said Poirot sententiously.
He offered her the notebook.
"Do you wish to see what I have
written?"
"Of course I do. I daresay it won't mean
anything to me. The things you think
important to write down, I never do."
He held out the small black notebook.
"Deaths: e.g. Mrs. LlewellynSmythe
(Wealthy). Janet White (Schoolteacher).
Lawyer's clerk--Knifed, Former prosecution
for forgery."
Below it was written "Opera girl
disappears."
"What opera girl?"
"It is the word my friend, Spence's
sister, uses for what you and I call au pair girl."
"Why should she disappear?"
"Because she was possibly about to get
into some form of legal trouble."
Poirofs finger went down to the next
entry. The word was simply "Forgery", with two question marks after it.
187
"Forgery?" said Mrs. Oliver. "Why
forgery?"
"liat is what I asked. Why forgery?"
"^at kind of forgery?"
"^Will was forged, or rather a codicil
to a. ^ill. A codicil in the au pair girl's
favour."
"Undue influence?" suggested Mrs.
Oliver.
"Forgery is something rather more
serious than undue influence," said Poirot.
"I don't see what that's got to do with
the murder of poor Joyce."
":hor do I," said Poirot. "But, therefore:, it is interesting."
"'What is the next word? I can't read
it."
"Ilephants."
"I don't see what that's got to do with
anything."
" It might have," said Poirot, "believe
me,. it might have."
He rose.
"I must leave you now," he said.
"Apologise, please, to my hostess for my
not saying good-bye to her. I much
enjoyed meeting her and her lovely and
188
unusual daughter. Tell her to take care of
that child."
" 'My mother said I never should, play
with the children in the wood,"9 quoted
Mrs. Oliver. "Well, good-bye. If you like
to be mysterious, I suppose you will go on
being mysterious. You don't even say what
you're going to do next."
"I have made an appointment for
to-morrow morning with Messrs. Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter in
Medchester."
"Why?"
"To talk about forgery and other
matters."
"And after that?"
"I want to talk to certain people who
were also present."
"At the party?"
"No--at the preparations for the
party."
189
12
THE premises of Fullerton, Harrison
and Leadbetter were typical of an
old-fashioned firm of the utmost
respectability. The hand of time had made
itself felt. There were no more Harrisons
and no more Leadbetters. There was a Mr.
Atkinson and a young Mr. Cole, and there
was still Mr. Jeremy Fullerton, senior
partner.
T
A lean, elderly man, Mr. Fullerton, with an impassive face, a dry, legal voice, and eyes that were unexpectedly shrewd.
Beneath his hand rested a sheet of notepaper,
the few words on which he had just
read. He read them once again, assessing
their meaning very exactly. Then he
looked at the man whom the note introduced
to him.
"Monsieur Hercule Poirot?" He made
his own assessment of the visitor. An
elderly man, a foreigner, very dapper in
his dress, unsuitably attired as to the feet
in patent leather shoes which were, so Mr.
190
Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for
him. Faint lines of pain were already
etching themselves round the corners of
his eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and
Inspector Henry Raglan, CID, and also
vouched for by Superintendent Spence
(retired), formerly of Scotland Yard.
"Superintendent Spence, eh?" said Mr.
Fullerton.
Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had
done good work in his time, had been
highly thought of by his superiors. Faint
memories flashed across his mind. Rather
a celebrated case, more celebrated actually
than it had showed any signs of being, a
case that had seemed cut and dried. Of
course! It came to him that his nephew
Robert had been connected with it, had
been Junior Counsel. A psychopathic
killer, it had seemed, a man who had
hardly bothered to try and defend himself,
a man whom you might have thought
really wanted to be hanged (because it had
meant hanging at that time). No fifteen
years, or indefinite number of years in
prison. No. You paid the full penalty—
and more's the pity they've given it up, so
191
Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind.
The young thugs nowadays thought they
didn't risk much by prolonging assault to
the point where it became mortal. Once
your man was dead, there'd be no witness
to identify you.
Spence had been in charge of the case, a quiet, dogged man who had insisted all
along that they'd got the wrong man. And
they had got the wrong man, and the
person who found the evidence that they'd
got the wrong man was some sort of an
amateurish foreigner. Some retired detective
chap from the Belgian police force. A
good age then. And now--senile probably, thought Mr. Fullerton, but all the same
he himself would take the prudent course.
Information, that's what was wanted from
him. Information which, after all, could
not be a mistake to give, since he could
not see that he was likely to have any
information that could be useful in this
particular matter. A case of child
homicide.
Mr. Fullerton might think he had a
fairly shrewd idea of who had committed
that homicide, but he was not so sure as
he would like to be, because there were at
192
least three claimants in the matter. Any
one of three young ne'er-do-wells might
have done it. Words floated through his
head. Mentally retarded. Psychiatrist's
report. That's how the whole matter would
end, no doubt. All the same, to drown a
child during a party—that was rather a
different cup of tea from one of the
innumerable school children who did not
arrive home and who had accepted a lift
in a car after having been repeatedly
warned not to do so, and who had been
found in a nearby copse or gravel pit. A
gravel pit now. When was that? Many,
many years ago now.
All this took about four minutes' time
and Mr. Fullerton then cleared his throat
in a slightly asthmatic f
ashion, and spoke.
"Monsieur Hercule Poirot," he said
again. "What can I do for you? I suppose
it's the business of this young girl, Joyce
Reynolds. Nasty business, very nasty
business. I can't see actually where I can
assist you. I know very little about it all."
"But you are, I believe, the legal adviser
to the Drake family?"
"Oh yes, yes. Hugo Drake, poor chap.
Very nice fellow. I've known them for
193
years, ever since they bought Apple Trees
and came here to live. Sad thing, polio--
he contracted it when they were holidaying
abroad one year. Mentally, of course, his
health was quite unimpaired. It's sad when
it happens to a man who has been a good
athlete all his life, a sportsman, good at
games and all the rest of it. Yes. Sad
business to know you're a cripple for life."
"You were also, I believe, in charge
of the legal affairs of Mrs.
LlewellynSmythe?"
"The aunt, yes. Remarkable woman
really. She came here to live after her
health broke down, so as to be near her
nephew and his wife. Bought that White
Elephant of a place. Quarry House. Paid
was no object to her. She was very well
off. She could have found a more attractive
house, but it was the quarry itself that
fascinated her. Got a landscape gardener
on to it, fellow quite high up in his
profession, I believe. One of those handsome, long-haired chaps, but he had
ability all right. He did well for himself in
this quarry garden work. Got himself quite
a reputation over it, illustrated in Homes
194
and Gardens and all the rest of it. Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe knew how to pick
people. It wasn't just a question of a handsome
young man as a protege. Some
elderly women are foolish that way, but
this chap had brains and was at the top of
his profession. But I'm wandering on a bit. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died nearly two
years ago."
"Quite suddenly."
Fullerton looked at Poirot sharply.
"Well, no, I wouldn't say that. She had
a heart condition and doctors tried to keep
her from doing too much, but she was the
sort of woman that you couldn't dictate to.
She wasn't a hypochondriac type." He
coughed and said, "But I expect we are
getting away from the subject about which
you came to talk to me."
"Not really," said Poirot, "although I
would like, if I may, to ask you a few
questions on a completely different matter.
Some information about one of your employees, by name Lesley Ferrier."
Mr. Fullerton looked somewhat surprised.
"Lesley Ferrier?" he said. "Lesley
Ferrier. Let me see. Really, you know, I'd
195
nearly forgotten his name. Yes, yes, of
course. Got himself knifed, didn't he?"
"That is the man I mean."
"Well, I don't really know that I can tell
you much about him. It took place some
time ago. Knifed near the Green Swan one
night. No arrest was ever made. I daresay
the police had some idea who was responsible, but it was mainly, I think, a matter
of getting evidence."
"The motive was emotional?" inquired
Poirot.
"Oh yes, I should certainly think so.
Jealousy, you know. He'd been going
steady with a married woman. Her
husband had a pub. The Green Swan at
Woodleigh Common. Unpretentious place.
Then it seems young Lesley started
playing around with another young woman
--or more than one, it was said. Quite a
one for the girls, he was. There was a bit
of trouble once or twice."
"You were satisfied with him as an
employee?"
"I would rather describe it as not
dissatisfied. He had his points. He handled
clients well and was studying for his
articles, and if only he'd paid more atten-
196
tion to his position and keeping up a good
standard of behaviour, it would have been
better instead of mixing himself up with
one girl after another, most of whom I am
apt in my old-fashioned way to consider as
considerably beneath him in station. There
was a row one night at the Green Swan,
and Lesley Ferrier was knifed on his way
home."
"Was one of the girls responsible, or
would it be Mrs. Green Swan, do you
think?"
"Really, it is not a case of knowing
anything definite. I believe the police
considered it was a case of jealousy—
but—" He shrugged his shoulders.
"But you are not sure?"
"Oh, it happens," said Mrs. Fullerton.
"'Hell hath no fury like a woman
scorned.9 That is always being quoted in
Court. Sometimes it's true."
"But I think I discern that you yourself
are not at all sure that that was the case
here."
"Well, I should have preferred rather
more evidence, shall we say. The police
would have preferred rather more evi-
197
dence, too. Public prosecutor threw it
out, I believe."
"It could have been something quite
different?"
"Oh yes. One could propound several
theories. Not a very stable character,
young Ferrier. Well brought up. Nice
mother--a widow. Father not so satisfactory.
Got himself out of several scrapes by
the skin of his teeth. Hard luck on his
wife. Our young man in some ways
resembled his father. He was associated
once or twice with rather a doubtful
crowd. I gave him the benefit of the doubt.
He was young still. But I warned him that
he was getting himself mixed up with the
wrong lot. Too closely connected with
fiddling transactions outside the law.
Frankly, but for his mother, I wouldn't
have kept him. He was young, and he had
ability; I gave him a warning or two which
I hoped might do the trick. But there's a
lot of corruption about these days. It's
been on the increase for the last ten
years."
"Someone might have had it in for him, you think?"
"Quite possible. These associations--
198
gangs is a rather melodramatic word—but
you run a certain danger when you get
tangled up with them. Any idea that you
may split on them, and a knife between
your shoulder blades isn't an uncommon
thing to happen."
"Nobody saw it happen?"
"No. Nobody saw it happen. They
wouldn't, of course. Whoever took the job
on would have all the arrangements nicely
made. Alibi at the proper place and time,
and so on and so on."
"Yet somebody might have seen it
happen. Somebody quite unlikely. A child,
for instance."
"Late at night? In the neighbourhood of
the Green Swan? Hardly a very credible
idea. Monsieur Poirot."
"A child," persisted Poirot, "who might
remember. A child coming home from a
friend's house. At some short distance,
perhaps, from her own home. She might
have been coming by a footpath or seen
something from behind a hedge."
"Really, Monsieur Poirot, what an
imagination you have got. What you are
saying seems to me most unlikely."
"It does not seem so unlikely to me,"
199
said Poirot. "Children do see things. They
are so often, you see, not expected to be
where they are."
"But surely when they go home and
relate what they have seen?"
"They might not," said Poirot. "They
might not, you see, be sure what they had seen. Especially if what they had seen had
been faintly frightening to them. Children
do not always go home and report a street
accident they have seen, or some unexpected
violence. Children keep their
secrets very well. Keep them and think
about them. Sometimes they like to feel
that they know a secret, a secret which
they are keeping for themselves."
"They'd tell their mothers," said Mr.
Fullerton.
"I am not so sure of that," said Poirot.
"In my experience the things that children
do not tell their mothers are quite
numerous."
"What interests you so much, may I
know, about this case of Lesley Ferrier?
The regrettable death of a young man by
a violence which is so lamentably often
amongst us nowadays?"
"I know nothing about him. But I
200
wanted to know something about him
because his is a violent death that occurred
not many years ago. That might be
important to me."
"You know, Mr. Poirot," said Mr.
Fullerton, with some slight acerbity, "I
really cannot quite make out why you have
come to me, and in what you are really
interested. You cannot surely suspect any
tie-up between the death of Joyce Reynolds
and the death of a young man of
promise but slightly criminal activities who
has been dead for some years?"
"One can suspect anything," said
Poirot. "One has to find out more."
"Excuse me, what one has to have in all
matters dealing with crime, is evidence."