Hallowe'en Party, Page 2

  Like all parties, it went slightly stickily at first. The brooms were admired, they were very small miniature brooms, and on the whole the decorating of them had not reached a very high standard of merit, “which makes it easier,” said Mrs. Drake in an aside to one of her friends. “And it’s a very useful thing because I mean there are always one or two children one knows only too well won’t win a prize at anything else, so one can cheat a little over this.”

  “So unscrupulous, Rowena.”

  “I’m not really. I just arrange so that things should be fair and evenly divided. The whole point is that everyone wants to win something.”

  “What’s the Flour Game?” asked Ariadne Oliver.

  “Oh yes, of course, you weren’t here when we were doing it. Well, you just fill a tumbler with flour, press it in well, then you turn it out in a tray and place a sixpence on top of it. Then everyone slices a slice off it very carefully so as not to tumble the sixpence off. As soon as someone tumbles the sixpence off, that person goes out. It’s a sort of elimination. The last one left in gets the sixpence of course. Now then, away we go.”

  And away they went. Squeals of excitement were heard coming from the library where bobbing for apples went on, and competitors returned from there with wet locks and having disposed a good deal of water about their persons.

  One of the most popular contests, at any rate among the girls, was the arrival of the Hallowe’en witch played by Mrs. Goodbody, a local cleaning woman who, not only having the necessary hooked nose and chin which almost met, was admirably proficient in producing a semi-cooing voice which had definitely sinister undertones and also produced magical doggerel rhymes.

  “Now then, come along, Beatrice, is it? Ah, Beatrice. A very interesting name. Now you want to know what your husband is going to look like. Now, my dear, sit here. Yes, yes, under this light here. Sit here and hold this little mirror in your hand, and presently when the lights go out you’ll see him appear. You’ll see him looking over your shoulder. Now hold the mirror steady. Abracadabra, who shall see? The face of the man who will marry me. Beatrice, Beatrice, you shall find, the face of the man who shall please your mind.”

  A sudden shaft of light shot across the room from a step-ladder, placed behind a screen. It hit the right spot in the room, which was reflected in the mirror grasped in Beatrice’s excited hand.

  “Oh!” cried Beatrice. “I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him! I can see him in my mirror!”

  The beam was shut off, the lights came on and a coloured photograph pasted on a card floated down from the ceiling. Beatrice danced about excitedly.

  “That was him! That was him! I saw him,” she cried. “Oh, he’s got a lovely ginger beard.”

  She rushed to Mrs. Oliver, who was the nearest person.

  “Do look, do look. Don’t you think he’s rather wonderful? He’s like Eddie Presweight, the pop singer. Don’t you think so?”

  Mrs. Oliver did think he looked like one of the faces she daily deplored having to see in her morning paper. The beard, she thought, had been an afterthought of genius.

  “Where do all these things come from?” she asked.

  “Oh, Rowena gets Nicky to make them. And his friend Desmond helps. He experiments a good deal with photography. He and a couple of pals of his made themselves up, with a great deal of hair or sideburns or beards and things. And then with the light on him and everything, of course it sends the girls wild with delight.”

  “I can’t help thinking,” said Ariadne Oliver, “that girls are really very silly nowadays.”

  “Don’t you think they always were?” asked Rowena Drake.

  Mrs. Oliver considered.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she admitted.

  “Now then,” cried Mrs. Drake—“supper.”

  Supper went off well. Rich iced cakes, savouries, prawns, cheese and nut confections. The eleven-pluses stuffed themselves.

  “And now,” said Rowena, “the last one for the evening. Snapdragon. Across there, through the pantry. That’s right. Now then. Prizes first.”

  The prizes were presented, and then there was a wailing, banshee call. The children rushed across the hall back to the dining room.

  The food had been cleared away. A green baize cloth was laid across the table and here was borne a great dish of flaming raisins. Everybody shrieked, rushing forward, snatching the blazing raisins, with cries of “Ow, I’m burned! Isn’t it lovely?” Little by little the Snapdragon flickered and died down. The lights went up. The party was over.

  “It’s been a great success,” said Rowena.

  “So it should be with all the trouble you’ve taken.”

  “It was lovely,” said Judith quietly. “Lovely.”

  “And now,” she added ruefully, “we’ll have to clear up a bit. We can’t leave everything for those poor women tomorrow morning.”

  Three

  In a flat in London the telephone bell rang. The owner of the flat, Hercule Poirot, stirred in his chair. Disappointment attacked him. He knew before he answered it what it meant. His friend Solly, with whom he had been going to spend the evening, reviving their never-ending controversy about the real culprit in the Canning Road Municipal Baths murder, was about to say that he could not come. Poirot, who had collected certain bits of evidence in favour of his own somewhat far-fetched theory, was deeply disappointed. He did not think his friend Solly would accept his suggestions, but he had no doubt that when Solly in his turn produced his own fantastic beliefs, he himself, Hercule Poirot, would just as easily be able to demolish them in the name of sanity, logic, order and method. It was annoying, to say the least of it, if Solly did not come this evening. But it is true that when they had met earlier in the day, Solly had been racked with a chesty cough and was in a state of highly infectious catarrh.

  “He had a nasty cold,” said Hercule Poirot, “and no doubt, in spite of the remedies that I have handy here, he would probably have given it to me. It is better that he should not come. Tout de même,” he added, with a sigh, “it will mean that now I shall pass a dull evening.”

  Many of the evenings were dull now, Hercule Poirot thought. His mind, magnificent as it was (for he had never doubted that fact) required stimulation from outside sources. He had never been of a philosophic cast of mind. There were times when he almost regretted that he had not taken to the study of theology instead of going into the police force in his early days. The number of angels who could dance on the point of a needle; it would be interesting to feel that that mattered and to argue passionately on the point with one’s colleagues.

  His manservant, George, entered the room.

  “It was Mr. Solomon Levy, sir.”

  “Ah yes,” said Hercule Poirot.

  “He very much regrets that he will not be able to join you this evening. He is in bed with a serious bout of ’flu.”

  “He has not got ’flu,” said Hercule Poirot. “He has only a nasty cold. Everyone always thinks they have ’flu. It sounds more important. One gets more sympathy. The trouble with a catarrhal cold is that it is hard to glean the proper amount of sympathetic consideration from one’s friends.”

  “Just as well he isn’t coming here, sir, really,” said George. “Those colds in the head are very infectious. Wouldn’t be good for you to go down with one of those.”

  “It would be extremely tedious,” Poirot agreed.

  The telephone bell rang again.

  “And now who has a cold?” he demanded. “I have not asked anyone else.”

  George crossed towards the telephone.

  “I will take the call here,” said Poirot. “I have no doubt that it is nothing of interest. But at any rate—” he shrugged his shoulders “—it will perhaps pass the time. Who knows?”

  George said, “Very good, sir,” and left the room.

  Poirot stretched out a hand, raised the receiver, thus stilling the clamour of the bell.

  “Hercule Poirot speaks,” he said, with a certain grandeur of ma
nner designed to impress whoever was at the other end of the line.

  “That’s wonderful,” said an eager voice. A female voice, slightly impaired with breathlessness. “I thought you’d be sure to be out, that you wouldn’t be there.”

  “Why should you think that?” inquired Poirot.

  “Because I can’t help feeling that nowadays things always happen to frustrate one. You want someone in a terrible hurry, you feel you can’t wait, and you have to wait. I wanted to get hold of you urgently—absolutely urgently.”

  “And who are you?” asked Hercule Poirot.

  The voice, a female one, seemed surprised.

  “Don’t you know?” it said incredulously.

  “Yes, I know,” said Hercule Poirot. “You are my friend, Ariadne.”

  “And I’m in a terrible state,” said Ariadne.

  “Yes, yes, I can hear that. Have you also been running? You are very breathless, are you not?”

  “I haven’t exactly been running. It’s emotion. Can I come and see you at once?”

  Poirot let a few moments elapse before he answered. His friend, Mrs. Oliver, sounded in a highly excitable condition. Whatever was the matter with her, she would no doubt spend a very long time pouring out her grievances, her woes, her frustrations or whatever was ailing her. Once having established herself within Poirot’s sanctum, it might be hard to induce her to go home without a certain amount of impoliteness. The things that excited Mrs. Oliver were so numerous and frequently so unexpected that one had to be careful how one embarked upon a discussion of them.

  “Something has upset you?”

  “Yes. Of course I’m upset. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—oh, I don’t know anything. What I feel is that I’ve got to come and tell you—tell you just what’s happened, for you’re the only person who might know what to do. Who might tell me what I ought to do. So can I come?”

  “But certainly, but certainly. I shall be delighted to receive you.”

  The receiver was thrown down heavily at the other end and Poirot summoned George, reflected a few minutes, then ordered lemon barley water, bitter lemon and a glass of brandy for himself.

  “Mrs. Oliver will be here in about ten minutes,” he said.

  George withdrew. He returned with the brandy for Poirot, who accepted it with a nod of satisfaction, and George then proceeded to provide the teetotal refreshment that was the only thing likely to appeal to Mrs. Oliver. Poirot took a sip of brandy delicately, fortifying himself for the ordeal which was about to descend upon him.

  “It’s a pity,” he murmured to himself, “that she is so scatty. And yet, she has originality of mind. It could be that I am going to enjoy what she is coming to tell me. It could be—” he reflected a minute “—that it may take a great deal of the evening and that it will all be excessively foolish. Eh bien, one must take one’s risks in life.”

  A bell sounded. A bell on the outside door of the flat this time. It was not a single pressure of the button. It lasted for a long time with a kind of steady action that was very effective, the sheer making of noise.

  “Assuredly, she has excited herself,” said Poirot.

  He heard George go to the door, open it, and before any decorous announcement could be made the door of his sitting room opened and Ariadne Oliver charged through it, with George in tow behind her, hanging on to something that looked like a fisherman’s sou’wester and oilskins.

  “What on earth are you wearing?” said Hercule Poirot. “Let George take it from you. It’s very wet.”

  “Of course it’s wet,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s very wet out. I never thought about water before. It’s a terrible thing to think of.”

  Poirot looked at her with interest.

  “Will you have some lemon barley water,” he said, “or could I persuade you to a small glass of eau de vie?”

  “I hate water,” said Mrs. Oliver.

  Poirot looked surprised.

  “I hate it. I’ve never thought about it before. What it can do, and everything.”

  “My dear friend,” said Hercule Poirot, as George extricated her from the flapping folds of watery oilskin. “Come and sit down here. Let George finally relieve you of—what is it you are wearing?”

  “I got it in Cornwall,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Oilskins. A real, proper fisherman’s oilskin.”

  “Very useful to him, no doubt,” said Poirot, “but not, I think, so suitable for you. Heavy to wear. But come—sit down and tell me.”

  “I don’t know how,” said Mrs. Oliver, sinking into a chair. “Sometimes, you know, I can’t feel it’s really true. But it happened. It really happened.”

  “Tell me,” said Poirot.

  “That’s what I’ve come for. But now I’ve got here, it’s so difficult because I don’t know where to begin.”

  “At the beginning?” suggested Poirot, “or is that too conventional a way of acting?”

  “I don’t know when the beginning was. Not really. It could have been a long time ago, you know.”

  “Calm yourself,” said Poirot. “Gather together the various threads of this matter in your mind and tell me. What is it that has so upset you?”

  “It would have upset you, too,” said Mrs. Oliver. “At least, I suppose it would.” She looked rather doubtful. “One doesn’t know, really, what does upset you. You take so many things with a lot of calm.”

  “It is often the best way,” said Poirot.

  “All right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It began with a party.”

  “Ah yes,” said Poirot, relieved to have something as ordinary and sane as a party presented to him. “A party. You went to a party and something happened.”

  “Do you know what a Hallowe’en party is?” said Mrs. Oliver.

  “I know what Hallowe’en is,” said Poirot. “The 31st of October.” He twinkled slightly as he said, “When witches ride on broomsticks.”

  “There were broomsticks,” said Mrs. Oliver. “They gave prizes for them.”

  “Prizes?”

  “Yes, for who brought the best decorated ones.”

  Poirot looked at her rather doubtfully. Originally relieved at the mention of a party, he now again felt slightly doubtful. Since he knew that Mrs. Oliver did not partake of spirituous liquor, he could not make one of the assumptions that he might have made in any other case.

  “A children’s party,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Or rather, an eleven-plus party.”

  “Eleven-plus?”

  “Well, that’s what they used to call it, you know, in schools. I mean they see how bright you are, and if you’re bright enough to pass your eleven-plus, you go on to a grammar school or something. But if you’re not bright enough, you go to something called a Secondary Modern. A silly name. It doesn’t seem to mean anything.”

  “I do not, I confess, really understand what you are talking about,” said Poirot. They seemed to have got away from parties and entered into the realms of education.

  Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath and began again.

  “It started really,” she said, “with the apples.”

  “Ah yes,” said Poirot, “it would. It always might with you, mightn’t it?”

  He was thinking to himself of a small car on a hill and a large woman getting out of it, and a bag of apples breaking, and the apples running and cascading down the hill.

  “Yes,” he said encouragingly, “apples.”

  “Bobbing for apples,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That’s one of the things you do at a Hallowe’en party.”

  “Ah yes, I think I have heard of that, yes.”

  “You see, all sorts of things were being done. There was bobbing for apples, and cutting sixpence off a tumblerful of flour, and looking in a looking glass—”

  “To see your true love’s face?” suggested Poirot knowledgeably.

  “Ah,” said Mrs. Oliver, “you’re beginning to understand at last.”

  “A lot of old folklore, in fact,” said Poirot, “and this all took place at your p
arty.”

  “Yes, it was all a great success. It finished up with Snapdragon. You know, burning raisins in a great dish. I suppose—” her voice faltered, “—I suppose that must be the actual time when it was done.”

  “When what was done?”

  “A murder. After the Snapdragon everyone went home,” said Mrs. Oliver. “That, you see, was when they couldn’t find her.”

  “Find whom?”

  “A girl. A girl called Joyce. Everyone called her name and looked around and asked if she’d gone home with anyone else, and her mother got rather annoyed and said that Joyce must have felt tired or ill or something and gone off by herself, and that it was very thoughtless of her not to leave word. All the sort of things that mothers say when things like that happen. But anyway, we couldn’t find Joyce.”

  “And had she gone home by herself?”

  “No,” said Mrs. Oliver, “she hadn’t gone home…” Her voice faltered. “We found her in the end—in the library. That’s where—where someone did it, you know. Bobbing for apples. The bucket was there. A big, galvanized bucket. They wouldn’t have the plastic one. Perhaps if they’d had the plastic one it wouldn’t have happened. It wouldn’t have been heavy enough. It might have tipped over—”

  “What happened?” said Poirot. His voice was sharp.

  “That’s where she was found,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Someone, you know, someone had shoved her head down into the water with the apples. Shoved her down and held her there so that she was dead, of course. Drowned. Drowned. Just in a galvanized iron bucket nearly full of water. Kneeling there, sticking her head down to bob at an apple. I hate apples,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I never want to see an apple again.”

  Poirot looked at her. He stretched out a hand and filled a small glass with cognac.