Chapter 4 Chapter Four

Hercule Poirot looked around the room in utter disgust.The room was spacious, but uninspiring.He grimaced as he ran his fingers along the edge of the bookshelf.But the imprints from his fingers confirmed his suspicions—there was dust everywhere.He carefully sat down on a sofa.The sofa creaked and sank beneath him with a snapped spring.There were also two old, faded armchairs in the room, which seemed a little better.The fourth chair seems to be more comfortable, but there is a big dog with a ferocious face squatting beside it, which seems to give a terrifying growl at any time.Poirot suspected mange in the dog.

The room was indeed large, with faded wallpaper and a painting or two on the wall with badly inlaid frames.The chair covers were faded and dirty.The carpet was full of holes and the pattern was not at all pleasing to the eye.There are all kinds of knick-knacks scattered in every corner of the room, and the table looks uneven because of the lack of castors.A window is open, and it is evident that no power in the world can shut it.The door was closed at the moment, and it seemed impossible to keep it closed for too long. Its latch was never secure, and if there was any movement, it would be blown open by the wind, and gusts of cold wind swirled in the room like a whirlpool. .

"I have to suffer," said Hercule Poirot mournfully. "Yes, I'm suffering." The door opened suddenly, and Mrs. Maureen Summerhays entered the room with a gust of wind. She looked around the room, and seemed to call to someone in the distance: "What?" Then turned and went out again. Mrs. Somerhays, red-haired and conspicuously freckled, usually makes a mess when she puts something down or looks for something. Hercule Poirot jumped to his feet and slammed the door shut. A moment later, the door opened again, and Mrs. Summerhays reappeared in the doorway.This time she was holding a large enamel basin and a knife.

A man's voice came in from outside: "Maureen, that cat is sick again, what should I do?" Mrs. Somerhays called, "I'll be right there, my dear, watch it." She put down the porcelain basin and knife, and went out again. Poirot got up again and closed the door, saying: "It seems that I have been condemned for this crime." A car drove up, and the big dog jumped up from the chair with a high-pitched growl, and onto a small table near the window, which fell down with a snap. "My God," said Hercule Poirot, "it can't stand the weight!"

The door opened suddenly, and the cold wind screamed and swept the room, and the dog rushed out, growling all the time.Maureen's voice came, getting louder and clearer. "Johnny, why don't you remember to close the back door, these nasty old hens are stealing food from the pantry." "That is the condition," said Hercule Poirot with emotion, "that I should pay them seven guineas a week." The door slammed and there was the angry clucking of hens from the windows. As the door opened, Mrs. Maureen Somerhays burst in, yelling and throwing herself at the china basin.

"I can't remember where I put this pot. Sir—er—I mean do you mind if I chop my beans here? The smell in the kitchen is awful." "I am honored, madam." It might not have been spoken from the heart, but the meaning was clear, and in twenty-four hours it was the first opportunity for a conversation which Poirot had found lasting more than six minutes. Mrs. Somerhays sank into a chair and began to chop the beans with the knife in a frightening way. "I really hope," she said, "that you don't feel too uncomfortable, and that if you need anything, just say it."

Poirot had realized that the only thing he could bear here was his landlady. "It is very kind of you to say so," he said politely. "I only wish to find you a suitable servant within my power." "Handmaids!" screamed Mrs. Somerhays. "What a wish, but there's not even a single hourly maid to be found. One of our really good hourly maids has been murdered. It's really bad luck." "You mean Mrs. McGinty?" asked Poirot immediately. "It's Mrs. McGinty. God, how I missed that woman! Of course, it was a bit of a blast. It was our first murder here, but, like I did to Johnny That being said, it's definitely a bad thing for us, and I don't know how I'm going to deal with a lot of things without McGinty."

"Do you have a good relationship with her?" "My dear sir, she is a very reliable person. She comes to work with me every Monday morning and Thursday afternoon, and she is on time like clockwork every time. The maid I have now lives in the Over there at the station, she had five kids, and a husband, and of course she was never on time, either because her husband was drunk, or her old mother or the kids got some nasty sickness or something. When there was Mrs. McGinty, if there were any problems, it was at least one person's business, and if there were times when I was not punctual, I must say it never happened!"

"Have you always thought her honest and trustworthy? You have always trusted her?" "Oh, she never steals—never takes food. Of course, she's inquisitive, and she likes to read people's letters, or anything like that. But you can't help being curious, I mean. It's the monotony of everyone's life, isn't it?" "Is Mrs. McGinty's life dull, too?" "I think she's had a terrible time," said Mrs. Somerhays vaguely. "She's always on her knees wiping floors, and then there's piles of other people's stuff sitting there every evening, and so on." I want her to wash it the next day. If I lived like this every day, I would think it would be a relief to be killed, I really would think so."

Major Somerhays poked his head through the window, and Mrs. Somerhays rose from her chair, pushed the beans aside, rushed to the window, and opened it as far as it would go. "That damned dog is eating hens again, Maureen." "Oh shit, now it's sick!" "Look here," asked John Summerhays, holding up a colander, "is that much spinach enough?" "Of course not enough." "I think that's enough." "Once it's fried, it's only as big as a teaspoon. Don't you know how much a colander can hold?" "Oh my God!"

"Has the fish been delivered?" "not yet." "Damn it, we've got to uncork the cans. You do it, John, there's a bottle in that cupboard in the corner of the room. It's the one that bulges out a bit, and I think it tastes all right." "What about the spinach?" "I'll fry." She jumped out of the window and the couple left together. Poirot walked across the room to the window and closed it as securely as possible.Summerhays' voice was able to reach his ears with the wind. "How's the new guy, Maureen? I think he's kind of weird. What's his name?" "I don't remember talking to him just now. It was probably—er—Poirot. That's the name. He's a Frenchman." "You know, Maureen, I think I've heard that name before." "Maybe in the barber's, he looks like a barber." Poirot bowed his head. "No, maybe it's nonsense, I don't know, but I'm sure I've heard the name, but you'd better get the first week's seven guineas from him as soon as possible." The sound slowly died away. Hercule Poirot picked up the beans, and Mrs. Somerhays scattered them all over the floor as she ran to the window.As soon as the beans were picked, Mrs. Somerhays came through the door again, and Poirot politely handed her the beans. "Here you are, ma'am." "Oh, thank you very much, I said, these beans look a little black, you know, we put them in the crock pot and salt them. But these seem to have gone bad, I'm afraid it won't be very good eat." "I think so too. Will you allow me to close the door? It's too windy." "Oh yes, close it. But I always leave the door open." "I've noticed." "Anyway, the door was never shut tight, and the house was practically falling to pieces. John's parents lived here. They were in a bad place, poor couple. The house has been restored. Then we came here from India and couldn't afford to fix it. During the holidays it's a favorite place for the kids, lots of rooms for them to run wild in and out of and the garden and yard It is very big, we have received some guests who are willing to pay the rent, and the income is only enough to maintain our daily expenses." "Am I your only guest at present?" "There is an old lady living upstairs above us. She has lived here since that day. I don't see anything wrong with her. Speaking of her, I send her four dishes every day. She Her appetite is good. Anyway, she's leaving to-morrow to see her niece or some relation." Mrs. Somerhays paused, then spoke again, and there was some trace of falsehood in her voice. "The fishman will be here in a minute, and I wonder if you would mind—err—paying the first week's rent first. You're staying here for a week, aren't you?" "Maybe longer." "I'm sorry to bother you, but I don't have any cash on hand right now, and you know what these people are these days—they're always in debt." "You needn't apologize, Madame." Poirot offered seven pounds and seven shillings.Mrs. Summerhays hastily collected the money. "thank you very much." "Madame, perhaps I should tell you more about me. My name is Hercule Poirot." This recognizable name did not arouse any reaction from Mrs. Summerhays. "What a lovely name," she said eagerly. "Is it a Greek name?" "Perhaps you have heard," said Poirot, "that I am a detective." He patted himself on the breast, "perhaps the most famous detective in the world today." Mrs. Somerhays exclaimed happily. "I think you are a great joker, M. Poirot. What do you spy on? Picking up cigarette butts, or looking for footprints?" "I'm investigating Mrs. McGinty's murder," said Poirot, "and I'm not joking." "Why," said Mrs. Summerhays, "I cut my finger." She held up a finger and looked. Then she looked at Poirot again. "You mean to investigate here?" she asked. "I mean it's over, it's all over, they've arrested the poor brainless fool, he's renting her house, he's been tried and sentenced, everything It's all over. Now, he's probably hanged." "No, ma'am," said Poirot, "he has not been hanged—at least not yet. And the matter is not 'in the past'—Mrs. McGinty's case is not closed. I want to use your country A poet's words remind you: 'A thing is not over until it is over—and it is.'” "Oh," replied Mrs. Somerhays, turning her attention from Poirot to the enamel basin on her lap, "my hands are bleeding all over the basin, and we take Not a bad idea for those beans for lunch. But that's all right, they're meant to be boiled anyway. They'd still be edible if they were boiled, wouldn't they? Even the ones in the canning jar." "I think," said Hercule Poirot calmly, "that I shall not have my lunch here."