Chapter 10 chapter Ten

Poirot visited the third house only after lunch.The lunch of simmered oxtail, tomato soup, and the kind of food that Maureen optimistically hoped could be made into pancakes all tasted weird. Poirot strolled up the hill.Presently, one turn to the right, and he would come to the Rabenhams compound.It was two small courtyards joined together, restored to modern taste, and here lived Mrs Upward and her promising young playwright, Robin Upward. At the door, Poirot stopped, stretched out a hand, and smoothed his beard.At this time, a car drove down the hill, and an apple core was thrown from the car with force, hitting Poirot on the cheek.Poirot jumped to his feet with a cry of protest.The car stopped, and a man poked his head out of the window.

"I'm very sorry, did I hit you?" Poirot fell silent before he could reply, the face was dignified, the gray hair curled in untidy waves, the chords of his memory were being plucked, and especially the apple core helped to remind him of it. "I am sure," he exclaimed, "that you are Mrs. Oliver." Indeed, it was the famous writer of detective stories. With an exclamation: "Ah, it's Mr. Poirot." The female writer tried to get out of the car immediately. The car was small, and Mrs. Oliver was a tall woman. Poirot hurried forward to help . She explained in a low voice, "I'm exhausted after all this driving." Oliver popped out of the car and stood on the road like a volcanic eruption.

A large number of apples also rolled down the hill happily following her voice. "The bag is broken," explained Mrs. Oliver. She shook off a few scraps of apple peel from her breast coat, and then, shaking her huge head like a giant Newfoundland dog, the last apple hidden in her dress fell from her body. Rolling down, chasing the apples rolling down the hill. "My bag of apples is rotten," said Mrs. Oliver. "These are good apples. But I suppose there must be plenty of apples in the country here, isn't there? Maybe they're all shipped out. I found So many things are so queer now. Now, how are you, M. Poirot? You don't live here? Yes, I'm sure you don't. So, I guess it must be murder? I hope not My landlady?"

"Who is your landlady?" "There," said Mrs. Oliver, nodding her head. "I mean, if that house is called Rabenhams, it should be that place. After passing the church, on the hillside to the left, yes, it must be that place." She asked again: "How is my landlady?" "You don't know her?" "Yes, let's say I'm here for my professional needs, and one of my books is being adapted into a play by Robin Upward. We're going to go through the script together." "I congratulate you." "That's not the case at all," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's pure distress. I don't even know why I did it. The books I write bring me enough money, that is, those The vampires make a lot of money from my books. If I get more, they make more. So, I don't overwork myself. But, you don't feel the pain of someone else taking your characters Change the image and make them say things they never said and do things they would never do. If you protest, they'll say that's the way to go. That's Robin U. Puward's head is full of ideas. Everyone says he's smart, and if he's that smart, I don't see why he doesn't write his own script and let my poor unfortunate Finn get away with it? Now, he’s changed so much that he’s not even a Finn, he’s a member of a Norwegian protest movement.”

She reached out and ran a hand through her hair. "Oh, where did I get my hat?" Poirot looked into the car. "Ma'am, I think you must have sat it down." "Ah. It does seem to be the case." Mrs. Oliver agreed, took the flattened hat, and examined it. "Ah, well," she went on cheerfully, "I've never been much of a fan of the hat, but I think I might have to go to church on Sunday, and though His Excellency said it didn't have to be, I think the old-fashioned The vicar still wants hats to go to church. But tell me about your murder or something, and do you remember our murder?"

"Unforgettable." "Very interesting, isn't it? Not really murder--I don't like that at all. But then I do. Who's this time?" "This one is not as interesting as Mr. Sheitana. An old cleaning lady who was robbed and murdered a few months ago. You may have seen it in the papers. Her name is Mrs. McGinty. A young man He was charged with the crime and sentenced to death." "But he didn't do it, and you know who did it, and you're going to prove the truth," Mrs. Oliver responded briskly. "It's wonderful!" "You're going too far," said Poirot with a sigh. "I don't know who did it at the moment—and there's a lot to do to prove the truth from there."

"Men are always so slow," said Mrs. Oliver in a disparaging tone. "I'll tell you who did it in no time. Somebody in the area, I guess? Give me a day or two, let me go around, and I'll see who the murderer is, with a woman's intuition —that's what you need, and in the case of Sheitana, I was quite right, wasn't I?" Poirot graciously mentioned that Mrs. Oliver had been changing her suspects in that case. "You men," said Mrs Oliver indulgently, "try, if a woman came to head Scotland Yard—" She tossed the good offer into the air when a voice from the yard gate interrupted her.

"Good day," said a very melodious tenor, "are you Mrs. Oliver?" "It's me." Mrs. Oliver agreed, and then whispered to Poirot: "Don't worry, I will be very careful." Robin Upward came down the steps, bald, wearing a pair of very worn gray flannel trousers and a very informal tracksuit.If not for his tendency to put on weight, he would have been quite a good-looking man. "Ariaden, my darling!" he cried, hugging her warmly. He stood back a little, his hand still on her shoulder. "My dear, I have a wonderful idea for the second act."

"Is that so?" said Mrs. Oliver flatly. "This is M. Hercule Poirot." "Great," said Robin. "Have you got your luggage?" "Yes, it's in the back of the car." Robin dragged out two boxes. "It's boring," he said. "We can't find a proper servant, but an old Janet, and we have to accommodate her. It's a nuisance, isn't it? Why is your trunk so heavy? Bomb?" He staggered up the steps, turned around and shouted: "Come in and have a drink." "He's calling you," said Mrs. Oliver, taking a handbag, a book, and a pair of shoes from the front seat of the car, "and you really said just now that you wanted me to be careless? "

"The less afraid of publicity, the better." "I'm not inclined to do that myself," said Mrs. Oliver, "but it's your murder, and I'll do my best to help you." Robin appeared at the door again. "Come in, come in," he cried, "wait for that car. Old mother is anxious to see you." Mrs. Oliver hurried up the steps, followed by Hercule Poirot. The interiors of Rabnamis are very classy.Poirot guessed that a great deal of money must have been spent on it, and that the result was expensive, yet tastefully simple, and every little oak plank was genuine.Laura Upward sits in a wheelchair by the fireplace in the living room.She greeted with a smile.She was a lively, high-spirited woman of about sixty, with an iron-gray scalp and a hard, recalcitrant jaw.

"I am delighted to meet you, Mrs. Oliver," she said. "I know you don't like to be flattered about your books to your face. But, over the years, your books have been my great comfort— —especially since I've become such a handicap." "It's very kind of you to say that," said Mrs. Oliver, with a very uncomfortable expression, her hands clasped together like a schoolgirl. "Ah, this is M. Poirot. He is an old friend of mine. We met by chance outside your door. In fact, I threw an apple at him." "Hello, M. Poirot. Robin!" "What's the matter, Mom?" "Get us some drinks, where are the cigarettes?" "On that table." Mrs. Upward asked: "Are you a writer too, M. Poirot?" "Oh, no," said Mrs. Oliver, "he's a detective. Like Sherlock Holmes, you know--wearing a buckskin hat, playing a violin, and so on. He's here to To solve a murder." There seemed to be a clink of breaking glasses.Mrs. Upward said loudly: "Robin, be careful." She said to Poirot: "That's very interesting, Mr. Poirot." "So Maureen Summerhays is right," cried Robin, "and she was babbling and telling me we had a detective here, and she seemed to think it was ridiculous. It's pretty serious, though, isn't it?" "Seriously, of course," said Mrs. Oliver. "There's a murderer among you." "Yes, but if you look around, who was murdered? Or was someone buried alive and everyone was terrified and silent?" "Not silent," said Poirot. "You already know about the murder." "McKim--Mrs. What--an old cleaning lady--last autumn," said Mrs. Oliver. "Oh," cried Robin Upward, disappointed, "but that's long gone." "Not at all," said Mrs. Oliver. "They've got the wrong man. If M. Poirot doesn't find out the real murderer in time, he'll be killed. It's a thrilling thing." Robin started handing out drinks to everyone. "This lady in white cocktail is for you, Mom." "Thank you, my darling." Poirot frowned slightly.Robin handed the drinks to Mrs. Oliver and him respectively. "Well," said Robin, "to the evil." He drank it down. "She used to come and work here a lot," he said. "Mrs. McGinty?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Yes. Isn't it, mother?" "You said she often came to work, but she only worked one day a week." "Sometimes I come to work overtime in the afternoon." "What is she like?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Very respectable," said Robin, "very neat, and she keeps everything neat and tidy, and puts it in drawers you can't imagine putting so much stuff in." Mrs. Upward has a cruel tone in her humor: "I'm afraid soon you won't be able to turn around in this little house if someone doesn't tidy it up at least once a week." "I know, Mom, I know. But I can't find everything to work on unless it's in its place. My notebook is always messed up." "I can't help at all, which is annoying," said Mrs Upward, "we have a very faithful old servant, but all she can do is cook. " "What's wrong with you?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Arthritis?" "It's kind of like, I'm afraid I'll need a nanny to take care of me all the time soon, it's annoying, I like to be alone." "Now, honey," said Robin, "don't get excited and get nervous." He patted her arm lightly with his hand. She suddenly smiled at him gently: "Robin was as good as a daughter to me," she said. "He'd do anything—everything was thoughtful. No one was more thoughtful than him." They smile at each other. Hercule Poirot rose to his feet. "Alas," said he, "I must take my leave. I am going out to call on a man, and to catch a train. Thank you, madam, for your hospitality. Mr. Upward, I wish you every success in that play." .” "I wish you success in your murder case," said Mrs. Oliver. "Is this really a serious business, M. Poirot?" asked Robin Upward, "or is it just a terrible practical joke?" "It's no joke, of course," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's absolutely serious. He wouldn't tell me who the murderer was, but he knew. Didn't he?" "No, ma'am," Poirot's protest was very unconvincing, and the tone of the defense was extremely uncertain, "I told you that so far, I can't say that I know." "That's what you said, but I think you do know . . . but you keep it secretive, don't you?" Mrs. Upward screamed: "Is this serious? Isn't this a joke?" "It's not a joke, madam," laughed Poirot. He bowed, turned and left. As he descended the steps, he heard Robin Upward's clear tenor voice: "It's going to be all right, my dear," he said. "And as for that mustache, how can you take him seriously? Do you really believe he's right?" Poirot smiled to himself. Of course he was right, absolutely true. He was about to cross the narrow path when he jerked back just in time. It was the pick-up car from Summerhays's family, and it was staggering over and passing him.The driver was Somerhays. "I'm sorry," he shouted, "I'm in a hurry to catch the train." His vague explanation could still be heard in the distance. Poirot also intended to catch the train—the local train to Kiltchester, where he and Superintendent Spence had arranged to meet. He still had time to visit one more house before catching the train. He walked towards the top of the hill, passed through layers of gates, and walked up a well-maintained driveway, which led to a modern house mainly made of glass and concrete, with a square roof and a large opening in the front wall window.This is the home of the Carpenters.Guy Carpenter, a partner in the very large Carpenter Engineering firm, was very wealthy and had recently entered politics for his career.He and his wife were recently married. It was not a foreign servant, nor a loyal old servant, who opened the door to the Carpenters' house, but a stern-faced butler.He let Hercule Poirot in with great reluctance.In his eyes, Hercule Poirot was one of those visitors who should be turned away.He evidently suspected that Hercule Poirot had come here on a door-to-door basis. "Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter are not at home at the moment." "So maybe I can wait a little while?" "I can't tell when they'll come back." He closed the door. Poirot did not go down the drive, but walked around the corner of the house towards the yard, almost bumping into a tall young woman in a mink coat. "Well," she said, "what on earth do you want?" Poirot politely took off his hat. "I hope," he said, "that I shall have the honor of seeing Mr. Carpenter or his wife. Have I had the honor of seeing Mrs. Carpenter?" "I am Mrs. Carpenter." She replied bluntly, but her tone eased slightly. "My name is Hercule Poirot." There was no reaction, and not only was the great, unique name unknown to her, but Poirot thought she did not even recognize him as the newest guest at the hotel run by Maureen Summerhays. .From this point of view, the news has not spread locally.This is a small fact, but perhaps very important. "Is it?" "I'd like to see Mr. Carpenter or Mrs. Carpenter, but meeting you, ma'am, serves my purposes best. For all I'm asking about are ordinary household matters." "We've got someone like Chief Hoover here," said Mrs. Carpenter doubtfully. Poirot laughed. "No, no, you have misunderstood me. All I have to ask you is a few small questions about household matters." "Ah, you mean those housekeeping questionnaires? I think that's pretty stupid—" She paused. "Perhaps you'd better go inside and say." Poirot smiled, and she kept her mouth shut just enough to keep from uttering outrageous words.Because of her husband's political activities, it is imperative that she chooses words carefully when criticizing the government's actions. She led the way through the hall to a well-sized room that opened onto a manicured garden.It was a pleasant room, furnished with a large sofa and two armchairs, three or four imitations of Chippendale furniture, a chest of drawers, and a writing-table.Its cost is too expensive to count, and they are all purchased from the most famous companies, obviously without personal taste.Why, thought Poirot, did the bride do this?Carefully selected, or just don't care? When she turned, Poirot watched her and appraised her.This is a rich, young and beautiful woman.The hair is platinum, combed very carefully, impeccable, but there is a deeper meaning - a pair of big blue eyes, when the eyes widen, there is a cold light in them, these are a pair of beautiful and intoxicating eyes. She spoke again, her tone elegant, but it was hard to hide her boredom. "Please sit down." Poirot sat down and said: "You are very kind, and now I wish to ask you questions. These questions have to do with a late Mrs. McGinty--that is to say, the old woman who was murdered--in the fall of last year. " "Mrs. McGinty? I don't know what you mean by that." She stared at him piercingly, suspiciously. "Do you remember her murder? Or was it so widely known around here that it was known to almost everyone, and you didn't notice it?" "Oh, the murder? Ah, of course I do. I just forgot the old lady's name." "Even if she worked for you in this yard, can you forget her?" "She didn't work for me. I wasn't living here. Mr. Carpenter and I had only been married three months." "But she did work for you. Every Friday morning, I think, when you were Mrs. Selak and you lived in the Rose Garden." She said sullenly: "I don't see why you need to ask a question if you know everything. What's going on anyway?" "I am starting to investigate the circumstances relating to that murder." "Why? Why exactly? Anyway, why did you come to me?" "You may know something which may help me." "I don't know anything. Why should I know? She's just a stupid old cleaning lady. She hid money under the floorboards and someone robbed her and killed her for it. It's disgusting - it's The whole thing is disgusting, like the stuff you read in those weekend editions." Poirot looked up quickly. "Like a weekend paper, yes. Like a story in the Sunday Comet. You read the Sunday Comet, perhaps?" She jumped up on both feet and stumbled towards the French windows that had been left open to the garden.She walked unsteadily and almost bumped into the frame of the French window.It reminded Poirot of a great moth flapping its wings blindly towards the lamplight. She yelled, "Guy! Guy!" A man's voice answered not far away: "Eva?" "Come here quickly." A tall man of about thirty-five appeared.He quickened his pace, went up to the balcony, and walked towards the French windows.Eva Carpenter yelled at him: "Here's a man—a foreigner. He asked me about that terrible murder last fall. The old cleaning lady—do you remember? I hate that kind of thing. You know I hate that." Guy Carpenter frowned and walked through the French windows into the living room.His face was long, like a horse's, pale, and very haughty, as if he had no one in his eyes.He has an air of conceit. Hercule Poirot found him unattractive. "May I ask what the hell is going on?" he asked. "You're making my wife angry?" Hercule Poirot spread his palms. "Annoying such a charming lady is the last thing on my mind, and I just hope that the deceased woman, who once worked for her, may be of some use to the investigation I am undertaking." "But what investigations were those?" "Yes, ask him that question," urged his wife. "A new inquest into Mrs McGinty's death is being opened." "Nonsense. The case is closed." "No, no, you are mistaken on this point. The case is not closed." "You mean a new investigation?" Guy Carpenter frowned again.He said suspiciously, "Is it the police? Bullshit—you have nothing to do with the police." "Exactly. I handle the case independently and have nothing to do with the police." "It's the press," Eva Carpenter put in. "It's the dreaded weekend papers. He said so." There was a cautious look in Guy Carpenter's eye.In his current position and status, he is in no rush to provoke the press.His tone was more cordial and gentle. "My wife is sensitive. Murders and things like that always upset her. I don't think you need to bother her. She knows very little about that woman." Eva yelled in a strong tone: "She's just a stupid old cleaning lady. I told him that." She added: "She also lied." "Oh, that's interesting," said Poirot, his face glowing, looking at the two of them one by one. "So she lied. It may be a valuable clue to us." "I don't understand," Eva sulked. "The motive," said Poirot, "is the very line which I want to follow." "She was robbed and killed because of the money she had saved," Carpenter said sharply. "That was the motive." "Oh," said Poirot softly, "but is that really the case?" He stands up like an actor who has just spoken a line. "I am very sorry if I have caused my lady any pain or discomfort," he said politely. "It is always rather unpleasant." "The whole thing has been frustrating," Carpenter said quickly. "My wife, of course, doesn't like to think about it. I'm sorry we can't give you any news." "Ah, but you have provided useful information." "Will you repeat what you said?" Poirot said softly: "Mrs. McGinty lied. It's a valuable fact. Please be specific, ma'am. What exactly did she lie about?" He waited politely for Eva Carpenter to speak.She finally said: "Oh, nothing in particular. I mean—I don't remember." Perhaps realizing that both of them were looking at her, wishing her to continue, she added: "Stupid words—talks about people. They can't be true." There was still a silence, and then Poirot said: "I see. Her tongue is dangerous." Eva Carpenter was quick to react: "Oh, no—I didn't mean that, it wasn't that serious. She was just a gossip, gossip, that's all." "Just gossip," said Poirot softly. He made a farewell gesture. Guy Carpenter escorted him out of the drawing room. "What's the name of that paper--the weekly--that you work for?" "The paper I mentioned to Madame," said Poirot carefully, "is the Sunday Comet." He paused.Guy Carpenter said thoughtfully: "The Sunday Comet. I'm afraid I don't read it very often." "Sometimes there are interesting articles and interesting photos on it..." Before the silence lasted too long, he bowed and said quickly: "Goodbye, Mr. Carpenter. I apologize if I bothered you much." After leaving the gate, he looked back at the house again. "I want to know," he said, "yes, I want to know..."