Hallowe'en Party - Agatha Christie [39]
‘You are an unusual young man,’ said Poirot. ‘Arrogant,’ he said thoughtfully.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You have made here something very beautiful. You have added vision and planning to the rough material of stone hollowed out in the pursuit of industry, with no thought of beauty in that hacking out. You have added imagination, a result seen in the mind’s eye, that you have managed to raise the money to fulfil. I congratulate you. I pay my tribute. The tribute of an old man who is approaching a time when the end of his own work is come.’
‘But at the moment you are still carrying it on?’
‘You know who I am, then?’
Poirot was pleased indubitably. He liked people to know who he was. Nowadays, he feared, most people did not.
‘You follow the trail of blood…It is already known here. It is a small community, news travels. Another public success brought you here.’
‘Ah, you mean Mrs Oliver.’
‘Ariadne Oliver. A best seller. People wish to interview her, to know what she thinks about such subjects as student unrest, socialism, girls’ clothing, should sex be permissive, and many other things that are no concern of hers.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Poirot, ‘deplorable, I think. They do not learn very much, I have noticed, from Mrs Oliver. They learn only that she is fond of apples. That has now been known for twenty years at least, I should think, but she still repeats it with a pleasant smile. Although now, I fear, she no longer likes apples.’
‘It was apples that brought you here, was it not?’
‘Apples at a Hallowe’en party,’ said Poirot. ‘You were at that party?’
‘No.’
‘You were fortunate.’
‘Fortunate?’ Michael Garfield repeated the word, something that sounded faintly like surprise in his voice.
‘To have been one of the guests at a party where murder is committed is not a pleasant experience. Perhaps you have not experienced it, but I tell you, you are fortunate because–’ Poirot became a little more foreign ‘– il y a des ennuis, vous comprenez? People ask you times, dates, impertinent questions.’ He went on, ‘You knew the child?’
‘Oh yes. The Reynolds are well known here. I know most of the people living round here. We all know each other in Woodleigh Common, though in varying degrees. There is some intimacy, some friendships, some people remain the merest acquaintances, and so on.’
‘What was she like, the child Joyce?’
‘She was—how can I put it?—not important. She had rather an ugly voice. Shrill. Really, that’s about all I remember about her. I’m not particularly fond of children. Mostly they bore me. Joyce bored me. When she talked, she talked about herself.’
‘She was not interesting?’
Michael Garfield looked slightly surprised.
‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said. ‘Does she have to be?’
‘It is my view that people devoid of interest are unlikely to be murdered. People are murdered for gain, for fear or for love. One takes one’s choice, but one has to have a starting point–’
He broke off and glanced at his watch.
‘I must proceed. I have an engagement to fulfil. Once more, my felicitations.’
He went on down, following the path and picking his way carefully. He was glad that for once he was not wearing his tight patent leather shoes.
Michael Garfield was not the only person he was to meet in the sunk garden that day. As he reached the bottom he noted that three paths led from here in slightly different directions. At the entrance of the middle path, sitting on a fallen trunk of a tree, a child was awaiting him. She made this clear at once.
‘I expect you are Mr Hercule Poirot, aren’t you?’ she said.
Her voice was clear, almost bell-like in tone. She was a fragile creature. Something about