Hallowe'en Party (20 page)

I
t was not very characteristic of Hercule Poirot to ask the opinions of others. He was usually quite satisfied with his own opinions. Nevertheless, there were times when he made exceptions. This was one of them. He and Spence had had a brief conversation together and then Poirot had got in touch with a car hire service and after another short conversation with his friend and with Inspector Raglan, he drove off. He had arranged with the car to drive him back to London but he had made one halt on the way there. He drove to The Elms. He told the driver of the car that he would not be long—a quarter of an hour at most—and then he sought audience with Miss Emlyn.

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

“Well, I do you at least the compliment, Monsieur Poirot, to think you would not disturb me at either supper or dinner unless you have a valid reason 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 you not usually satisfied with your own opinions?”

“Yes, I am satisfied with my own opinions, but it would give me solace and 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 you know 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 on your 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 had a definite opinion.”

“Very well then. I will admit that I have a definite opinion. That does not mean that I shall repeat to you what my opinion is.”

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

Miss Emlyn rose. She crossed the room to her desk, took a piece of writing 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 pa
per, folded it and handed it to her. She took it, straightened out the paper and held it in her hand, looking at it.

“Well?” said Poirot.

“As to two of the words on that paper, I agree, yes. The other two, that is more difficult. I have no evidence and, indeed, the ideas had not entered my 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's brother. How was he concerned?”

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

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

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

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

“Compassion,” said Poirot, “on my part would do nothing to help Leopold. He is beyond help. Justice, if we obtain justice, you and I, for I think you are of my way of thinking over this—justice, one could say, will also not help Leopold. But it might help some other Leopold, it might help to keep some other child alive, if we can reach justice soon enough. It is not a safe thing, a killer who has killed more than once, to whom killing has appealed as a way of security. I am now on my way to London where I am meeting with certain people to discuss a way of approach. To convert them, 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 I think I can convert them to my knowledge of what has happened. Because they have minds that understand the criminal mind. There is one thing more I would ask you. I want your opinion. Your opinion only this time, not evidence. Your opinion of the character of Nicholas Ransom and Desmond Holland. Would you advise me to trust them?”

“I should say that both of them were thoroughly trustworthy. That is my opinion. They are in many ways extremely foolish, but that is only in the ephemeral things of life. Fundamentally, they are sound. Sound as an apple without maggots in it.”

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

I

“H
ave you heard what's on at Quarry Wood?” said Mrs. Cartwright, putting a packet of Fluffy Flakelets and Wonder White into her shopping bag.

“Quarry Wood?” said Elspeth McKay, to whom she was talking. “No, I haven't heard anything particular.” She selected a packet of cereal. The two women were in the recently opened supermarket making their morning purchases.

“They're saying the trees are dangerous there. Couple of forestry men arrived this morning. It's there on the side of the hill where there's a steep slope and a tree leaning sideways. Could be I suppose, that a tree could come down there. One of them was struck by lightning last winter but that was farther over, I think. Anyway, they're digging round the roots of the trees a bit, and a bit farther down too. Pity. They'll make an awful mess of the place.”

“Oh well,” said Elspeth McKay, “I suppose they know what they're doing. Somebody's called them in, I suppose.”

“They've got a couple of the police there, too, seeing that people don't come near. Making sure they keep away from things. They say something about finding out which the diseased trees are first.”

“I see,” said Elspeth McKay.

Possibly she did. Not that anyone had told her but then Elspeth never needed telling.

II

Ariadne Oliver smoothed out a telegram she had just taken as delivered to her at the door. She was so used to getting telegrams through the telephone, making frenzied hunts for a pencil to take them down, insisting firmly that she wanted a confirmatory copy sent to her, that she was quite startled to receive what she called to herself a “real telegram” again.

She went into the kitchen where Judith Butler was making quince jelly.

“Judy,” said Mrs. Oliver, “go and pack a few things, I'm going back to London and you're coming with me and Miranda, too.”

“It's very nice of you, Ariadne, but I've got a lot of things on here. Anyway, you needn't rush away today, need you?”

“Yes, I need to, I've been told to,” said Mrs. Oliver.

“Who's told you—your housekeeper?”

“No,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Somebody else. One of the few people I obey. Come on. Hurry up.”

“I don't want to leave home just now. I can't.”

“You've got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The car is ready. I brought it round to the front door. We can go at once.”

“I don't think I want to take Miranda. I could leave her here with someone, with the Reynolds or Rowena Drake.”

“Miranda's coming, too,” Mrs. Oliver interrupted definitely. “Don't make difficulties, Judy. This is serious. I don't see how you can even consider leaving her with the Reynolds. Two of the Reynolds children have been killed, haven't they?”

“Yes, yes, that's true enough. You think there's something wrong with that house. I mean there's someone there who—oh, what do I mean?”

“We're talking too much,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Anyway,” she added, “if anyone is going to be killed, it seems to me that probably the most likely one would be Ann Reynolds.”

“What's the matter with the family? Why should they all get killed, one after another? Oh, Ariadne, it's
frightening!
”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there are times when it's quite right to be frightened. I've just had a telegram and I'm acting upon it.”

“Oh, I didn't hear the telephone.”

“It didn't come through the telephone. It came to the door.”

She hesitated a moment, then she held it out to her friend.

“What's this mean? Operation?”

“Tonsils, probably,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Miranda had a bad throat last week, hadn't she? Well, what more likely than that she should be taken to consult a throat specialist in London?”

“Are you quite mad, Ariadne?”

“Probably,” said Mrs. Oliver, “raving mad. Come on. Miranda will enjoy being in London. You needn't worry. She's not going to have any operation. That's what's called ‘cover' in spy stories. We'll take her to a theatre, or an opera or the ballet, whichever way her tastes lie. On the whole I think it would be best to take her to the ballet.”

“I'm frightened,” said Judith.

Ariadne Oliver looked at her friend. She was trembling slightly. She looked more than ever, Mrs. Oliver thought, like Undine. She looked divorced from reality.

“Come
on,
” said Mrs. Oliver, “I promised Hercule Poirot I'd bring you when he gave me the word. Well, he's given me the word.”

“What's going on in this place?” said Judith. “I can't think why I ever came here.”

“I sometimes wondered why you did,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but there's no accounting for where people go to live. A friend of mine went to live in Moreton-in-the-Marsh the other day. I asked him why he wanted to go and live there. He said he'd always wanted to and thought about it. Whenever he retired he meant to go there. I said that I hadn't been to it myself but it sounded to me bound to be damp. What was it actually like? He said he didn't know what it was like because he'd never been there himself. But he had always wanted to live there. He was quite sane, too.”

“Did he go?”

“Yes.”

“Did he like it when he got there?”

“Well, I haven't heard that yet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “But people
are very odd, aren't they? The things they want to do, the things they simply
have
to do…” She went to the garden and called, “Miranda, we're going to London.”

Miranda came slowly towards them.

“Going to London?”

“Ariadne's going to drive us there,” said her mother. “We'll go and see a theatre there. Mrs. Oliver thinks perhaps she can get tickets for the ballet. Would you like to go to the ballet?”

“I'd love it,” said Miranda. Her eyes lighted up. “I must go and say goodbye to one of my friends first.”

“We're going practically at once.”

“Oh, I shan't be as long as that, but I must explain. There are things I promised to do.”

She ran down the garden and disappeared through the gate.

“Who are Miranda's friends?” asked Mrs. Oliver, with some curiosity.”

“I never really know,” said Judith. “She never tells one things, you know. Sometimes I think that the only things that she really feels are her friends are the birds she looks at in the woods. Or squirrels or things like that. I think everybody likes her but I don't know that she has any particular friends. I mean, she doesn't bring back girls to tea and things like that. Not as much as other girls do. I think her best friend really was Joyce Reynolds.” She added vaguely: “Joyce used to tell her fantastic things about elephants and tigers.” She roused herself. “Well, I must go up and pack, I suppose, as you insist. But I don't want to leave here. There are lots of things I'm in the middle of doing, like this jelly and—”

“You've got to come,” said Mrs. Oliver. She was quite firm about it.

Judith came downstairs again with a couple of suitcases just as Miranda ran in through the side door, somewhat out of breath.

“Aren't we going to have lunch first?” she demanded.

In spite of her elfin woodland appearance, she was a healthy child who liked her food.

“We'll stop for lunch on the way,” said Mrs. Oliver. “We'll stop at The Black Boy at Haversham. That would be about right. It's about three-quarters of an hour from here and they give you quite a good meal. Come on, Miranda, we're going to start now.”

“I shan't have time to tell Cathie I can't go to the pictures with her tomorrow. Oh, perhaps I could ring her up.”

“Well, hurry up,” said her mother.

Miranda ran into the sitting room where the telephone was situated. Judith and Mrs. Oliver put suitcases into the car. Miranda came out of the sitting room.

“I left a message,” she said breathlessly. “That's all right now.”

“I think you're mad, Ariadne,” said Judith, as they got into the car. “Quite mad. What's it all
about?
”

“We shall know in due course, I suppose,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don't know if I'm mad or he is.”

“He? Who?”

“Hercule Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver.

III

In London Hercule Poirot was sitting in a room with four other men. One was Inspector Timothy Raglan, looking respectful and poker-faced as was his invariable habit when in the presence of his
superiors; the second was Superintendent Spence. The third was Alfred Richmond, Chief Constable of the County and the fourth was a man with a sharp, legal face from the Public Prosecutor's office. They looked at Hercule Poirot with varying expressions, or what one might describe as nonexpressions.

“You seem quite sure, Monsieur Poirot.”

“I
am
quite sure,” said Hercule Poirot. “When a thing arranges itself so, one realizes that it must be so, one only looks for reasons why it should not be so. If one does not find the reasons why it should not be so, then one is strengthened in one's opinion.”

“The motives seem somewhat complex, if I may say so.”

“No,” said Poirot, “not complex really. But so simple that they are very difficult to see clearly.”

The legal gentleman looked sceptical.

“We shall have one piece of definite evidence very soon now,” said Inspector Raglan. “Of course, if there has been a mistake on that point….”

“Ding dong dell, no pussy in the well?” said Hercule Poirot. “That is what you mean?”

“Well, you must agree it is only a surmise on your part.”

“The evidence pointed to it all along. When a girl disappears, there are not many reasons. The first is that she has gone away with a man. The second is that she is dead. Anything else is very far-fetched and practically never happens.”

“There are no special points that you can bring to our attention, Monsieur Poirot?”

“Yes. I have been in touch with a well-known firm of estate agents. Friends of mine, who specialize in real estate in the West Indies, the Aegean, the Adriatic, the Mediterranean and other places.
They specialize in sunshine and their clients are usually wealthy. Here is a recent purchase that might interest you.”

He handed over a folded paper.

“You think this ties up?”

“I'm sure it does.”

“I thought the sale of islands was prohibited by that particular government?”

“Money can usually find a way.”

“There is nothing else that you would care to dwell upon?”

“It is possible that within twenty-four hours I shall have for you something that will more or less clinch matters.”

“And what is that?”

“An eyewitness.”

“You mean—”

“An eyewitness to a crime.”

The legal man looked at Poirot with mounting disbelief.

“Where is this eyewitness now?”

“On the way to London, I hope and trust.”

“You sound—disturbed.”

“That is true. I have done what I can to take care of things, but I will admit to you that I am frightened. Yes, I am frightened in spite of the protective measure I have taken. Because, you see, we are—how shall I describe it?—we are up against ruthlessness, quick reactions, greed pushed beyond an expectable human limit and perhaps—I am not sure but I think it possible—a touch, shall we say, of madness? Not there originally, but cultivated. A seed that took root and grows fast. And now perhaps has taken charge, inspiring an inhuman rather than a human attitude to life.”

“We'll have to have a few extra opinions on this,” said the legal
man. “We can't rush into things. Of course, a lot depends on the—er—forestry business. If that's positive, we'd have to think again.”

Hercule Poirot rose to his feet.

“I will take my leave. I have told you all that I know and all that I fear and envisage as possible. I shall remain in touch with you.”

He shook hands all round with foreign precision, and went out.

“The man's a bit of a mountebank,” said the legal man. “You don't think he's a bit touched, do you? Touched in the head himself, I mean? Anyway, he's a pretty good age. I don't know that one can rely on the faculties of a man of that age.”

“I think you can rely upon him,” said the Chief Constable. “At least, that is
my
impression. Spence, I've known you a good many years. You're a friend of his. Do you think he's become a little senile?”

“No, I don't,” said Superintendent Spence. “What's your opinion, Raglan?”

“I've only met him recently, sir. At first I thought his—well, his way of talking, his ideas, might be fantastic. But on the whole I'm converted. I think he's going to be proved right.”