Hallowe'en Party - Agatha Christie [12]
‘But you hear the gossip,’ said Poirot. ‘You have friends of your own trade. You will hear what they think or suspect or what they know.’
Spence sighed.
‘One knows too much,’ he said, ‘that is one of the troubles nowadays. There is a crime, a crime of which the pattern is familiar, and you know, that is to say the active police officers know, pretty well who’s probably done that crime. They don’t tell the newspapers but they make their inquiries, and they know. But whether they’re going to get any further than that—well, things have their difficulties.’
‘You mean the wives and the girl friends and the rest of it?’
‘Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps, one gets one’s man. Sometimes a year or two passes. I’d say, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry wrong ’uns than they ever used to in my time.’
Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his moustaches.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I can see that that might be so. I suspect that girls have always been partial to the bad lots, as you say, but in the past there were safeguards.’
‘That’s right. People were looking after them. Their mothers looked after them. Their aunts and their older sisters looked after them. Their younger sisters and brothers knew what was going on. Their fathers were not averse to kicking the wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, of course, the girls used to run away with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there’s no need even to do that. Mother doesn’t know who the girl’s out with, father’s not told who the girl is out with, brothers know who the girl is out with but they think “more fool her”. If the parents refuse consent, the couple go before a magistrate and manage to get permission to marry, and then when the young man who everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to prove to everybody, including his wife, that he is a bad lot, the fat’s in the fire! But love’s love; the girl doesn’t want to think that her Henry has these revolting habits, these criminal tendencies, and all the rest of it. She’ll lie for him, swear black’s white for him and everything else. Yes, it’s difficult. Difficult for us, I mean. Well, there’s no good going on saying things were better in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so. Anyway, Poirot, how did you get yourself mixed up in all this? This isn’t your part of the country, is it? Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knew you.’
‘I still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend, Mrs Oliver. You remember Mrs Oliver?’
Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and appeared to reflect.
‘Mrs Oliver? Can’t say that I do.’
‘She writes books. Detective stories. You met her, if you will throw your mind back, during the time that you persuaded me to investigate the murder of Mrs McGinty. You will not have forgotten Mrs McGinty?’
‘Good lord, no. But it was a long time ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot, a very good turn. I went to you for help and you didn’t let me down.’
‘I was honoured—flattered—that you should come to consult me,’ said Poirot. ‘I must say that I despaired once or twice. The man we had to save—to save his neck in those days I believe, it is long ago enough for that—was a man who was excessively difficult to do anything for. The kind of standard example of how not to do anything useful for himself.’
‘Married that girl, didn’t he? The wet one. Not the bright one with the peroxide hair. Wonder how they got on together. Have you ever heard about it?’
‘No,’ said Poirot. ‘I presume all goes well with them.’
‘Can’t see what she saw in him.’
‘It is difficult,’ said Poirot, ‘but it is one of the great consolations in nature that a man, however unattractive, will find that he is attractive—to some woman. One can only say or hope that they married and lived happily ever afterwards.’
‘Shouldn’t think they lived happily ever afterwards if they had to have Mother to live with them.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Poirot. ‘Or Step-father,