it meant. His friend Solly, with whom he had been go-ing to spend the evening, reviving their never-ending controversy aboutthe real culprit in the Canning Road Municipal Baths murder, was about tosay that he could not come. Poirot, who had collected certain bits of evid-ence in favour of his own somewhat far-fetched theory, was deeply disap-pointed. He did not think his friend Solly would accept his suggestions, buthe had no doubt that when Solly in his turn produced his own fantasticbeliefs, he himself, Hercule Poirot, would just as easily be able to demolishthem in the name of sanity, logic, order and method. It was annoying, tosay the least of it, if Solly did not come this evening. But it is true thatwhen they had met earlier in the day, Solly had been racked with a chestycough and was in a state of highly infectious catarrh.

“He had a nasty cold,” said Hercule Poirot, “and no doubt, in spite of theremedies that I have handy here, he would probably have given it to me. Itis better that he should not come. Tout de même,” he added, with a sigh, “itwill mean that now I shall pass a dull evening.”

Many of the evenings were dull now, Hercule Poirot thought. His mind,magnificent as it was (for he had never doubted that fact) required stimu-lation from outside sources. He had never been of a philosophic cast ofmind. There were times when he almost regretted that he had not taken tothe study of theology instead of going into the police force in his earlydays. The number of angels who could dance on the point of a needle; itwould be interesting to feel that that mattered and to argue passionatelyon the point with one’s colleagues.

His manservant, George, entered the room.

“It was Mr. Solomon Levy, sir.”

“Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot.

“He very much regrets that he will not be able to join you this evening.

He is in bed with a serious bout of ’flu.”

“He has not got ’flu,” said Hercule Poirot. “He has only a nasty cold.

Everyone always thinks they have ’flu. It sounds more important. One getsmore sympathy. The trouble with a catarrhal cold is that it is hard to gleanthe proper amount of sympathetic consideration from one’s friends.”

“Just as well he isn’t coming here, sir, really,” said George. “Those coldsin the head are very infectious. Wouldn’t be good for you to go down withone of those.”

“It would be extremely tedious,” Poirot agreed.

The telephone bell rang again.

“And now who has a cold?” he demanded. “I have not asked anyoneelse.”

George crossed towards the telephone.

“I will take the call here,” said Poirot. “I have no doubt that it is nothingof interest. But at any rate—” he shrugged his shoulders “—it will perhapspass the time. Who knows?”

George said, “Very good, sir,” and left the room.

Poirot stretched out a hand, raised the receiver, thus stilling the clamourof the bell.

“Hercule Poirot speaks,” he said, with a certain grandeur of manner de-signed to impress whoever was at the other end of the line.

“That’s wonderful,” said an eager voice. A female voice, slightly im-paired with breathlessness. “I thought you’d be sure to be out, that youwouldn’t be there.”

“Why should you think that?” inquired Poirot.

“Because I can’t help feeling that nowadays things always happen tofrustrate one. You want someone in a terrible hurry, you feel you can’twait, and you have to wait. I wanted to get hold of you urgently—abso-lutely urgently.”

“And who are you?” asked Hercule Poirot.

The voice, a female one, seemed surprised.

“Don’t you know?” it said incredulously.

“Yes, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “You are my friend, Ariadne.”

“And I’m in a terrible state,” said Ariadne.

“Yes, yes, I can hear that. Have you also been running? You are verybreathless, are you not?”

“I haven’t exactly been running. It’s emotion. Can I come and see you atonce?”

Poirot let a few moments elapse before he answered. His friend, Mrs.

Oliver, sounded in a highly excitable condition. Whatever was the matterwith her, she would no doubt spend a very long time pouring out hergrievances, her woes, her frustrations or whatever was ailing her. Oncehaving established herself within Poirot’s sanctum, it might be hard to in-duce her to go home without a certain amount of impoliteness. The thingsthat excited Mrs. Oliver were so numerous and frequently so unexpectedthat one had to be careful how one embarked upon a discussion of them.

“Something has upset you?”

“Yes. Of course I’m upset. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—oh, Idon’t know anything. What I feel is that I’ve got to come and tell you—tellyou just what’s happened, for you’re the only person who might knowwhat to do. Who might tell me what I ought to do. So can I come?”

“But certainly, but certainly. I shall be delighted to receive you.”

The receiver was thrown down heavily at the other end and Poirotsummoned George, reflected a few minutes, then ordered lemon barleywater, bitter lemon and a glass of brandy for himself.

“Mrs. Oliver will be here in about ten minutes,” he said.

George withdrew. He returned with the brandy for Poirot, who acceptedit with a nod of satisfaction, and George then proceeded to provide the tee-total refreshment that was the only thing likely to appeal to Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot took a sip of brandy delicately, fortifying himself for the ordealwhich was about to descend upon him.

“It’s a pity,” he murmured to himself, “that she is so scatty. And yet, shehas originality of mind. It could be that I am going to enjoy what she iscoming to tell me. It could be—” he reflected a minute “—that it may takea great deal of the evening and that it will all be excessively foolish. Ehbien, one must take one’s risks in life.”

A bell sounded. A bell on the outside door of the flat this time. It was nota single pressure of the button. It lasted for a long time with a kind ofsteady action that was very effective, the sheer making of noise.

“Assuredly, she has excited herself,” said Poirot.

He heard George go to the door, open it, and before any decorous an-nouncement could be made the door of his sitting room opened andAriadne Oliver charged through it, with George in tow behind her,hanging on to something that looked like a fisherman’s sou’wester and oil-skins.

“What on earth are you wearing?” said Hercule Poirot. “Let George takeit from you. It’s very wet.”

“Of course it’s wet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s very wet out. I never thoughtabout water before. It’s a terrible thing to think of.”

Poirot looked at her with interest.

“Will you have some lemon barley water,” he said, “or could I persuadeyou to a small glass of eau de vie?”

“I hate water,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Poirot looked surprised.

“I hate it. I’ve never thought about it before. What it can do, andeverything.”

“My dear friend,” said Hercule Poirot, as George extricated her from theflapping folds of watery oilskin. “Come and sit down here. Let George fi-nally relieve you of—what is it you are wearing?”

“I got it in Cornwall,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Oilskins. A real, proper fisher-man’s oilskin.”

“Very useful to him, no doubt,” said Poirot, “but not, I think, so suitablefor you. Heavy to wear. But come—sit down and tell me.”

“I don’t know how,” said Mrs. Oliver, sinking into a chair. “Sometimes,you know, I can’t feel it’s really true. But it happened. It really happened.”

“Tell me,” said Poirot.

“That’s what I’ve come for. But now I’ve got here, it’s so difficult becauseI don’t know where to begin.”

“At the beginning?” suggested Poirot, “or is that too conventional a wayof acting?”

“I don’t know when the beginning was. Not really. It could have been along time ago, you know.”

“Calm yourself,” said Poirot. “Gather together the various threads of thismatter in your mind and tell me. What is it that has so upset you?”

“It would have upset you, too,” said Mrs. Oliver. “At least, I suppose itwould.” She looked rather doubtful. “One doesn’t know, really, what doesupset you. You take so many things with a lot of calm.”

“It is often the best way,” said Poirot.

“All right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It began with a party.”

“Ah yes,” said Poirot, relieved to have something as ordinary and saneas a party presented to him. “A party. You went to a party and somethinghappened.”

“Do you know what a Hallowe’en party is?” said Mrs. Oliver.

“I know what Hallowe’en is,” said Poirot. “The 31st of October.” Hetwinkled slightly as he said, “When witches ride on broomsticks.”

“There were broomsticks,” said Mrs. Oliver. “They gave prizes for them.”

“Prizes?”

“Yes, for who brought the best decorated ones.”

Poirot looked at her rather doubtfully. Originally relieved at the men-tion of a party, he now again felt slightly doubtful. Since he knew that Mrs.

Oliver did not partake of spirituous liquor, he could not make one of theassumptions that he might have made in any other case.

“A children’s party,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Or rather, an eleven-plus party.”

“Eleven-plus?”

“Well, that’s what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean theysee how bright you are, and if you’re bright enough to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a grammar school or something. But if you’re not brightenough, you go to something called a Secondary Modern. A silly name. Itdoesn’t seem to mean anything.”

“I do not, I confess, really understand what you are talking about,” saidPoirot. They seemed to have got away from parties and entered into therealms of education.

Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and began again.

“It started really,” she said, “with the apples.”

“Ah yes,” said Poirot, “it would. It always might with you, mightn’t it?”

He was thinking to himself of a small car on a hill and a large womangetting out of it, and a bag of apples breaking, and the apples running andcascading down the hill.

“Yes,” he said encouragingly, “apples.”

“Bobbing for apples,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s one of the things you doat a Hallowe’en party.”

“Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes.”

“You see, all sorts of things were being done. There was bobbing forapples, and cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in alooking glass—”

“To see your true love’s face?” suggested Poirot knowledgeably.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver, “you’re beginning to understand at last.”

“A lot of old folklore, in fact,” said Poirot, “and this all took place at yourparty.”

“Yes, it was all a great success. It finished up with Snapdragon. Youknow, burning raisins in a great dish. I suppose—” her voice faltered, “—Isuppose that must be the actual time when it was done.”

“When what was done?”

“A murder. After the Snapdragon everyone went home,” said Mrs.

Oliver. “That, you see, was when they couldn’t find her.”

“Find whom?”

“A girl. A girl called Joyce. Everyone called her name and looked aroundand asked if she’d gone home with anyone else, and her mother got ratherannoyed and said that Joyce must have felt tired or ill or something andgone off by herself, and that it was very thoughtless of her not to leaveword. All the sort of things that mothers say when things like that happen.

But anyway, we couldn’t find Joyce.”

“And had she gone home by herself?”

“No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “she hadn’t gone home…” Her voice faltered. “Wefound her in the end—in the library. That’s where—where someone did it,you know. Bobbing for apples. The bucket was there. A big, galvanizedbucket. They wouldn’t have the plastic one. Perhaps if they’d had theplastic one it wouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have been heavyenough. It might have tipped over—”

“What happened?” said Poirot. His voice was sharp.

“That’s where she was found,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Someone, you know,someone had shoved her head down into the water with the apples.

Shoved her down and held her there so that she was dead, of course.

Drowned. Drowned. Just in a galvanized iron bucket nearly full of water.

Kneeling there, sticking her head down to bob at an apple. I hate apples,”

said Mrs. Oliver. “I never want to see an apple again.”

Poirot looked at her. He stretched out a hand and filled a small glasswith cognac.

“Drink this,” he said. “It will do you good.”