Chapter 18 Chapter Eighteen

"Come here," said Mrs. Oliver, "sit down. What's the matter with you? Seems very distressed." "My feet hurt like hell," said Hercule Poirot. "It's your damn patent shoes," replied Mrs. Oliver. "Sit down and tell me what you have to tell me, and then I'll tell you something that may surprise you!" Poirot sat down, stretched his legs, and said: "Ah! That's a lot!" "Take off your shoes," said Mrs. Oliver, "and free your feet." "No, no, how can that be?" Poirot obviously felt that this was going too far.

"Why, we're old friends," said Mrs. Oliver, "and I wouldn't mind if Judith came out of the house. I'm not telling you what patent leather shoes you wear in the country. Why don't you get a good pair of shoes? Those hippie-looking boys would work too. You know, the ones that slip on and never need to be wiped—there seems to be a special kind of self-cleaning process. That's easy. " "I wouldn't like that at all," said Poirot solemnly. "Really not!" "What's wrong with you," said Mrs. Oliver, opening a small bag of things on the table, and you can see that you just bought it not long ago, "what's wrong with you is that you're so obsessed with style that you're preoccupied with clothes and beards. Hey, posture and so on, don't care about comfort at all, comfort is a big problem nowadays. Once a person is over fifty, comfort is the number one priority."

"Madame, dear madam, I beg to differ." "Well, you'd better listen to me," said Mrs. Oliver, "or you'll be asking for trouble. You're a year old, you can't get old." Mrs. Oliver took out a beautiful box from the paper bag, opened the lid, took a little of the contents with two fingers and put it into her mouth, then licked her fingers, wiped it with a handkerchief, and muttered in a low voice One sentence. "Too sticky." "You don't eat apples anymore? I used to see you carrying a bag of apples in your hand, or when you were on the electricity, sometimes the bag broke and the apples rolled all over the ground."

"Didn't I tell you," said Mrs. Oliver, "I told you I wouldn't even look at an apple again. No. I hate apples, and maybe one day I'll get over it." The mind is eating apples again—but the associations I have with apples are terrible." "What are you eating?" Poirot picked up the brightly colored lid, on which a date-palm tree was drawn. "Ah, let's eat jujube instead." "Yes," replied Mrs. Oliver, "dates." She picked up another jujube and put it in her mouth, removed the pit, threw it into the bushes and rolled it several times.

"July (morning)," said Poirot, "very unusual." "What's so unusual about eating dates? Many people eat them." "No, no, that's not what I mean. It's not about eating dates, it's because you said the word 'zao' that sounds unusual to me." "Why?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Because," said Poirot, "you have shown me the way again and again, and told me what to do. You have pointed out the direction, and I am willing to listen to you. Sooner or later, the time. Only now do I realize how important the date of the incident is."

"I don't see how sooner or later has anything to do with what happened here. There's no specific time involved. The whole thing happened only five days ago." "That happened four days ago, yes, that's right. But for everything that happened, there is a past. The past is not unrelated to the present. The past can be yesterday, or last month, Last year, today is always rooted in yesterday, a year, two years, even three years ago there was a murder, a child witnessed the murder, just because that child witnessed the murder one day in the past, She just died four days ago, right?"

"Hey, yeah, at least I think so. Maybe it's not like that at all. Maybe it's some insane guy who kills for fun and tries to put someone's head in there when he's playing in the water .It could be said that a psychopath entertained himself at the party." "That's not why you invited me here, ma'am." "No," said Mrs. Oliver. "Of course not. I didn't want to go with my feelings then. I don't want to go with my feelings now." "I agree. You're right. If you don't like to go with your gut, you've got to get the facts out. I've had a hard time trying to figure it out, but maybe you don't think so."

"Just walk here and there, chat with people, see if they are good people, and then ask a few questions?" "Completely correct." "What did that work out?" "I have clarified some facts," said Poirot, "and when they are arranged in chronological order at a certain time, they will be able to explain the problem." "Is that all? Have you figured out anything else?" "No one believes Joyce, Reynolds will tell the truth." "Does she say she witnessed a murder? But I heard her say it myself." "Yes, she did, but no one believed it to be true, so it may not be true."

"I don't think so," said Mrs. Oliver. "Your facts seem to set you back. You haven't stood your ground, let alone made any progress." "Things need to be consistent. For example, in the case of forged wills, it is said that the foreign girl won the favor of an elderly rich widow, and the old lady left a will (or a rider in the will) that put All the property was left to this girl, was the will forged by the girl herself or someone else?" "Who else forged a will?" "There was also a document forger in the village who had been charged before but was let go because it was a first-time offender and there were extenuating circumstances."

"Is it a new character? Or something I already know?" "You don't know him. He's dead." "Oh? When did you die?" "About two years ago, I don't know the exact date, but I'll find out, he had forged papers and lived locally. He was knifed to death late one night just because he had a girlfriend and made him jealous. I have One thought, these accidents seem to be more closely connected than we thought. There are some that we can't imagine, maybe not all are connected, but two or three." "That sounds interesting," said Mrs. Oliver, "but I don't understand."

"So am I at the moment," replied Poirot, "but I think dates can help us. Dates, places, what happened, what they were doing. Everyone thinks that the foreign girl A forged will, perhaps," said Poirot, "perhaps everyone is right. Isn't she the direct beneficiary? Wait a minute—wait a minute—" "Waiting for what?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "I suddenly had an idea," said Poirot. Mrs. Oliver sighed and picked up another date. "Madam, are you going back to London? Are you going to stay here any longer?" "The day after tomorrow," replied Mrs. Oliver. "I can't stay any longer. I have a lot of things to do." "Then, your house, you have moved so many times, I can't remember where it is, do you have a guest room in your house?" "I never say there is," said Mrs. Oliver. "If you say there is a vacant room in London, and someone wants to take it, all friends are not only friends, but acquaintances, or acquaintances." My distant relatives would write to ask if I would mind letting them stay for one night. That's why I don't tell people I have a vacant room until my friends come to live there. It's what I really want to see, not other people if I can't, I can't help you, I don't like being taken advantage of." "Who would like that?" said Hercule Poirot. "You are very shrewd." "But what exactly is it?" "If necessary, can you keep a guest or two?" "Perhaps," replied Mrs. Oliver, "who do you want to live with me? Not yourself, your own house is so beautiful, so ultra-modern, so abstract, and it's all squares and rhombuses." sort of thing." "It's just that there may be a need for sensible protection." "Who is protected? Will someone be killed again?" "I hope not, but the possibility exists." "Who? Who? I don't know." "What do you know about your friend?" "Her? Don't know her very well. I only met her on the road, and we used to go out together afterwards. She's quite—how should I put it?—interesting, unlike other people." "Do you think you'll include her in your book?" "I really hate it when people say that, people always say that, but why is it. I don't write about people I know." "Madam, can you say that you sometimes actually include certain people in your books? I mean people you meet, not people you know, and I agree that writing about people you know is not interesting." "You're right," said Mrs. Oliver. "Sometimes you're really understanding. That's what it is. For example, on the bus you see a fat woman eating raisin bread, and she As you move your lips, you feel that she is either talking to someone, or thinking of making a certain phone call, or remembering to write a letter, and you look at her, looking at her shoes, her clothes skirt, guessed her age, and whether she was wearing a wedding ring, and then you got out of the car, you didn't want to see her again, but you made up a story in your head, a Mrs. Carnaby sitting in the public she just went on a weird date somewhere where she saw a guy in a pastry shop who she thought was dead, but apparently he's alive, oh my god," Oliver said. The lady paused and took a breath. "That's it. I met someone on the bus before I left London. Now I've made up such a story in my head. The complete story will come out soon, as she will What would she say, if she'd be in danger, or someone else would be in danger or something. I even know her name. Her name is Constance, Carnaby. Only one thing can ruin it all. " "What's up?" "If I meet her again on another bus, and talk to her, and get to know her, it will all be ruined, no doubt about it." "Yes, yes. The story has to be your own, and the characters are your own. She's like your child, you created her, you started to understand her, how she felt, where she lived, what she was doing, but If it were a real, living person, if you knew who that person was—then the story wouldn’t exist, would it?” "You're right again," Mrs. Oliver replied. "I think you're right about asking about Judith. I mean we spend a lot of time together on the trip, but I don't really know her very well. Her husband Died, left a child, but didn't leave her any money, Miranda, you have seen, I really have a very interesting feeling for them, I think they are very important, like a very interesting drama As if it had anything to do with it, I don't want to know what kind of scene it was, and I don't want them to tell me, but I'd like to imagine that scene as suitable for them." "Yeah, yeah, I can tell—hey, they're going to be characters in another Ariadrie Oliver bestseller." "You really can't spit ivory out of your mouth," Mrs. Oliver reproached. She stopped and thought for a while quietly and said, "But you can't say for sure." "It's not a vulgar thing to say. It's human nature." "You want me to invite Judith and Miranda to my flat in London?" "Not yet," replied Poirot, "when I can be sure that I am right." "What are you thinking again? I just got a message to tell you." "Ma'am, I'm so glad." "Don't be too happy, I'm afraid you will overthrow all your ideas. Just imagine, if I tell you that the forged documents you talked about for a long time are not forged at all. What will you do?" "What did you say?" "That Mrs. A. Jones, Smythe or something did write a rider to her will, leaving all the money to the girl who served her, and two witnesses saw her sign it, Those two witnesses were there and signed it. Think about it."