Hallowe'en Party - Agatha Christie [80]
‘Only today,’ said Poirot, after he had sat silent for a moment or two, watching Mrs Drake where she sat controlling her sobs, ‘I was told that Leopold had been very flush of money lately. Somebody must have been paying him to keep silent.’
‘But who—who?’
‘We shall find out,’ said Poirot. ‘It will not be long now.’
Chapter 22
It 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 paper, 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