Chapter 8 chapter eight

Hercule Poirot was dictating to his secretary, Mademoiselle Lemon. "Thank you very much for your great love, but I am very sorry that I have to tell you..." The phone rang, and Li Meng stretched out a hand to answer it. "Hello, who are you?" She covered the receiver with her hand and said to Poirot: "It's Mrs. Oliver." "Oh . . . Mrs. Oliver," said Poirot.He really didn't want to be disturbed at the moment, but he still took the phone from Miss Limon. "Hello," he said, "I'm Hercule Poirot." "Oh, M. Poirot, I'm glad you're here! I found her for you!"

"Sorry, what did you say?" "I found her for you! That girl of yours. You know, the one who kills or thinks she did. She's talking about it herself, a lot. I think she's out of her head, but now Don't talk about that yet. Do you want to come and see her?" "Where are you now, dear lady?" "Between the Boulevard St. Paul and the Mermaid Theatre. Cassop Street," Mrs. Oliver suddenly looked out of the telephone booth as she spoke. "See if you can come as soon as possible. They're in a dining room." "them?" "Oh, she's with that boyfriend who can be called a mismatch. He's actually quite nice and seems to like her a lot. I don't know why. People are weird sometimes. Well, I won't say more , I'm going back, I'm following them. It's like this, I came to the restaurant and saw them there."

"Oh? You're smart, ma'am." "No, not really. It's all luck on my part, I mean, I just walked into a little dining room and the girl was sitting there." "Oh, then at least you're lucky, which is also very important." "I sat at a table behind them with her back turned to me. I don't think she recognized me anyway. I messed with my hair. Anyway, the two of them talked as if there was no one in the world .And then they ordered - baked beans on toast - (I can't stand baked beans on toast, I can't figure out how anyone would like them) -"

"Stop talking about baked beans on toast. Go ahead and call me when you left 'em, right?" "Yeah. Because toast and baked beans take time. I'll hurry back now, maybe just watch from outside the dining room. Anyway, hurry up and come here. " "What's the name of this dining room?" "It's called nice dutch--it doesn't look nice at all, it's kind of dirty, but the coffee's pretty good," "Stop talking. Go back, I'll be right there." "Excellent," said Mrs. Oliver, and hung up the phone. Miss Li Meng was always very efficient, so she ran out to the street before him and called a taxi to wait beside him.She didn't ask a question or express curiosity.Nor did she ask Poirot what work she should do when he was gone.She didn't need to ask him, she knew what she should do, and she never made a mistake.

Poirot arrived at the corner of Kasov Street without any problems.He got out of the car, paid the fare, and looked around.He had seen the pretty Dutch Herb Diner, but however skilfully disguised Mrs. Oliver might be, he could not find a resemblance to her anywhere near. He went to the end of the street and turned back again, but there was no sign of Mrs. Oliver.So, if the pair who had whetted their appetites had not left the dining-room, and Mrs. Oliver followed, it was--he had come to the dining-room door.Because there was too much heat and fog inside, it was difficult to see anything from the outside, so he gently opened the door and walked in, his eyes glanced around.

He saw at once that the girl who had visited him was sitting at a breakfast table, alone at a table against the wall.She was smoking a cigarette and looking straight ahead.She seemed lost in thought.No, Poirot thought, absolutely, she didn't seem to think about anything at all, it should be said that she had fallen into amnesia.She seems to be thousands of miles away. " He walked across the dining room and sat in the chair facing her.She looked up, and he felt a twinge of relief that at least she knew him. "We meet again, miss," he said cheerfully, "I think you recognize me."

"Yes, yes, I know you." "It was such a relief to be recognized by a young lady whom I only saw briefly." She still looked at him without saying a word. "Excuse me, how do you know me? How did you recognize me?" "Your beard," Norma replied immediately, "isn't someone else's." He felt another burst of pleasure at this observation, and as usual on the same occasions, he stroked his beard proudly and vainly. "Oh, yes, exactly. You don't see many beards like that. Nice beard, huh?" "Yes—well, I think it's pretty good."

"Well, maybe you're no expert on beards, but I can tell you, Miss Resderick--Miss Norma Resderick, can I? I have a very nice beard." He made a conscious effort to say her name.Because her eyes were so blank and far away when she looked around at first, he was afraid she would not notice.She noticed it, and was very surprised. "How do you know my name?" she said. "It is true that you did not tell my servant your name when you came to see me that morning." "Then how do you know? How on earth do you know? Who told you?" He saw her vigilance and fear.

"A friend told me," he said, "friends are useful sometimes." "who is it?" "Miss, you don't like to tell me your secrets. I, too, like to keep my own." "I can't see how you could possibly know my name." "I am Hercule Poirot," said Poirot with his usual solemnity.Then, he waited for her to speak, and just sat there smiling gently at her. "I—" she began, then stopped. "—to—" She stopped again. "We didn't talk about anything that morning, I know that," said Hercule Poirot. "You just told me you killed someone."

"Oh, that!" "Yes, miss, that." "But of course what I said was not true. I didn't mean it at all. I was only joking." "Really? You came to see me early in the morning, at my breakfast time. You said it was urgent, so it was urgent because you might have killed someone. Are you joking, eh?" One of the milling waitresses, who had cast an attentive look at Poirot, ran up to him and handed him a little child's bath sailboat made of paper. "Is this for you?" she said. "Mr. Poirot? A lady left it for you." "Oh, yes," said Poirot, "how do you know who I am?"

"The lady said she would recognize you by seeing your beard. She said I must have never seen such a beard, and she was absolutely true." She stared at his beard and added the last sentence. "Okay, thank you very much." Poirot took the sailboat, opened it and flattened it; he saw it written hastily in pencil: "He just left. She's still here. I've given her to you. I'm going to follow him." Signed Yalan's name. "Oh, yes," said Hercule Poirot, folding up the note, and putting it in his pocket. "Where were we talking? About your sense of humor, I suppose, Miss Resderick." "You only know my name—or do you know everything about me?" "I know something about you. You're Norma Resderick. Your address is 67 Borrowden Flats. Your home address is Changlu Cross Hedges.You were there with your father, your stepmother, an old uncle, and—a young lady who accompanied and looked after him.look.I'm pretty well informed. " "You must have someone following me." "No, no," said Poirot, "not at all, and I can assure you of that." "But you're not a policeman, are you? You didn't say you were." "I'm not a cop, no." Her doubts and dislikes relaxed. "I don't know what to do," she said. "I am not urging you to hire me," said Poirot: "you have said that I am too old in that respect, and perhaps you have been right. But since I already know who you are and something about you, I think We might as well talk amiably together about some of your present troubles. You must not forget that old people, though slow to move, have a great deal to learn from." Norma was still looking at him suspiciously, with the same wide-open eyes that troubled Poirot. But she seemed to be at the end of her rope, and at this moment, at least in Poirot's judgment, she seemed about to confide.For some reason, Poirot was always a man easy to talk to. “They thought I was mentally ill,” she said flatly, “and I — thought I was mentally ill, crazy.” "That's very strange," Poirot said easily. "There are so many reasons for this kind of situation, and they are all very grand. Psychoanalysts and psychologists will blurt it out briskly. However, you are talking about mental illness." , can only be said to be the impression in the minds of ordinary people. Besides, so what if you are mentally ill? Or if you look like mentally ill, you think you are mentally ill, or even you may be mentally ill, so what. It’s not that the condition is very serious. It’s caused by a lot of torture. Usually, as long as the treatment is appropriate, it’s easy to cure. The reason for the attack is because of too much psychological pressure, too much trouble, and studying hard for the exam. Too much, too deep emotionally, too deeply religious, or lack of a religion, and maybe have a very good reason to hate a father or mother! Or, of course, may have suffered a setback in love .” "I have a stepmother. I hate her, and I hate my father. Isn't that enough? Isn't it?" "No matter which one you hate, it's a very common thing," Poirot said, "I think you must love your biological mother very much. Is she divorced or passed away?" "Dead. She died two or three years ago." "You love her very much?" "Yeah, I think so. I mean of course I love her. She's a douchebag, you know, and she's always going to a nursing home." "Where's your father?" "My father was overseas for many years before that. He went to South Africa when I was five or six years old. I thought he was going to divorce my mother, but she refused. He went to South Africa to start a mining business. Anyway, he Always writes to me at Christmas time, sends Christmas presents or asks someone to bring me something, that's all. So it seems to me that he doesn't really exist. He came back about a year ago because of my uncle's funeral and many financial matters.When he came home, he—he brought this new wife back. " "You can't bear the fact." "Yes, I can't stand it." "However, your mother had passed away at that time. You should know that it is very common for a man to remarry. Especially he has been separated from his wife for so long. Did the wife he brought back mean that he wanted to marry your mother before?" The woman you want to remarry after divorce?" "Oh, no, this woman is very young, and she is also very beautiful, and she has the air that my father is alone!" She paused, and said in a completely different childlike tone: "I thought he would like me this time when he came back, and he would be very concerned about me-but she didn't allow him to do this. She objected to me, she wanted Push me out." "But at your age, it doesn't matter. Isn't it nice. You don't need anyone to look after you now. You can fend for yourself, enjoy life, choose your friends—" "In our house, you don't know! I mean choose my own friends." "Girls today are bound to endure criticism in choosing their friends," said Poirot. "It's different now," Norma said. "My dad is nothing like the one I remember when I was five. He used to play with me, play with me all day, and he had a lot of fun. He doesn't He's unhappy, he's worried all the time and he's fierce—it's completely changed." "I guess this was about fifteen years ago. People change." "But should people become so powerful?" "Has his appearance changed?" "No, there isn't. Oh, not at all. If you see the picture of him hanging behind the chair, it's the same as he is now, though it was painted when he was very young, and it's not at all what I remember him as." "But you should know, my dear lady," said Poirot softly, "that people are never as you remember them. As the years go by, you think of them as your heart desires them, and as you think you remember them.If you try to remember that they're supposed to be kind, happy, and handsome, you'll think of them far beyond what they really are. " "Do you think so? Do you really think so?" She was silent for a moment, then suddenly blurted out: "Then why do I want to kill people?" This question actually came naturally.It has existed between them for a long time.Poirot felt that at least they had come to a critical juncture. "That may be an interesting question," said Poirot, "and there may be very interesting reasons. The one who can answer your question is a doctor, the kind of doctor who has this knowledge. " He reacts very quickly. "I don't want to see a doctor. I never want to go to a doctor! They're going to send me to a doctor and put me in a lonely place and never let me out again. I don't want to go to that place." She is now struggling to stand up. "I can't send you there! You needn't be alarmed. You can go to a doctor all you want. You can tell him what you told me, you can ask him what's the matter, and he may I'll tell you why." "That's what David said. That's what David said I should go, but I think—I don't think he understands. I've got to tell the doctor—I might want to do something—" "Why do you think so?" "Because I often can't remember what I've done—or where I am. I'll be lost for an hour—two hours—and I don't remember anything. I was in the hallway—on the One door, the corridor outside her door. I've got something in my hand - I don't know where I got it from.She came towards me—but as she got closer, her face changed, it wasn't her at all.She has become another person. " "What you remember may be a nightmare. In a dream, a person will become another person." "I'm not having a nightmare. I picked up the pistol—it fell at my feet." "at the corridor?" "No, in the patio. She came and took it from me." "Who took it?" "Claudia. She took me upstairs and gave me something bitter to drink." "Where was your stepmother then?" "She's there too—no, she's not. She's at Cross Hedges. Maybe in the hospital. That's where they found her poisoned—and said I did it." "It doesn't have to be you—it could be someone else." "Who could it be?" "Perhaps—her husband." "Father? How could father poison Mary to death? He is so loyal to her, and he is so obsessed with her!" "There are other people at home, aren't there?" "Uncle Roderick? Nonsense!" "It's hard to say," said Poirot. "Maybe he's out of his mind. Maybe he thinks it's his duty to poison a woman as beautiful as a spy. Who knows." "That's really interesting," said Norma, who seemed momentarily relieved and spoke in a very natural tone. "Uncle Roderick did have a lot of spies involved in the last war. Who else is in the house? Sunia? I think she might make a beautiful spy, but not the kind I imagined." "Indeed, there doesn't seem to be any reason for her to poison your stepmother. I suppose it was the servants or the gardener, perhaps?" "No, they only come here once in a while. I don't think so—they won't have any reason anyway." "Maybe she poisoned herself." "Suicide, you mean? Like that other one?" "It's a possibility." "I can't imagine Mary committing suicide. She's too sensible. Besides, why did she commit suicide?" "Yeah, the way you see it, if she was going to kill herself, she'd stick her head in a gas oven, or make the bed, lie down, and take a lot of sleeping pills. Right?" "Well, this is at least a little more natural. So," Norma said seriously, "it must be me." "Ah," said Poirot, "that seems very interesting to me. It seems that you would have liked it to be you, and you liked the idea that it was your own men who were responsible for this or that fatal thing." Poison. Yes, you must like the idea." "How dare you say such a thing! How can it be?" "Because I think it is," said Poirot; "otherwise, why does the thought that you might have killed someone give you such a thrill, such pleasure?" "You're talking nonsense." "No wonder," said Poirot. She picked up the handbag and groped inside with trembling fingers. "I don't want to be here to hear you say such horrible things to me." She gestured to the waitress, who came over and wrote on the ledger, which she tore off and placed next to Norma's plate. "Let me come, please," said Hercule Poirot. He nimbly drew the bill and tried to take the wallet out of his pocket.The girl snatched the bill back again. "No, I don't want you to pay my bill." "As you please," said Poirot. Anyway, he had seen what he wanted to see, and the bill was written to be paid by two people.So the flamboyant David doesn't seem to be averse to having the girl who loves him pay his bills. "Oh—so it was you who invited friends to have late breakfast today." "How do you know I'm with a friend?" "I tell you, I know a lot." She put the coins on the table and stood up. "I'm going," she said, "I won't let you follow me." "I don't think I can keep up," said Poirot. "You must remember how old I am. If you are running in the street, I will not be able to keep up with you." She got up and walked towards the door. "Did you hear that? You are not allowed to follow me." "You can at least let me open the door for you," he said with a pretty gesture: "Goodbye, miss." She glanced at him suspiciously and walked briskly down the street, turning her head now and then to check.Poirot stood at the door watching her, but made no haste to pursue her, and when she was out of sight, he went back into the dining room. "What's the matter?" Poirot said to himself. The waitress walked towards him with an unhappy expression on her face.Poirot sat down again in the chair, and ordered a cup of coffee to appease her. "Things are indeed a bit strange," he muttered to himself: "Yes, there are indeed some strange things." A cup of beige liquid was placed in front of him, he took a sip and made a sad face. He wondered where Mrs. Oliver was at this moment.