Chapter 6 Chapter Six

Poirot said goodbye to his friends contentedly. The information he wanted would keep coming—he was sure of it.Spence was the kind of person who would go on as long as he decided on a path, and he would never back down. He was a retired senior police officer from the Criminal Investigation Service. He was well-known and would definitely win many friends in the relevant local police agencies. The next step—Poirot looked at his watch—in exactly ten minutes he was going to wait for Mrs. Oliver outside a house called Apple Grove, yes, it was inconceivable that the name should be so coincidental.

Poirot thought, no, it seems that apples can never be separated. What is better than a juicy English apple-but here, apples are related to brooms, witches, ancient legends and a being. Murdered children are tightly bound together. Following the road indicated to him, Poirot arrived punctually outside a red brick Georgian house.The house is fenced with a neat beech hedge and has a pretty garden. He stretched out his hand and turned the bolt to enter the wrought iron gate, on which were written "Apple Grove" in big characters.A path leads to the front door. What looked like a Swiss clock, the numbers were automatically displayed from a small door in the top of the clock face, the front door opened and Mrs. Oliver appeared on the steps.

"You're so punctual," she said out of breath, "I've been watching you through the window." Poirot turned and closed the door carefully. Whenever he met Mrs. Oliver, whether by appointment or by chance, the subject of the apple came up almost immediately. She was either eating an apple or had just finished eating it. An apple core rests on a broad chest—or carries a sack of apples.And today there is no sign of Apple at all.That's right, Poirot secretly expressed his satisfaction. It would be disgusting to munch on apples here, knowing that a case, a tragedy, had taken place here.How can it be like this?Poirot thought.He didn't want to think about the sudden murder of a thirteen-year-old child, and because he didn't want to think about it, his belief became more firm. Some measure or action caused the clouds to clear and he could see clearly all that he had come here to see.

"I don't see why you don't come to live with Judith Butler," said Mrs. Oliver, "but take the fifth-class room." "Because it makes me see things more detached," replied Poirot. "You know the saying, 'Only in the mountains.'" "I don't see how you can get away with them," said Mrs. Oliver. "You've got to visit everybody and talk to them, don't you?" "Need to say?" Poirot laughed. "Who have you met already?" "My friend, Superintendent Spence." "How is he now?" asked Mrs. Oliver.

"Much older than ever," replied Poirot. "Of course," said Mrs. Oliver. "Is he still young? Is he deaf and blind? Fatter or thinner than before?" Poirot thought for a while and said: "He's a little thinner and wears glasses when he reads the newspaper. I don't think he's deaf, at least not noticeably." "What does he think of the matter?" "You talk like a cannonball," said Poirot. "What are you going to do with him?" "My schedule has been arranged," said Poirot. "The first step was to visit an old friend and discuss with him. I asked him to get me some information. It would be very difficult to use other methods."

"You mean that there are friends of his in the local police, and he can get a lot of information from inside?" "Oh, not so exactly. But yes, that's what I thought." "and then?" "I'm just here to see you, ma'am. I've got to see the scene." Mrs. Oliver turned her head to look up the house. "Not like a place where murders happen?" she asked. Poirot couldn't help feeling that her intuition was never wrong! "Yeah," he replied, "it doesn't look like that at all. After I've seen the scene, I'll go with you to visit the victim's mother and see what she can tell me. My friend Spence arranged for me to be there this afternoon. A good time to speak to the local Inspector. I'd like to speak to the doctor here too, and the headmaster if possible. I'll be at the Spences at six o'clock and have tea and some sausages with the brothers and sisters. , talk together."

"What else do you think he has to tell you?" "I wanted to see his sister. She's been here longer than him. He came to live here after her husband died. Maybe she knows the people here very well." "You know what you sound like?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Like a computer. You know? You're programming yourself, is that what they say? Information, waiting to see the results." "What you said is quite reasonable," Poirot replied with great interest. "Yes, yes, I am really like a computer. You input information—" "What if you come out wrong?" asked Mrs. Oliver.

"That's impossible," replied Hercule Poirot, "the computer cannot make mistakes." "Should say no," Mrs. Oliver said, "but sometimes things don't happen. Like my last electric bill. I know there's a saying that 'people make mistakes', and if something goes wrong, the computer goes wrong." I am afraid that my fault is bigger than most people, come and see Mrs. Drake." Needless to say, Mrs. Drake was a character, Poirot thought to himself, a tall, handsome woman in her early forties, with graying blond hair, blue eyes, and an air of competence exuding from every pore.Any soiree she arranged would undoubtedly be a great success, and the drawing-room was waiting for their arrival with coffee and two trays of sweet biscuits.

He could see that the house in Apple Grove was well kept, with good furniture, good carpets, spotless everywhere, and that everything of note caught your eye in an instant without having to search for it. This is really unexpected.The colors of the curtains and tablecloths are very beautiful and traditional. If there are tenants who are willing to pay a high price, they can decorate at any time. There is no need to move anything or change the furniture. Mrs. Drake exchanged a few words with Mrs. Oliver and Poirot. Poirot wondered if she was very annoyed, but tried hard to restrain herself. As the organizer of a social event, there were murders and the like. It would inevitably put her in an embarrassing situation.However, her face hardly showed any expression.Poirot surmised that the fame of being the croaking figure of Woodley Village was an unworthy one, and it made her very uncomfortable.This should never have happened.It's okay to be in other people's homes and fall on other people's heads.But at a party for children that she arranged, organized, and paid for, this kind of thing should never happen.She should have taken some measures to prevent it from happening.Poirot even wondered if she was trying to find a reason in her heart.

Not the cause of the case, but finding out that some helper was incompetent in some way, that something was not expected to happen through a fault of arrangement or lack of foresight. "Mr. Poirot," said Mrs. Drake, in a voice so pleasant that Poirot thought it would do well in a small school-room or a country hall, "I am very glad that you are here. O Madame Lev has been saying that you will be of great help to us in this crisis." "Don't worry, ma'am, I will do my best. But you will no doubt realize from your own experience that this will be a tricky thing to do."

"Tricky?" said Mrs. Drake. "Of course it would be tricky. It seemed inconceivable, utterly inconceivable that such a dreadful thing should happen, and I thought," she added, "that the police might know? Inspector Raglan was at the The place has a good reputation, I'm sure of it. I wonder if they'll come to Scotland Yard. Seems to say that the poor boy's death means a lot locally, and I don't need to repeat it to you, M. Poirot - after all you and I Read the newspapers as often - there are many unfortunate incidents of children in rural areas all over the place. It seems that the frequency of incidents is increasing. The number of mentally unstable people is increasing, but mothers and parents are generally not what they used to be So much for the kids. The kids come home alone in the dark of night after school, go to school early in the morning, and the kids, no matter how many times you warn them. If you come across a nice little car, the driver says If they are willing to take a ride, they will get on the ground without thinking, and they will believe what others say. I think who cares about things like this.” "But madame, things are very different here." "Oh, I know—I know, or I'd say it's incredible. I still can't believe it's true," said Mrs. Drake. "Everything is well organized and orderly. It's all according to plan." Came in, and it went very well. It was almost unbelievable. Privately I thought it was a surprise visitor. Somebody walked into the house - easily done under the circumstances - it must have been some seriously schizophrenic Man, just released from a mental hospital, only released because there is no room for them (as far as I know). Now have to make room for new patients, lying on the window so anyone can see that there is a party for children inside, And this poor fellow (that's what you call them if you really sympathize with them, and I can't pity them sometimes) tricked the kid into killing him somehow, can't imagine it ever happening, but it did gone." "Perhaps you'll show me where—" "Of course, no more coffee?" "No, thanks." Mrs. Drake stood up and said, "The police probably thought it was playing with fire, playing games in the restaurant." She crossed the hall, opened the dining room door, and pointed to the huge dining table and the dark velvet curtains in the manner of a dame of a prominent family doing her lordship to a group of visitors in a tour bus. . "It was dark in here, of course, except for a plate of raisins blazing. And then a" She led them across the hall, and she opened the door of a small room with armchairs, sports prints, and some bookshelves. "This is the study," said Mrs. Drake, her voice trembling. "Here's the bucket. There's a plastic sheet under it, of course." Mrs. Oliver did not accompany them in, she stood outside in the hall. "I cannot go in," she said to Poirot, "I have too many associations." "There's nothing to see now," said Mrs. Drake, "I'm just bringing you in to see where you are." "I think," said Poirot, "that there must have been water—a great deal of water." "Of course there's water in the bucket," said Mrs. Drake. She looked at Poirot as if wondering if he was absent-minded. "There's definitely water on the plastic, I mean, if the kid's head is in the water, there's going to be a lot of splashing." "Well, yes, I added water to the bucket once or twice during the apple-biting game." "Who did it? He must be wet." "Yes, yes, I think so too." "Did no one notice in particular?" "No, no, the Inspector asked the same question. You know, by the end of the party nearly everyone was disheveled, soaked, and covered in flour. There didn't seem to be any useful clues, I It’s that the police didn’t think they had any useful leads.” "No," replied Poirot, "I think the only clue lies in the child herself. I want you to tell me all you know about her." "About Joyce?" Mrs. Drake seemed a little surprised. It seemed that Joyce had already retreated to a far, far corner in her mind. When she was mentioned suddenly, Mrs. Drake was startled. "The victim is usually very important," said Poirot, "because the victim is often the cause of what happened." "Really? Oh, I think I see what you mean," replied Mrs. Drake (apparently she didn't understand), "shall we go back to the drawing room?" "Go there and tell me about Joyce," said Poirot. They went back to the living room and sat down. Mrs. Drake looked uncomfortable. "I really don't know what you want me to tell you, M. Poirot," she said. "No doubt all relevant information could easily be obtained from the police station or from Joyce's mother, poor fellow, she must have It will be painful, but…” "But what I want," replied Poirot, "is not a mother's opinion of her dead daughter. I want a clear and unbiased opinion from a man who understands human nature well, Madame, I have heard that you have been active in many charitable and social activities. I believe that no one can judge more impartially the temperament of an acquainted man." "Oh—it's a bit difficult, I mean, a child that big—she's thirteen, like twelve or thirteen—there are about as many children in the same age group." "Oh no, it's really different—" replied Poirot, "very different in temperament. Do you like her?" Drekoff seemed to find the question embarrassing. "Hey, of course, I—I like her. I mean, hey, I love all kids. Most people do." "Oh, I don't agree with you," said Poirot. "There are some children who seem to me terribly boring and not at all agreeable." "Well, I agree. Home education is not very good these days. It seems that all the responsibility is placed on the school. They are naturally spoiled. Choose your own friends, and-really, M. Poirot." "Is she a good child?" insisted Poirot. Mrs. Drake stared at him accusingly. "Monsieur Poirot, you must realize that the poor boy is dead." "It doesn't matter if she's dead or alive. If she's a good kid, maybe no one wants to kill her; but if she's not a good kid, maybe somebody wants to kill her, and they do— " "Well, I guess—surely it's not just a question of good or bad, is it?" "Possibly. I've also heard her keep saying she saw a murder." "Oh, that's it," said Mrs. Drake, not without contempt. "You didn't take that seriously?" "Well, of course I don't believe it, it's all stupid." "Why does she say that?" "Oh, maybe they're all excited because Mrs. Oliver is here, don't forget, you're famous, my dear," said Mrs. Drake to Mrs. Oliver. Her last word, "Dear," sounded cold without much warmth. "If it weren't for this, I would never have brought up this topic, but the children are so excited to meet a famous writer—" "And Joyce said she had witnessed a murder," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Yes, she said something like that. I didn't pay much attention." "But you remember she did say yes?" "Well, she did, but I don't believe it," said Mrs. Drake. "Her sister was right to shut her up right away." "And she's angry, isn't she?" "Yes, she continued to insist that she was not lying." "Actually she's bragging." "That's fine too." "I think it may be true," said Poirot. "Nonsense! I don't believe it at all," replied Mrs. Drake. "Joyce loves to talk like that." is she stupid " "Well, I think she's just showing off," said Mrs. Drake. "You know, she always likes to act like she knows better than the other girls." "It is not a very agreeable character," replied Poirot. "That's right," said Mrs. Drake. "That's the kind of kid who has to keep telling her to shut up." "What did the other kids say? Did they believe it?" "They laughed at her," said Mrs. Drake, "so naturally she got worse." Poirot stood up and said: "Ah, I am glad you are very clear on this point." He bowed to her very politely, "Good-bye, madam, thank you very much for allowing me to observe the occurrence of this unpleasant incident. I hope it won't bring back too many unpleasant memories for you." Mrs. Drake replied: "How can I not be sad when I think of this kind of thing? I really hope that our little party will be a success. In fact, it is going well. Everyone is very happy. Who knows that this happened. , and yet the only thing I can do now is try to forget it, and I'm still sorry. Why does Joyce talk stupid things about murder." "Have you heard of the murders in Woodley Village?" "I don't remember it," said Mrs. Drake emphatically. "We live in a time of constant crime," said Poirot. "That's really rare, isn't it?" "Ah, I remember a truck driver who killed a fellow--it seemed so--and found a little girl buried in a rock cave fifteen miles away, but it was many years ago. It's mean, it's not interesting, it's mostly alcohol." "Actually, the chances of such a case being seen by a girl of twelve or thirteen are very small." "It should be said that it is impossible. I can tell you clearly, Mr. Poirot, that child's words are purely for calming down other children, and perhaps to attract the attention of this celebrity." She stared at Oliver coldly. lady. "In the end," said Mrs. Oliver, "it's all my fault. I really shouldn't be at the party." "Oh, of course not, dear, I didn't mean that." Poirot sighed as he walked out of the room beside Mrs. Oliver. "It's not like a place where murder is going to happen," he said as they walked up the lane to the gate. "There's no atmosphere, no haunting tragedy, no character traits worth murdering, but Occasionally I can't help but imagine that maybe someone is trying to kill Mrs. Drake." "I see what you mean, she's so infuriating sometimes, so smug and defiant." "What was her husband like?" "Oh, she's a widow. Husband died a year or two ago. He had osteomyelitis. He was limping for years. Was probably a banker at first. He liked sports. He was very angry when he had to give it up when he was disabled." "That's true," he returned to Joyce's subject. "Tell me, did anyone take Joyce's words seriously?" "I don't know. I don't think so." "What about the other kids, for example?" "Ah, I was thinking just now, no, I don't think they believe Joyce's words, they think she is making up nonsense." "Do you think so too?" "Well, I really think so," said Mrs. Oliver. "Of course," she added, "Mrs. Drake would rather believe that the murder never happened, but she can't, can she? " "I think it might hurt her a lot." "I suppose so," said Mrs. Oliver, "but I think so far, you see, she's actually enjoying talking about it. I don't think she likes being silent all the time." "Do you like her?" asked Poirot. "Do you think she is a kind woman?" "Your question is embarrassingly difficult to answer," said Mrs. Oliver. "The only thing that seems to interest you is whether or not a person is kind. Rowena Drake is a man who likes to give orders—management." , Good management. It should be said that she almost dominates the whole place, but she manages it in an orderly manner, it depends on whether you like this kind of woman who is easy to order, I am not very ¯” "Where's Joyce's mother, whom we're going to see soon?" "She's very kind, but stupid, and I'm sorry for her. Her daughter got murdered. It's terrible, isn't it? And it's even worse when everyone here thinks it's about sex crimes." "But there's no evidence of sexual assault?" "No, but people like to think it's more exciting when something like this happens. You know human nature." "Yes—but sometimes—ah—we don't know at all." "Wouldn't it be better if my friend Judith Butler took you to see Mrs. Reynolds? She knows her very well, and I don't know her at all." "We're going according to plan." "The computer program is running," muttered Mrs. Oliver angrily.