Chapter 13 Chapter Thirteen

Mrs. Oliver, mirror in hand, approached Hercule Poirot.At this point, the Carpenters' dinner was drawing to a close.Until then, both of them had been prominent and central figures in their own circles.Now that a lot of gin has been drunk, the atmosphere of the party is harmonious, old friends and acquaintances can easily get together, repeat the gossip and gossip that everyone is familiar with, and the two outsiders can have the opportunity to exchange information and talk. "Go out on the balcony," said Mrs. Oliver, in a low voice like a conspirator. At the same time, she stuffed a small piece of paper into his hand.

They walked out together, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, and onto the balcony.Poirot opened the paper. "Dr. Rendell," he read. His questioning eyes turned to Mrs. Oliver.Mrs. Oliver nodded vigorously, and a large white hair fell down and covered her face with her nod. "He's a murderer," said Mrs. Oliver. "Do you think so? Why?" "Intuitively," said Mrs. Oliver, "he's the type. Warm, amiable, and so on." "Maybe." Poirot's voice was uncertain. "But what do you think his motives should be?" "Unprofessional conduct," said Mrs. Oliver. "Mrs. McGinty knew about it. But whatever the reason, you can be pretty sure he did it. I watched all the others carefully and he was the most Doubtful."

In reply Poirot said casually: "Someone tried to push me over the tracks at Kiltchester train station last night." "My God. You mean, someone is trying to murder you." "There is no doubt that I think so." "And Dr. Rendell was out last night. I know that fact." "I understand—yes—that Dr. Rendell is out." "That fact speaks for itself, then," said Mrs. Oliver with satisfaction. "Not quite sure," said Poirot. "Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter were in Gilchester last night, and they went home separately. Mrs. Rendell may have been home alone all evening listening to the radio, perhaps She wasn't like that—nobody can prove it. Miss Henderson goes to the movies a lot in Kiltchester."

"She didn't go last night. She was at home, she told me herself." "You can't really believe everything you're told," Poirot reproached, "the whole family always sticks together. On the other hand, Frieda, the foreign maid, was indeed at a movie last night. Therefore, she Can't prove to us who's at home and who's not at Hunter's! You see, it's not that easy to narrow it down." "I can assure you that we will succeed," Mrs. Oliver asked. "When did that incident you speak of happen?" "The exact time is nine thirty-five."

"Then Rabenhams' family can be completely excluded. From eight to half-past ten, Robin, his mother, and I have been patiently playing poker." "I also thought that you and he were probably locked up and working closely together?" "Leave the old mother aside and let her jump on the motorcycle hidden in the bushes?" Mrs. Oliver laughed, "No, the old mother is always under our noses." She let out a long sigh when a sad thought came to her. "Cooperation," she said painfully, "the whole incident is a complete nightmare! How can you bear to see a big black beard stuck on the face of Superintendent Battelle, and then tell you that that person is you."

Poirot thought for a moment, blinking his eyes. "This proposal is a nightmare!" "Now you understand what I have suffered." "I suffer too," said Poirot. "Mrs. Somerhays's cooking is indescribable. It's not cooking at all. And the cold wind, howls of hungry bellies." The cat, the long-haired dog, the chair with the broken leg, and the horrible bed I lay in to sleep on"—he closed his eyes, remembering the pain again—"the water in the bathroom It wasn't hot at all, there were holes all over the stair floor, and the coffee—the liquid they called coffee was indescribably unpalatable. It was an insult to the stomach."

"My God," said Mrs. Oliver, "but, you know, she's very nice." "Mrs. Somerhays? She's charming, she's pretty charming. That makes things worse." "Here she is," said Mrs. Oliver. Maureen Summerhays was coming towards them. An expression of ecstasy spread across her freckled face, and she held a wine glass in her hand.She smiled warmly at both of them. "I think I'm getting a little tipsy," she said, "so many lovely gins. I do love parties! We don't have parties very often at Broadhinney. This time it's because you two are so famous characters. I wish I could write books too. My problem is, I can't do anything right."

"You are a good wife and a good mother, madam," said Poirot drunkenly. Maureen's eyes widened.Her eyes were charming on her little freckled face.Mrs. Oliver had no idea how old she was.Not more than thirty, she thought. "Really?" said Maureen. "I don't know. I love every one of them with all my heart, but is that enough?" Poirot cleared his throat. "Please don't think I'm presumptuous, ma'am. A wife who really loves her husband should take good care of his belly, which is very important, belly." Maureen seemed offended. "Johnny's got a nice belly," she said angrily, "very flat. Not really round at all."

"I mean what goes down in the stomach." "You mean my cooking," Maureen said, "I never thought it mattered much what a person ate." Poirot uttered a groan. "I never thought it mattered much what a person wore or what he did," Maureen said dreamily. "I never cared about specifics." She remained silent for a while, her eyes were dimly drunk, as if she was looking far away. "A woman wrote a letter one day," she began suddenly, "a very stupid letter. Asked what was the best way—to give your child to someone else who could give it to him." Provide all benefits - all benefits, that's what she said - she meant a good education, nice clothes, and a comfortable environment - or, in cases where you can't offer your child anything Whether you should keep the baby with you or not. I think it's a very stupid idea - downright stupid. If you can feed the child - that's enough."

She stared down at the empty glass in her hand as if it were a crystal glass. "I should know," she said, "that I was once an adopted child. My mother left me and I got all the benefits, as they say. But just thinking about it doesn't really I really want you, and it always hurts to think that your mother could have the heart to let you go." "Perhaps it was a sacrifice for your own good," said Poirot. Her bright eyes met his. "I don't think that's the case. It's them deceiving themselves. But what it comes down to is that they were able to leave you... It hurts. I would never give up on my kids - not even for everything in the world Never give up the benefits!"

"I think you're quite right," said Mrs. Oliver. "I agree too," said Poirot. "That's all right, then," said Maureen cheerfully. "What are we still arguing about?" Robin came over from the floor-to-ceiling windows, stood with them and asked: "Oh, what are you arguing about?" "Adoption," Maureen said, "I don't like being adopted, do you?" "Oh, that's much better than being an orphan, don't you think so, dear? I think we should go now, don't we, Ariaden?" The guests left together, and Dr. Rendell had left in a hurry.They strolled down the hill together, chattering cheerfully as they went, thanks to the cocktails. When they got to Rabnum's door, Robin insisted that everyone go in. "Go in and tell mamma all about to-day's party. Poor dear old mamma, shut up all alone at home all day because she can't walk on her legs. But she hates being ignorant of what's going on around her." They were elated and flocked to it.Mrs. Upward seemed delighted to see them. "Who else was there?" she asked. "Did the Wetherbys go?" "No. Mrs. Weatherby is not well, and the sullen Miss Henderson would not go herself." "It's pathetic the way she is, isn't it?" said Mrs. Rundle. "I think that's just unreasonable and pathological," Robin replied. "Her mother made it all up," said Maureen. "Some mothers really nearly drag their kids to death, don't they?" Maureen flushed suddenly when she met Mrs. Upward's inquiring look. "Am I burdening you, Robin?" asked Mrs. Upward. "Mom! Of course not!" In order to hide her panic, Maureen hastily brought up something about her feeding Irish setters.Conversation became mechanical. Mrs. Upward said conclusively: "You can't break away from the genetic relationship—people and dogs are alike in that regard." Mrs. Rundle said in a low voice: "Don't you think the environmental factor is crucial?" Mrs. Upward interrupted her: "No, dear. I don't think so. Circumstances are superficial factors—that's all. Blood is what matters." Hercule Poirot's eyes rested curiously on Mrs. Rendle's flushed face.She said in a tone that seemed unnecessarily strong: "But that's cruel—and unreasonable." Mrs. Upward said: "Life itself does not make sense." The drawn-out voice of Johnny Summerhays broke in: "I agree with Mrs. Upward. Blood speaks for itself, and has always been my creed." Mrs. Oliver said suspiciously: "You mean that some things are passed down from generation to generation. It's passed down to the third or fourth generation—" Suddenly Maureen Summerhays said in her sweet high voice: "But there is a saying: 'Be compassionate to all beings.'" Once again everyone present felt a little awkward, and perhaps it seemed out of place for this serious quote to be inserted into the conversation at this point. They turned their attention on Poirot, and the conversation turned. "Tell us about Mrs. McGinty's case, Mr. Poirot. Why didn't the sad lodger try to kill her?" "He used to walk around in those little alleys and think about it," Robin said. "I'd run into him a lot. And sure, he looked really weird." "You must have some reason why you think he didn't kill, M. Poirot. Tell us about it." Poirot smiled at them.He twitched his beard. "If he didn't kill, who killed him?" "Yes, who is it?" Mrs. Upward said dryly, "Don't make it hard for him. He may be suspecting one of us." "One of us? Oh!" Amid the uproar, Poirot's eyes met Mrs. Upward's.Was Mrs. Upward's look of smugness--and something else--perhaps deliberate provocation? "He suspects one of us," said Robin cheerfully. "So, Maureen," he asked threateningly, "where were you on the night it happened—what night was it? " "The twenty-second of November," replied Poirot. "Where were you on the night of November 22nd?" "God, I don't know," Maureen said. "It's been so long that no one remembers it well," said Mrs. Rundle. "Ah, I can remember," said Robin, "because I was on the radio that night. I drove to Cole Porter to give a play review. The reason I remember it well is because it took me quite a while. Time to discuss Galsworthy's cleaning lady. The next day, Mrs. McGinty was killed, and I wonder if the cleaning lady in Galsworthy's script met the same fate as Mrs. McGinty." "Yes," said Mrs. Rundle suddenly, "I remember now, because you said your mother was going to stay home alone, and I came here with her after supper. It was just unfortunate that I couldn't get her to listen." radio." "Let me see," said Mrs. Upward, "oh! yes, of course. I was in bed with a headache. My bed looked out on the back garden." "The next day," says Sheila Rendell, "when I heard that Mrs. McGinty had been killed, I thought, 'Oh! I might have passed a murderer in the dark'—because at first, We all thought it must have been done by a homeless man who broke into the house." "Well, I still can't remember what I was doing," said Maureen, "but I do remember the next morning very well. It was the baker who told us." Old Mrs. McGinty was shut up ’ he said. I was just wondering why she didn’t show up like she usually does.” There was a tremor in her body. "That's awful, isn't it?" she said. Mrs. Upward still had her eyes fixed on Poirot. Poirot thought to himself: "She is a woman with a very high IQ—a cruel and selfish person. Whatever she does, she has no regrets, no nervous hesitation..." A thin voice was speaking—urging and urging, but also whining. "Have you found any clue, M. Poirot?" The speaker is Sheila Rendell. Johnny Summerhays' long dark face brightened. "Yeah, clues," he said, "I like to look for clues when I read detective novels. Clues mean everything to the detective—and nothing to the reader—until you get through the book." Until you understand it. Can you give us a little clue, M. Poirot!" Everyone laughed, and their earnest eyes turned to him.It's a fun game for all of them (maybe not for one?).But murder is no game—murder is dangerous.You can't imagine how dangerous it is. Unexpectedly, Poirot pulled four photographs out of his pocket. "You want a clue?" he said. "Look, here it is!" With a very exaggerated movement, he threw all the photos on the table. They all crowded over, bent down to compete for a look, and talked a lot. "Look!" "This outfit is really old fashioned!" "Look at the rose again." "My God, look at that hat!" "What a terrible child!" "But who are these people?" "Isn't it funny to be trendy?" "That woman must have been a beauty." "But why are these people clues?" "Who are they?" Poirot slowly looked at each face one by one. He got nothing but what he might have expected. "Don't you know any of these people?" "know?" "May I say this, don't you remember seeing one of these photographs before? But, ah - Mrs. Upward, do you? You recognize something, can you?" Mrs. Upward hesitated for a moment. "Yes—I think—" "Which one?" She extended her index finger and landed on Lily Gamble's bespectacled baby face. "Have you seen this picture—when?" "Recently . . . where—no, I can't remember. But I'm sure I've seen a photograph very similar to this." She sat there, her brows furrowed tightly together. It was only when Mrs. Rendell spoke to her that she recovered. "Good-bye, Mrs. Upward. If you are feeling well any day, I do hope you will join me for tea." "Thank you, honey. If Robin will push me up the hill I will." "Of course I would, Mother. Pushing your wheelchair made me very muscular. Do you remember the day we went to the Wetherbys? The road was muddy—" "Ah!" exclaimed Mrs. Upward suddenly. "What's the matter, mother?" "Nothing. Go on." "I pushed you up the hill the other day. The wheelchair slipped, and then my feet slipped. I thought we'd never get home." After a burst of laughter, everyone got up to say goodbye and walked out one after another. Too much wine, Poirot thought, would certainly make one's speech indiscreet. Is it smart to show these photos, or stupid?Was that gesture also the effect of alcohol? He wasn't sure. However, after apologizing to everyone in a low voice, he turned around and returned. He pushed open the door and walked toward the main house, and through the open window to his left he heard two men whispering.That was the voice of Robin and Mrs. Oliver.Mrs. Oliver said little, and Robin talked a lot.Poirot pushed open the door, passed through the door on the right, and entered the room from which he had left not so long ago.Mrs. Upward was sitting before the fire, looking sullen and forbidding.She was lost in thought, and his entry frightened her.Hearing his apologetic cough, she suddenly looked up. "Ah," she said, "it was you. You frightened me." "I'm sorry, ma'am. Do you think this is anyone else? Who do you think this is?" She made no answer to this, but said: "Did you drop anything?" "I'm afraid I've left danger behind." "Danger?" "Perhaps it is a danger to you. Because you just recognized one of the photographs." "I didn't say I recognized it. All the old photos look very similar." "Listen, ma'am. Mrs. McGinty recognized one of the photographs, too, or so I believe. And Mrs. McGinty is dead." With an unexpected look of humor in Mrs. Upward's eyes, she said: "Mrs. McGinty's dead. How did she die? Stick her neck out like I did. Is that what you mean?" "Yes. If you know anything—anything, tell me right now. It's safer that way." "My dear sir, it's not so simple. I'm not at all sure that I really know anything--certainly not as sure as the truth. A vague memory is a delicate thing. One should always wonder how it happened." Things, when and where, you understand what I mean." "But it seems to me that you have already remembered." "Not only that. There are all sorts of factors to be considered. It is no use urging me now, Monsieur Poirot. I am not one to be urged to a decision. I have myself With my mind, I take my time and think things through slowly. Once I make a decision, I act. But I don’t act rashly if I’m not ready.” "You are a mystery woman in many ways, madam." "Perhaps—in a sense, knowledge is power, and power must be used only for the right result. You will forgive me for saying this, but you may not appreciate our English country way of life." "In other words, you mean, 'Are you just a nasty gringo?'" Mrs. Upward smiled slightly and said: "It shouldn't be so rude." "If you don't want to talk to me, you can go to Superintendent Spence." "My dear Poirot. I will not speak to the police. This is not the time." He shrugged. "I warned you," he said. For by now, he was sure, Mrs. Upward must have remembered very well exactly when and where she had seen the picture of Lily Gamble.