Hallowe'en Party by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online Page B

beyond.
    He put his hand out, raised the latch and entered through the wrought iron gate which bore a painted board labelled “Apple Trees.” A path led up to the front door. Looking rather like one of those Swiss clocks where figures come out automatically of a door above the clock face, the front door opened and Mrs. Oliver emerged on the steps.
    â€œYou’re absolutely punctual,” she said breathlessly. “I was watching for you from the window.”
    Poirot turned and closed the gate carefully behind him. Practically on every occasion that he had met Mrs. Oliver, whether by appointment or by accident, a motif of apples seemed to be introduced almost immediately. She was either eating an apple or had been eating an apple—witness an apple core nestling on her broad chest—or was carrying a bag of apples. But today there was no apple in evidence at all. Very correct, Poirot thought approvingly. It would have been in very bad taste to be gnawing an apple here, on the scene of what had been not only a crime but a tragedy. For what else can it be but that? thought Poirot. The sudden death of a child of only thirteen years old. He did not like to think of it, and because he did not like to think of it he was all the more decided in his mind that that was exactly what he was going to think of until by some means or other, light should shine out of the darkness and he should see clearly what he had come here to see.
    â€œI can’t think why you wouldn’t come and stay with Judith Butler,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Instead of going to a fifth-class guest house.”
    â€œBecause it is better that I should survey things with a certaindegree of aloofness,” said Poirot. “One must not get involved, you comprehend.”
    â€œI don’t see how you can avoid getting involved,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’ve got to see everyone and talk to them, haven’t you?”
    â€œThat most decidedly,” said Poirot.
    â€œWho have you seen so far?”
    â€œMy friend, Superintendent Spence.”
    â€œWhat’s he like nowadays?” said Mrs. Oliver.
    â€œA good deal older than he was,” said Poirot.
    â€œNaturally,” said Mrs. Oliver, “what else would you expect? Is he deafer or blinder or fatter or thinner?”
    Poirot considered.
    â€œHe has lost a little weight. He wears spectacles for reading the paper. I do not think he is deaf, not to any noticeable extent.”
    â€œAnd what does he think about it all?”
    â€œYou go too quickly,” said Poirot.
    â€œAnd what exactly are you and he going to do?”
    â€œI have planned my programme,” said Poirot. “First I have seen and consulted with my old friend. I asked him to get me, perhaps, some information that would not be easy to get otherwise.”
    â€œYou mean the police here will be his buddies and he’ll get a lot of inside stuff from them?”
    â€œWell, I should not put it exactly like that, but yes, those are the lines along which I have been thinking.”
    â€œAnd after that?”
    â€œI come to meet you here, Madame. I have to see just where this thing happened.”
    Mrs. Oliver turned her head and looked up at the house.
    â€œIt doesn’t look the sort of house there’d be a murder in, does it?” she said.
    Poirot thought again: What an unerring instinct she has!
    â€œNo,” he said, “it does not look at all that sort of a house. After I have seen where, then I go with you to see the mother of the dead child. I hear what she can tell me. This afternoon my friend Spence is making an appointment for me to talk with the local inspector at a suitable hour. I should also like a talk with the doctor here. And possibly the headmistress at the school. At six o’clock I drink tea and eat sausages with my friend Spence and his sister again in their house and we discuss.”
    â€œWhat more do you think he’ll be