Chapter 2 Chapter two

The phone rang. Hercule Poirot seemed not to notice at all. The bell continued to ring harshly. George came in, went to the telephone, and cast a questioning look at Poirot. Poirot made a gesture. "Don't take it," he said. George obeyed and walked out of the room again.The phone was still ringing, an unbearable incessant ringing.Suddenly, it stopped.However, a minute or two later, the ringing started again. "Oh, my God! It must be a woman--a woman, no doubt." He sighed, got up and went to the phone. He picked up the receiver and said, "Hello," "Are you—are you M. Poirot?"

"I am." "I'm Mrs. Oliver—you have a strange voice. I didn't catch it at first." "Morning, ma'am—are you well?" "Okay, thanks to you." Allan Oliver's tone was still joyful.The famous writer of detective stories had a good personal relationship with Hercule Poirot. "I'm sorry to call you so early, but I want to ask you a favor." "Please say." "Our Detective Writers Club is having our annual dinner, and I wonder if you would be honored to be our guest speaker this year. I would be very grateful if you could come."

"What date?" "Next month—the twenty-third." A long sigh came from the phone. "Oh! I'm too old!" "Too old? What are you talking about? You're not old at all." "Don't you think you're not old?" "Of course not old, you are too ideal. You can tell us many interesting real crimes." "Who wants to listen?" "Everyone wants it. They—Mr. Poirot, what's wrong? What happened? You seem to have something on your mind." "Yeah, I'm kind of unhappy. I'm kind of sentimental—well, nothing."

"Tell me." "Why should I make such a fuss?" "What's wrong? You'd better come and talk to me. What time? This afternoon? Come and have some tea." "Afternoon tea, I don't drink it." "Then you can drink coffee." "I usually don't drink coffee at that time." "Hot chocolate? With whipped cream? Or a juice. I know you like hot juice. Lemon juice, orange juice, or some decaffeinated coffee, I'll try to get some -" "How can you think of it! I can't stand it." "How about your favorite molasses? I know I still have half a bottle of Ribina in my cupboard."

"What is Ribina?" "Black grape-flavored molasses." "Okay, I'm convinced of you! You really have a way, madam. I'm really touched by your hospitality. It's better to be obedient than to be respectful. I'll accompany you for a cup of chocolate this afternoon." "Very well, then you have to tell me what's on your mind." She hung up the phone. Poirot thought for a moment, then dialed a telephone number.When connected, he said: "Monsieur Gobbe? This is Hercule Poirot. Are you very busy at the moment?" "It's all right," Mr. Gobbe replied on the phone. "Ordinary to good. But at your service, Mr. Poirot, if you're in a hurry--and you always are--well, I think my boys It’s not that I can’t cope with the things at hand. Of course, it’s not as easy to find young people on the way as in the past. Today’s young people think too much about themselves. Before they start learning, they think they know everything. By the way We can't be too hard on them when we're back. If you have any advice, Mr. Poirot, I'd be more than happy to help you. Maybe I can send a boy or two who can do it for you. I guess it's the usual thing— Do you want to gather some information?"

He nodded frequently when Poirot explained to him the details of the circumstances of his employment.After talking with him, Poirot telephoned the Detective Service in London and put through an acquaintance of his acquaintance.The friend, having listened to Poirot's request, replied: "You don't ask much, do you? There's been a murder, anywhere. No clues to when, where, or who's killed. If you don't mind, man, it sounds like goose hunting. He then added with disapproval: "You don't seem to know anything!" At a quarter past four that afternoon, Poirot sat in Mrs. Oliver's drawing-room, enjoying a large mug of hot chocolate, topped with frothy yogurt, which his mistress placed on a little table beside him. cream.She also set out a large plate of cat tongue biscuits.

"My dear lady, you are too kind." Taking the cup in his hand, he noticed Mrs. Oliver's hairstyle with a little surprise, and also saw the wallpaper on her wall.Both of these are new.When he had last seen Mrs. Oliver, her haircut had been plain and prim.This time, she actually got a whole head full of strange shapes and piles of hair curls and screw loops.Such gorgeous and lush, according to his guess, it must be a wig.He murmured to himself how many locks of curls would fall unawares, if Mrs. Oliver's habitual excitement had occurred.As for the new wallpaper... "These cherries—are they freshly pasted?" He pointed at the teaspoon.He felt like he was in a cherry orchard.

"Isn't that too much, you see?" said Mrs. Oliver. "It's such a pain in the ass to choose the wallpaper. Do you think the old one is better?" Poirot vaguely remembered a large flock of colorful tropical birds in a jungle.He was going to say: "It's not the same after changing it." But I finally restrained myself. "Then," said Mrs. Oliver, seeing her visitor at last put the glass back on the saucer, sat back with a sigh of contented relief, and wiped the cream from her beard, "what is the matter?" ?” "I can tell you this very simply. A girl came to see me this morning and I told her that she should make an appointment with me first. Everyone has a routine, you know that. But she called Said she wanted to see me right away because she thought she might have killed someone."

"What is it? Doesn't she know it herself?" "That's right! No idea! So I had to ask George to bring her to me. She just stood there, wouldn't sit down, just stood there and stared at me. She seemed a little dull. I'm strong for her." Bold. And then she said out of nowhere that she didn't want to talk to me. She said she didn't mean to be rude, but (guess what?)—but I'm too old." Mrs. Oliver hastened to say something comforting. "Why, girls are like that. Anyone over thirty-five they think is half-dead. These girls are ignorant, as you should know."

"But it hurts me to hear that," said Hercule Poirot. "However, if it were me, I wouldn't care about it. Of course it's very rude to say such things." "It doesn't matter. It's not just about how I feel. I'm worried, and I'm worried." "Well, I'll leave it all behind me," Mrs. Oliver advised him calmly. "You don't understand me. I was worried about the girl. She came to see me to ask for my help. Instead, she decided that I was too old to help her. Of course she was wrong. Well, it goes without saying, but then she ran away. But let me tell you, that girl did need help."

"I don't think so," said Mrs. Oliver reassuringly. "Girls like to make a fuss." "Not necessarily. You are wrong, she needs help." "You don't think she really killed someone, do you?" "Why not? She said she killed someone." "True, but—" Mrs. Oliver ended for a moment. "She just said maybe," she said slowly: "It's just, what is her intention in saying this?" "Isn't it? It doesn't make sense." "Who did she kill, or who did she think she killed?" Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "Why did she want to kill?" Poirot shrugged again. "There are many possibilities, of course." Mrs. Oliver's face began to light up as her rich imagination took hold. "She may have run over someone with her car and ran away without stopping. There may have been a man beating her up on a cliff, and she struggled and pushed that one off. She may have inadvertently given the wrong drug to someone. Maybe she Taking drugs with a bunch of people, getting into a fight, and only after waking up did she realize that she had stabbed someone, and she—” "Enough, ma'am, is that enough?" By this time, however, Mrs. Oliver was long gone. "She could have been a nurse in the operating room, given the wrong anesthetic, or—" She paused, suddenly desperate for details. "What does she look like?" Poirot pondered for a while. "Like Ophelia in Hamlet, only without her beauty." "My God," said Mrs. Oliver, "she's almost right in front of me when you put it that way. It's a mystery." "She's not very shrewd, that's how I see her. She's not someone who can handle adversity, or anticipate doom. She's one of those people who look around and say, 'We're going to find a scapegoat, that one. The best fit.' kind of person.” Only, Mrs. Oliver was absent-minded at the moment.She wrapped her hands tightly around the thick curls on her head, a gesture Poirot had long been accustomed to seeing. "Wait," she called out impatiently, "wait a minute." Poirot waited, his eyebrows raised. "You haven't told me her name yet," said Mrs. Oliver. "Unfortunately, you asked very well. But she didn't say anything." "Wait a minute!" Mrs. Oliver was still pondering anxiously.Her grip on the curls relaxed, and she sighed deeply.The curly hair loosened all of a sudden and fell onto the shoulders, a lock of incomparably majestic curly hair fell to the ground intact.Poirot picked it up and put it quietly on the table. "Well," said Mrs. Oliver, suddenly calm.Fastened a few hairpins on his head, nodded thoughtfully and said: "Who mentioned you to her, M. Poirot?" "As far as I know, there is no one. Naturally, no problem, she must have heard of me." Mrs. Oliver thought the word "natural" was not at all appropriate.It's just that Poirot himself thinks that everyone has heard of his name.In fact, many people, especially the younger generation, if someone mentions Hercule Poirot's name, at most they will give you a blank look. "But how can I tell him," thought Mrs. Oliver to herself: "And without hurting his pride?" "I don't think you're quite right," she said. "Girls, and young boys, too—they don't really know much about detectives or anything like that, they don't listen to it at all." "Everyone has at least heard of Hercule Poirot," said Poirot with aloof complacency. For Hercule Poirot this was an unshakable faith. "But they're so poorly educated these days," said Mrs. Oliver. "Really, the only names they know are singers, bands, or pop radio hosts. , if you want to know about someone special, I mean a doctor or a detective or a dentist - well, I mean you have to ask - ask which one to go to? Then someone will tell you:' Dear, you must see the wonderful doctor in Queen Anne's Road, put your legs three times around your head, and you will be cured.' Or: 'My diamonds have been stolen Well, if I go to the police, Henry will be very angry; but there is a very cautious detective, who can keep the secret, he found it for me, and Henry didn't even know the shadow.'--that's the thing. It must be Someone told that girl to come to you." "I don't think so." "When I tell you, you say you know. I can tell you now. I just remembered that the girl came to you because of me. " Poirot stared wide-eyed and said: "You? Then why didn't you tell me right away in the first place?" "Because it just occurred to me--you mentioned Ophelia--long, wet, thinning hair, and plain-looking. The look you describe is very similar to a girl I did see. Just recently. When I think about it again, I remember who she is." "who is it?" "I don't know her name, but it's easy to find out. We were talking about careers and private eyes, and I mentioned you and your great cases." "You just gave her my address?" "No, of course I wouldn't. I had no idea she was looking for a detective or anything like that, I was just making small talk. But maybe I mentioned your name a few times, of course it's easy to look up in the phone book , she ran to find you." "Are you talking about murder?" "I don't seem to remember. I don't know how we got to talk about detectives—unless, yes, maybe she brought it up..." "Come on, tell me all you can think of—even if you don't know her name, at least tell me all you know about her." "Well, last weekend, I stayed at Lorimer's house. The couple were not interested in detectives, and they just took me to a friend's house for a drink and a chat. There were only a few people, and I didn't have much fun. It's good, you know, I'm not really a drinker, so people have to get me something else, and people think I'm difficult. And then people have to talk to me—you know the thing— How they love to read my books and want to know me for a long time, which makes me uncomfortable, upset and funny. But, I have to put it in a way. And they say they like my bad detective Sven? What about He Sen. It's a good thing they don't know that I hate that guy. But my publisher always tells me not to say that. Anyway, when I think about the real life of being a detective, I can't stop talking , I was talking about you, and this girl was just standing there listening. So when you mentioned an ugly Ophelia, I just remembered it. I thought, 'Well, what does this look like? Who?' After that, it dawned on me: 'Of course, it's the girl who was drinking with everyone that day.' I think she should be from that family, unless I mixed her up with someone else." Poirot sighed helplessly.You have to be patient with Mrs. Oliver. "Who are the people who go to drink with you?" "Trifusis, I think it's, or it's a name like Treghani, or something like that—he's a tycoon, rich, has some businesses in the city, but lives in South Africa most of the time—" "Does he have a wife?" "Yes, a very pretty woman, much younger than he was, with thick blond hair. There was an old man, almost deaf. The old man had a formidable reputation—lots of titles, a Admiral or Air Marshal or something. He's an astronomer too, I guess. He's got a big telescope on the roof anyway. Of course, that's probably a hobby of his. There's a foreign girl there, too. Follow the old gentleman closely. I think I will accompany him to London too, and take care of him from being hit by a car. She is beautiful, that girl. " Poirot summed up the information Mrs. Oliver had given him, and felt like a computer guy. "So, the Trifuses and his wife lived in this house—" "It wasn't Trifuses—I remember now—it was Restarike." "It's not the same kind of surname at all." "Yes. It's an ancient surname in the South West of England, isn't it?" "Then, it's the Resdericks who live there. That famous old man, is his surname Resdericks too?" "Looks like Ser Roderick or something." "There is also the girl who helped take care of him, regardless of her identity, and a daughter—is there any other children?" "Probably not--but I don't really know. Oh, yes, the daughter doesn't live at home. She was just back for the weekend, I don't think she gets on very well with her stepmother. She has a share in London." She got a job, got a boyfriend, and her family doesn't seem to be satisfied, I heard that." "You seem to know a lot about this family?" "Oh, you hear a little here and a little there. The Laurimers are very talkative, and they're always talking to each other. They can listen to anyone's gossip. But sometimes, if you listen too much, you'll be confused." It got mixed up. I probably did this time. Why can't I remember the girl's name? It seems to be related to the title of the song...Sura? 'Tell me, Sulla. 'Sura, Sura, kind of like, could it be Myra,' Ah, Myra, my love is all for you. 'Well, it seems to be. 'I dreamed of living in a marble palace,' Norma?Or am I thinking of Maritana? Norma--Norma Resderick.Yes, that's right. " She then added irrelevantly: "She is the third girl. " "I thought you said she was an only child." "Yes—at least that's my impression." "Then what do you mean she is the third girl?" "My God, don't you even know what a third girl is? Do you read The Times?" "I read births, obituaries and marriages, or articles that interest me." "No, I mean the front page ad, but it's not on the front page now, so I'm thinking of resubscribing to another newspaper. Anyway, I'll show it to you." She went to a table, drew out a copy of The Times, turned a page, and showed him. "Look--'The third girl is recruited, and the second floor is shared with a comfortable apartment, personal bedroom, heating, Eyre Square.", 'The third girl is recruited to share the building. Once every five days, the whole building is exclusive, and the individual Bedroom.', 'A fourth girl is required. Regent's Park. Private bedroom.' Girls now like to live in this way, which is better than paying for other people's homes or living in guest houses. The first girl rents a furnished apartment, Then find someone to share the rent. The second girl is usually a close friend. Then if there is no acquaintance, the newspaper asks for a third girl. Maybe, sometimes you can try to squeeze in a fourth girl. The first One girl of course enjoys the best bedroom, the second one pays less rent, the third pays less, but can only sleep in a cat's nest room. They arrange which nights of the week who can Rules like having the whole apartment alone. It usually works pretty well." "Where does this girl who might be called Norma live in London?" "I told you, I don't really know this girl very well." "But can you inquire?" "Okay, I think it should be easy." "Do you remember that accidental death was not talked about or brought up that day?" "You mean in London—or at the Resderick's?" "It counts." "I don't think so. Shall I try to dig something up?" Mrs. Oliver's eyes flashed with excitement, for she was now in port at the event. "Thank you very much." "I'll make a call to the Lorima family, actually, this is the right moment." She walked towards the phone. "I've got to think of a reason or an excuse—maybe make something up?" She looked at Poirot suspiciously. "Of course, it's understandable. You are a very imaginative woman, so you shouldn't have any difficulties. However, don't go too far, you know what I mean. Enough is enough." Mrs. Oliver gave him a comprehending look. She dialed and gave the operator the number she wanted to answer.Turning her head, she said in a low voice, "Have you any pencil and paper--or a little book--in which you can jot down names, addresses, or places?" Poirot had already prepared the notepad and nodded to her. Mrs. Oliver turned her head to the receiver in her hand, and began to chat.Poirot listened intently to her conversation. "Hello. I'd like to—oh, it's you, Nomi. I'm Arran Oliver. Uh, yeah—it's all good...oh, you mean the old man? No, no, you Know if I'm... nearly totally blind?... I thought he used to go to London with that little foreign girl... Indeed, no wonder they get nervous sometimes—but she seems to take good care of him,... ... I'm calling you to ask for the address of that girl of yours - no, I mean the Resderick girl - in South Ken, isn't it? Or Knightsbridge? Yes, I promise to send She got a book and got her address down, but you know I lost it again. I can't even remember her name. Is it Sulla or Norma?  … By the way, I think it must be Norma … ...Wait, I'll get a pen...Come on, go ahead...Borrowden Flats 627...I know—the row of houses looks like Absinthe Gaol...Yes, I believe That apartment would be comfortable, with heat, with everything... Who are the other two girls living with her?... Is she a friend?... Or advertised? Claudia? Rishi Holland - father is a member of the House of Commons, really? They seem to be secretaries, don't they? ... Oh, and the other one does interior design - you mean related to a gallery - no, Nomi, of course I don't really want to know, I'm just curious - what do girls do these days? - Uh, because I write books, it's always useful to me - don't be too out of touch with the times... ...You mentioned to me about someone's boyfriend, ...Yeah, but what can I do? I mean, girls always do their own way, ...Are they bad looking? Scruffy and dirty The kind? Oh! The kind—the satin waistcoat, the long, curly brown hair falling over the shoulders—yes, it’s hard to tell if it’s male or female—yes, if it’s pretty, it does. Also like Van Dyck's beautiful boy,... What do you say? Andrew, Resderick hates him very much? Men are usually like this...Mary, Resque?...Well, I think sometimes it is inevitable to have a relationship with the stepmother There is a holiday. I think that girl found a job in London, she must be desperate. What do you mean someone is spreading gossip... Why, can't they take her to find out what's wrong? Who said that?  … ...Yes, but what the hell are they hiding?... Oh, a nurse?—to the housekeeper of the Tunner house? Do you mean her husband? Oh, yes, the doctor can't find out,... Of course No, but the human heart is sinister. I agree. People talk nonsense about that kind of thing, . . . stomach ache, huh? . . . —, you mean there are so many herbicides in the house... yes, but, why?... I mean, it's not the wife who has tortured him for many years-she is the second wife-and she is younger than him much, and pretty... well, I think it might be possible--but why would that foreign girl do that...you think maybe Mrs. Restarick said something embarrassing to her,... ...this little girl is really good lookingPretty touching—perhaps Andrew took a liking to her—certainly not too much—though it might have annoyed Mary, and made her jealous... and then—" Out of the corner of her eye Mrs. Oliver saw Poirot gesturing to her impatiently. "Wait, honey," Oliver said on the phone, "it's the bread." Poirot looked offended. "Don't hang up..." She put down the receiver, hurried across the living room, and pulled Bai Luo to the breakfast corner. "What's the matter?" she asked out of breath. "Bread delivery," Poirot scolded, "Me?!" "Oh, I've got to find an excuse. Why are you gesturing to me? Do you understand what she's saying—" "You'll tell me later that I know more or less. What I want you to do is, with your powers of improvisation, find me a good reason to visit the Resdericks—just say An old friend of yours, and will be in their area shortly. Maybe say--" "Never mind, I'll make up a reason. Would you like to use a false name?" "Of course not. Better not to complicate matters." Mrs. Oliver nodded and hurried back to the telephone. "Nomi? I forgot what we just said. Really, whenever I sit down and want to have a good chat with my friends, someone always interrupts me. I can't even remember why I called you-oh , yes, for the address of that girl Sulla—no, Norma—and yes, you have given it to me. But I have something else to trouble you with—I remembered. I have an old friend. A very interesting, not very tall man. In fact, it was he I was talking about there the other day. His name is Hercule Poirot. He's going to be near the Restaricks. After staying for a while, he was very eager to see Sir Roderick. He had known his name for a long time and admired his great insights in the war, perhaps scientific discoveries-anyway, he very much hoped to 'go and say hello', he is Says so. Look, okay? Can you let them know first? Yes, he might come someday when he feels like it. Tell them they mustn't let him tell them some good spy stories, . . . He, what? Oh! Here comes the man who pushes their grass. Of course, you cannot be delayed any longer. Good-bye." She hung up the receiver and sank into a large chair. "God, I'm exhausted, how about it, is it okay?" "Not bad," said Poirot. "I think I'd better focus on the old man. Then you can go to their house and have a good look, I think it's in your favor. Women don't know much about science, you yourself When you go, think of something more relevant, well, do you want to listen to what she told me now?" "I know. There's gossip. About Mrs. Restarick's health." "By the way, it seems that she has some intractable strange disease—it's about the stomach—doctors have been unable to find out. They sent her to the hospital for treatment, and she recovered soon, but they didn't find out what the cause was. After she went home, the problem happened again, but the doctor still couldn't find out why. After that, someone started to spread the word. A nurse with very unprofessional ethics first revealed it, and then her sister told the neighbors, and the neighbors spread the word when they were at work. Others, it’s so inexplicable. Gradually, some people said that her husband must have wanted to poison her to death. This kind of rumors were originally spread the most by people, but in this case, it really doesn’t make sense. Nuomi and I are a little skeptical The girl who lives and helps in their house, she kind of takes care of and keeps company with the old man's secretary—it stands to reason that she has nothing to poison Mrs. Resderick with herbicide." "But I heard you give a few reasons." "This is usually always possible..." "Deliberate murder..." said Poirot thoughtfully, "...but not yet."