Elephants Can Remember by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

“if you'll just put them on the corner of the sofa there I can look at them this evening.”
    Miss Livingstone, looking more disapproving every moment, said, “Very good, Mrs. Oliver. I think I will just dust them first.”
    “That will be very kind of you,” said Mrs. Oliver, just stopping herself in time from saying - “and for goodness' sake, dust yourself as well. You've got six cobwebs in your left ear.”
    She glanced at her watch and rang the Islington number again. The voice that answered this time was purely Anglo-Saxon and had a crisp sharpness about it that Mrs. Oliver felt was rather satisfactory.
    “Miss Ravenscroft? - Celia Ravenscroft?”
    “Yes, this is Celia Ravenscroft.”
    “Well, I don't expect you'll remember me very well. I'm Mrs. Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. We haven't seen each other for a long time, but actually I'm your godmother.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. I know that. No, we haven't seen each other for a long time.”
    “I wonder very much if I could see you, if you could come and see me, or whatever you like. Would you like to come to a meal or...”
    “Well, it's rather difficult at present, where I'm working. I could come round this evening, if you like. About half-past seven or eight. I've got a date later but...”
    “If you do that, I shall be very, very pleased,” said Mrs. Oliver.
    “Well, of course I will.”
    “I'll give you the address.” Mrs. Oliver gave it.
    “Good. I'll be there. Yes, I know where that is quite well.”
    Mrs. Oliver made a brief note on the telephone pad and looked with some annoyance at Miss Livingstone, who had just come into the room struggling under the weight of a large album.
    “I wonder if this could possibly be it, Mrs. Oliver?”
    “No, it couldn't,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That's got cookery recipes in it.”
    “Oh, dear,” said Miss Livingstone, “so it has.”
    “Well, I might as well look at some of them anyway,” said Mrs. Oliver, removing the volume firmly. “Go and have another look. You know, I've thought about the linen cupboard. Next door to the bathroom. You'd have to look on the top shelf above the bath towels. I do sometimes stick papers and books in there. Wait a minute. I'll come up and look myself.”
    Ten minutes later Mrs. Oliver was looking through the pages of a faded album. Miss Livingstone, having entered her final stage of martyrdom, was standing by the door. Unable to bear the sight of so much suffering, Mrs. Oliver said:
    “Well, that's all right. You might just take a look in the desk in the dining room. The old desk. You know, the one that's broken a bit. See if you can find some more address books. Early ones. Anything up to about ten years old will be worth while having a look at. And after that,” said Mrs. Oliver, “I don't think I shall want anything more today.”
    Miss Livingstone departed.
    “I wonder,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself, releasing a deep sigh as she sat down. She looked through the pages of the birthday book. “Who's better pleased? She to go or I to see her go? After Celia has come and gone, I shall have to have a busy evening.”
    Taking a new exercise book from the pile she kept on a small table by her desk, she entered various dates, possible addresses and names, looked up one or two more things in the telephone book and then proceeded to ring up Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
    “Ah, is that you, Monsieur Poirot?”
    “Yes, madame, it is I myself.”
    “Have you done anything?” said Mrs. Oliver.
    “I beg your pardon - have I done what?”
    “Anything,” said Mrs. Oliver. “What I asked you about yesterday.”
    “Yes, certainly. I have put things in motion. I have arranged to make certain inquiries.”
    “But you haven't made them yet,” said Mrs. Oliver, who had a poor view of what the male view was of doing something.
    “And you, chère madame?”
    “I have been very busy,” said Mrs. Oliver.
    “Ah! And what have you been doing, madame?”
    “Assembling elephants,” said