understand what you say to them.’ He shook his head darkly.
They went on, down a steep hill through woods, then through big iron gates, and along a drive, winding up finally in front of a big white Georgian house looking out over the river.
The chauffeur opened the door of the car as a tall black-haired butler appeared on the steps.
‘Mr Hercule Poirot?’ murmured the latter.
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs Oliver is expecting you, sir. You will find her down at the Battery. Allow me to show you the way.’
Poirot was directed to a winding path that led along the wood with glimpses of the river below. The path descended gradually until it came out at last on an open space, round in shape, with a low battlemented parapet. On the parapet Mrs Oliver was sitting.
She rose to meet him and several apples fell from her lap and rolled in all directions. Apples seemed to be an inescapable motif of meeting Mrs Oliver.
‘I can’t think why I always drop things,’ said Mrs Oliver somewhat indistinctly, since her mouth was full of apple. ‘How are you, M. Poirot?’
‘Tre`s bien, che`re Madame,’ replied Poirot politely. ‘And you?’
Mrs Oliver was looking somewhat different from when Poirot had last seen her, and the reason lay, as she had already hinted over the telephone, in the fact that she had once more experimented with her coiffure. The last time Poirot had seen her, she had been adopting a windswept effect. Today, her hair, richly blued, was piled upward in a multiplicity of rather artificial little curls in a pseudo Marquise style. The Marquise effect ended at her neck; the rest of her could have been definitely labelled ‘country practical,’ consisting of a violent yolk-of-egg rough tweed coat and skirt and a rather bilious-looking mustard-coloured jumper.
‘I knew you’d come,’ said Mrs Oliver cheerfully.
‘You could not possibly have known,’ said Poirot severely.
‘Oh, yes, I did.’
‘I still ask myself why I am here.’
‘Well, I know the answer. Curiosity.’
Poirot looked at her and his eyes twinkled a little. ‘Your famous woman’s intuition,’ he said, ‘has, perhaps, for once not led you too far astray.’
‘Now, don’t laugh at my woman’s intuition. Haven’t I always spotted the murderer right away?’
Poirot was gallantly silent. Otherwise he might have replied, ‘At the fifth attempt, perhaps, and not always then!’
Instead he said, looking round him:
‘It is indeed a beautiful property that you have here.’
‘This? But it doesn’t belong to me, M. Poirot. Did you think it did? Oh, no, it belongs to some people called Stubbs.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Oh, nobody really,’ said Mrs Oliver vaguely. ‘Just rich. No, I’m down here professionally, doing a job.’
‘Ah, you are getting local colour for one of your chefs-d’oeuvre?’
‘No, no. Just what I said. I’m doing a job. I’ve been engaged to arrange a murder.’
Poirot stared at her.
‘Oh, not a real one,’ said Mrs Oliver reassuringly. ‘There’s a big fête thing on tomorrow, and as a kind of novelty there’s going to be a Murder Hunt. Arranged by me. Like a Treasure Hunt, you see; only they’ve had a Treasure Hunt so often that they thought this would be a novelty. So they offered me a very substantial fee to come down and think it up. Quite fun, really – rather a change from the usual grim routine.’
‘How does it work?’
‘Well, there’ll be a Victim, of course. And Clues. And Suspects. All rather conventional – you know, the Vamp and the Blackmailer and the Young Lovers and the Sinister Butler and so on. Half a crown to enter and you get shown the first Clue and you’ve got to find the Victim, and the Weapon and say Whodunnit and the Motive. And there are Prizes.’
‘Remarkable!’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘Actually,’ said Mrs Oliver ruefully, ‘it’s all much harder to arrange than you’d think. Because you’ve got to allow for real people being quite intelligent, and in my books they needn’t be.’
‘And it is to assist you in arranging this that you have sent for me?’
Poirot did not try very hard to keep an outraged resentment out of his voice.
‘Oh, no,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘Of course not! I’ve done all that. Everything’s all set for tomorrow. No, I wanted you for quite another reason.’
‘What reason?’
Mrs Oliver’s hands strayed upward to her head. She was just about to sweep them frenziedly through her hair in the old familiar gesture when she remembered the intricacy of her hair-do. Instead, she relieved her feelings by tugging at her ear lobes.
‘I dare say I’m a fool,’ she said. ‘But I think there’s something wrong.’
There was a moment’s silence as Poirot stared at her. Then he asked sharply: ‘Something wrong? How?’
‘I don’t know…That’s what I want you to find out. But I’ve felt – more and more – that I was being – oh! – engineered…jockeyed along…Call me a fool if you like, but I can only say that if there was to be a real murder tomorrow instead of a fake one, I shouldn’t be surprised!’
Poirot stared at her and she looked back at him defiantly.
‘Very interesting,’ said Poirot.
‘I suppose you think I’m a complete fool,’ said Mrs Oliver defensively.
‘I have never thought you a fool,’ said Poirot.
‘And I know what you always say – or look – about intuition.’
‘One calls things by different names,’ said Poirot. ‘I am quite ready to believe that you have noticed something, or heard something, that has definitely aroused in you anxiety. I think it is possible that you yourself may not even know just what it is that you have seen or noticed or heard. You are aware only of the result. If I may so put it, you do not know what it is that you know. You may label that intuition if you like.’
‘It makes one feel such a fool,’ said Mrs Oliver, ruefully, ‘not to be able to be definite.’
‘We shall arrive,’ said Poirot encouragingly. ‘You say that you have had the feeling of being – how did you put it – jockeyed along? Can you explain a little more clearly what you mean by that?’
‘Well,
