Mrs McGinty's Dead - Agatha Christie [44]
‘I’m so sorry. Did I hit you?’
Poirot paused in the act of replying. He looked at the rather noble face, the massive brow, the untidy billows of grey hair and a chord of memory stirred. The apple core, too, assisted his memory.
‘But surely,’ he exclaimed, ‘it is Mrs Oliver.’
It was indeed that celebrated detective-story writer.
Exclaiming, ‘Why, it’s M. Poirot,’ the authoress attempted to extract herself from the car. It was a small car and Mrs Oliver was a large woman. Poirot hastened to assist.
Murmuring in an explanatory voice, ‘Stiff after the long drive,’ Mrs Oliver suddenly arrived out on the road, rather in the manner of a volcanic eruption.
Large quantities of apples came, too, and rolled merrily down the hill.
‘Bag’s burst,’ explained Mrs Oliver.
She brushed a few stray pieces of half-consumed apple from the jutting shelf of her bust and then shook herself rather like a large Newfoundland dog. The last apple, concealed in the recesses of her person, joined its brothers and sisters.
‘Pity the bag burst,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘They were Cox’s. Still I suppose there will be lots of apples down here in the country. Or aren’t there? Perhaps they all get sent away. Things are so odd nowadays, I find. Well, how are you, M. Poirot? You don’t live here, do you? No, I’m sure you don’t. Then I suppose it’s murder? Not my hostess, I hope?’
‘Who is your hostess?’
‘In there,’ said Mrs Oliver, nodding her head. ‘That’s to say if that’s a house called Laburnums, half-way down the hill on the left side after you pass the church. Yes, that must be it. What’s she like?’
‘You do not know her?’
‘No, I’ve come down professionally, so to speak. A book of mine is being dramatized—by Robin Upward. We’re supposed to sort of get together over it.’
‘My felicitations, madame.’
‘It’s not like that at all,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘So far it’s pure agony. Why I ever let myself in for it I don’t know. My books bring me in quite enough money—that is to say the bloodsuckers take most of it, and if I made more, they’d take more, so I don’t overstrain myself. But you’ve no idea of the agony of having your characters taken and made to say things that they never would have said, and do things that they never would have done. And if you protest, all they say is that it’s “good theatre”. That’s all Robin Upward thinks of. Everyone says he’s very clever. If he’s so clever I don’t see why he doesn’t write a play of his own and leave my poor unfortunate Finn alone. He’s not even a Finn any longer. He’s become a member of the Norwegian Resistance Movement.’ She ran her hands through her hair. ‘What have I done with my hat?’
Poirot looked into the car.
‘I think, madame, that you must have been sitting on it.’
‘It does look like it,’ agreed Mrs Oliver, surveying the wreckage. ‘Oh well,’ she continued cheerfully, ‘I never liked it much. But I thought I might have to go to church on Sunday, and although the Archbishop has said one needn’t, I still think that the more old-fashioned clergy expect one to wear a hat. But tell me about your murder or whatever it is. Do you remember our murder?’
‘Very well indeed.’
‘Rather fun, wasn’t it? Not the actual murder—I didn’t like that at all. But afterwards. Who is it this time?’
‘Not so picturesque a person as Mr Shaitana. An elderly charwoman who was robbed and murdered five months ago. You may have read about it. Mrs McGinty. A young man was convicted and sentenced to death—’
‘And he didn’t do it, but you know who did, and you’re going to prove it,’ said Mrs Oliver rapidly. ‘Splendid.’
‘You go too fast,’ said Poirot with a sigh. ‘I do not yet know who did it—and from there it will be a long way to prove it.’
‘Men are so slow,’ said Mrs Oliver disparagingly. ‘I’ll soon tell you who did it. Someone down here, I suppose? Give me a day or two to look round, and I’ll spot the murderer. A woman’s intuition—that’s what you need. I was quite right over the Shaitana case, wasn’t I?’
Poirot gallantly forbode to remind Mrs Oliver of her rapid changes