Chapter 3 third chapter

The telephone rang in an apartment in London, alerting the owner, Hercule Poirot, who was sitting in the chair.A burst of disappointment hit his heart, and he knew something was up before he answered the phone.His friend Solly had promised to come and stay with him tonight, and they had been arguing forever over the real murderer in the Canning Road municipal baths.The ringing of the phone must mean that he is not coming.Poirot found a lot of evidence in his mind, and he couldn't help being extremely disappointed. He felt that his friend Solly would not accept his opinion. Erikri Poirot would easily refute the opponent with terms such as reason, logic, sequence, method, etc. If Solly did not come tonight, at least it would be annoying.But when they met earlier in the day, Solly was shaking with a cough and had a bad case of catarrh.

"He's got a bad wind," said Hercule Poirot. "Although I have some special medicines, he's likely to infect me. It's better if he doesn't come. Nevertheless," he sighed again. Say, "That means I'm going to have another dreary night alone." So many dull evenings, thought Hercule Poirot.His mind, though excellent (he never doubted it), still needed external stimulation.His mind has never been philosophical and speculative. Sometimes he almost regrets that he did not study theology and chose to be a policeman. How many angels can dance on the tip of a needle is a very important issue, and he spares no effort to argue with his colleagues. Maybe it's an interesting thing.

His valet, George, entered the house. "It's Mr. Solomon Levy, sir." "Really?" said Hercule Poirot. "He regrets very much that he cannot be with you to-night, for he is in bed with a bad cold." "He didn't have the flu," said Hercule Poirot, "he just had the wind, which was more serious. People often think they have a cold, and it sounds more serious, which makes them more sympathetic. It’s hard to get so much sympathy and care from friends.” "He's not coming anyway, and you can say what you want, really," said George. "The head is very contagious, and it'll kill you if you catch it."

"That would be all the more tedious," agreed Poirot. The phone rang again. "Who has a cold again!" he asked, "I didn't ask anyone out." George walked over to the phone. "I'll come to fetch you," said Poirot. "It's certainly not very interesting. But—" he shrugged, "—it's a good way to pass the time, who knows?" George replied "Very well, sir," and withdrew. Poirot reached for the receiver, and the ringing stopped abruptly. "I am Hercule Poirot," he announced solemnly, wanting to impress.

"That's great," said a voice eagerly.It was a woman's voice, a little out of breath, "I thought you must have gone out and not at home." "Why?" asked Poirot. "I always find it frustrating with everything these days. Often you want someone so badly that you feel like you won't be able to wait a minute, but you have to. I want to find you right now—I'm desperate." "And who are you?" asked Hercule Poirot. The voice, the woman's voice, sounded startled. "Don't you know?" The tone seemed unbelievable. "Oh, I see," replied Hercule Poirot, "you are an old friend of mine, Ariadne."

"I'm in a terrible situation," Ariadlee said. "Um, uh, I hear you. Did you go for a run? You were out of breath, weren't you?" "No running, I'm so excited, can I come see you right away?" Poirot waited a few seconds before answering, and his friend Mrs. Oliver sounded very emotional.No matter what happened, she was going to be here for a long time, telling her grief, her hatred, her depression and everything that made her sick.Once in Poirot's holy land, it is even more difficult to get her to go home. It is impossible to trick her out without some impolite measures. There are countless things that arouse her, and they are often unpredictable. , so I had to be more careful when discussing with her.

"Is something disturbing you?" "Yes, I'm really disturbed and don't know what to do. I don't know - oh, my mind goes blank. I just feel compelled to tell you - tell you what happened, because you're the only one who might know What to do, you may know what to do, may I come?" "Of course, of course, I am glad to receive you." The other party dropped the receiver heavily, Poirot called George, thought for a while, then told him to prepare lemon barley tea, bitter lemon juice, and let him bring himself a glass of brandy. "Mrs. Oliver will be here in about ten minutes," he said.

George stepped back, and he brought back a glass of brandy to Poirot, who nodded with satisfaction, and George went on to serve a non-alcoholic drink, which the other Mrs. Oliver might not like.Poirot took a sip of the brandy, and hastened to cheer himself up before the torture came. He said to himself: "It's a pity she's so neurotic. But she often has her own ideas, and maybe I'll be interested in what she's coming to tell me. Maybe—" He thought for a moment , "—maybe tonight is exciting, maybe it's boring, then, you have to take risks." The bell rang, this time it was the doorbell, and it wasn't just a light press, but a hard press, purely to make noise.

"She was over excited," said Poirot. He heard George go to open the door, and without waiting for an announcement, the living room door opened, and Ariadne Oliver burst in, and George followed her, clutching the fisherman's bonnet and oilskin and so on. thing. "What on earth are you wearing?" asked Hercule Poirot. "Let George hold it for you. It's too wet." "It's very wet," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's very wet out there. I've never given much thought to water before. It's dreadful to think about it." Poirot regarded her with interest.

"Have some lemon barley tea," he said, "or perhaps a glass of brandy?" "I hate water," said Mrs. Oliver. Poirot was taken aback. "I hate it. I never thought about what water can be used for." "My dear friend," said Hercule Poirot.George was taking off her crumpled, dripping raincoat. "Come on, sit here and let George take it off for you—what are you wearing?" "I bought them at Cornwell," said Mrs. Oliver, "in oilskins, real fishermen's oilskins." "It worked fine for him, of course," said Lo, "but I don't think it's right for you. It's too heavy. Come on—sit down and talk to me."

"I don't know what it is," said Mrs. Oliver, sitting down. "Sometimes, you know, I don't think it's true, but it happens, it happens." "Tell me," said Poirot. "This is exactly the purpose of my coming, but I find it too difficult when I come here, and I don't know where to start." "At first?" suggested Poirot. "Isn't it a bit clichéd to begin with?" "I don't know when it started. Not sure. Maybe a long time ago." "Calm down," Poirot said, "get your head together and tell me, what made you so panic-stricken?" "You would panic, too, if it were you," Mrs. Oliver said, "at least I think so." She looked suspicious. "Sometimes I really don't know what makes me upset. Since the calm accepted so much.” "Calm acceptance is often the best course of action," replied Poirot. "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver, "there was a party at first." "Yes," replied Poirot, relieved that it was an ordinary evening party. "An evening party. You go to an evening party, and something happens." "Do you know what Hallow's Eve is like?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "I know Hallow's Eve," said Poirot, "is on the thirty-first of October." He blinked slightly. "The witch is coming on her broom." "There is a broom," said Mrs. Oliver, "and prizes are given out." "Awards?" "Yes, and whoever brings the most beautifully decorated broom will win the prize." Poirot stared at her suspiciously, relieved at first to hear her talk of the party, now suspicious again.He knew that Mrs. Oliver hadn't touched a drop, but he couldn't think of any other possibility, which might have been much easier. "It's a party for the children," said Mrs. Oliver, "or, as it's called, a pre-entry party." "Junior high school entrance examination?" "Yes, that's what the school used to call it. I mean to see if the students are smart, and if they pass, they go to middle school; if they don't, they go to a 'submodern' school. It's brilliant, it doesn't make any real sense." "I have to say that I don't quite understand what you're talking about?" said Poirot.They seem to have bid farewell to the party and entered the field of education. Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and continued. "Actually," she said, "it started with Apple." "Oh, yes," said Poirot, "of course. You've always been inseparable from the apple, haven't you?" A picture appeared in his mind, a small car was parked on the hill, a tall woman got out, the bag containing the apples split, and the apples rolled down the hillside. "Yes," he encouraged her to continue, "apples." "Bite an apple," said Mrs. Oliver, "that's what people always play at Hallowe'en parties." "Ah, yes, I seem to have heard of it, yes." "You know, playing games and biting apples and cutting pasta and looking in the mirror—" "Looking at a lover's face?" asked Poirot expertly. "Ah," said Mrs. Oliver, "you've finally got it." "A lot of folklore, in fact," said Poirot. "Very old folklore. It's at the parties you're at." "Yes, quite a success. And ended up playing with the fire, you know, with a big plate of burning raisins. I think—" her voice trembled, "—I think that's where it must have happened." "What happened?" "Murder, after playing chestnuts and going home," said Mrs. Oliver, "you know, that's when they realized they couldn't find her." "Who are you looking for?" "A girl. A girl named Joyce. Everyone shouted her name and looked around, asking if she went back first with the others, and her mother was very annoyed, saying that Joyce must be tired, or not. Comfortable, or she left first, she is too inconsiderate of others, she doesn't even say hello, mothers always complain when encountering this kind of situation, and she is no exception. But we can't find Not Joyce." "Didn't she go back alone first?" "No," said Mrs. Oliver, "she didn't come home..." Her voice trembled again, "we found her at last--in the study, that's where--someone did it. Apple-biting game Well, the bucket stays there, a big tin bucket, they don't want to use a plastic bucket. Maybe it won't happen with a plastic bucket, it's not heavy enough. Maybe it'll overturn—" "What happened?" asked Poirot, becoming very dry. "That's where it was found," said Mrs. Oliver, "you know, someone put her head in an apple in the water, and held her head till she died, drowned, drowned, It's just a half-filled tin bucket, and she's running there hanging her head down and biting an apple, and I hate apples," said Mrs Oliver, "and I never want to see apples again." Poirot watched her, and he poured out a small glass of brandy. "Drink it," he said, "it'll do you good."