Hercule Poirot's Christmas - Agatha Christie [69]
‘But M. Poirot has a very fine moustache of his own!’
Magdalene was wrapping the parcel up again. She said:
‘I don’t understand. It’s—it’s mad. Why does M. Poirot buy a false moustache?’
II
When Pilar left the drawing-room she walked slowly along the hall. Stephen Farr was coming in through the garden door. He said:
‘Well? Is the family conclave over? Has the will been read?’
Pilar said, her breath coming fast:
‘I have got nothing—nothing at all! It was a will made many years ago. My grandfather left money to my mother, but because she is dead it does not go to me but goes back to them.’
Stephen said:
‘That seems rather hard lines.’
Pilar said:
‘If that old man had lived, he would have made another will. He would have left money to me—a lot of money! Perhaps in time he would have left me all the money!’
Stephen said, smiling:
‘That wouldn’t have been very fair either, would it?’
‘Why not? He would have liked me best, that is all.’
Stephen said:
‘What a greedy child you are. A real little gold-digger.’
Pilar said soberly:
‘The world is very cruel to women. They must do what they can for themselves—while they are young. When they are old and ugly no one will help them.’
Stephen said slowly:
‘That’s more true than I like to think. But it isn’t quite true. Alfred Lee, for instance, was genuinely fond of his father in spite of the old man being thoroughly trying and exacting.’
Pilar’s chin went up.
‘Alfred,’ she said, ‘is rather a fool.’
Stephen laughed.
Then he said:
‘Well, don’t worry, lovely Pilar. The Lees are bound to look after you, you know.’
Pilar said disconsolately:
‘It will not be very amusing, that.’
Stephen said slowly:
‘No, I’m afraid it won’t. I can’t see you living here, Pilar. Would you like to come to South Africa?’
Pilar nodded.
Stephen said:
‘There’s sun there, and space. There’s hard work too. Are you good at work, Pilar?’
Pilar said doubtfully:
‘I do not know.’
He said:
‘You’d rather sit on a balcony and eat sweets all day long? And grow enormously fat and have three double chins?’
Pilar laughed and Stephen said:
‘That’s better. I’ve made you laugh.’
Pilar said:
‘I thought I should laugh this Christmas! In books I have read that an English Christmas is very gay, that one eats burning raisins and there is a plum pudding all in flames, and something that is called a Yule log.’
Stephen said:
‘Ah, but you must have a Christmas uncomplicated by murder. Come in here a minute. Lydia took me in here yesterday. It’s her store-room.’
He led her into a small room little bigger than a cupboard.
‘Look, Pilar, boxes and boxes of crackers, and preserved fruits and oranges and dates and nuts. And here—’
‘Oh!’ Pilar clasped her hands. ‘They are pretty, these gold and silver balls.’
‘Those were to hang on a tree, with presents for the servants. And here are little snowmen all glittering with frost to put on the dinner table. And here are balloons of every colour all ready to blow up!’
‘Oh!’ Pilar’s eyes shone. ‘Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons.’
Stephen said: ‘Baby! Here, which will you have?’
Pilar said: ‘I will have a red one.’
They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again.
She said:
‘You look so funny—blowing—with your cheeks puffed out.’
Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro.
Pilar said:
‘Out in the hall there would be more room.’
They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently.
‘So you play les jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!’
Pilar said breathlessly:
‘Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky.’
‘Let’s send them up and