Dead Man's Folly (4 page)

“Who get through?”

“Trespassers!” ejaculated Sir George.

Sally Legge said amusedly:

“You sound like Betsy Trotwood campaigning against donkeys.”

“Betsy Trotwood? Who's she?” asked Sir George simply.

“Dickens.”

“Oh, Dickens. I read the
Pickwick Papers
once. Not bad. Not bad at all—surprised me. But, seriously, trespassers are a menace since they've started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They come out at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirts—boy this morning had one all covered with crawling turtles and things—made me think I'd been hitting the bottle or something. Half of them can't speak English—just gibber at you…” He mimicked: “‘Oh, plees—yes, haf you—tell me—iss way to ferry?' I say no, it isn't, roar at them, and send them back where they've come from, but half the time they just blink and stare and don't understand. And the girls giggle. All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian,
Dutch, Finnish—Eskimos I shouldn't be surprised! Half of them communists, I shouldn't wonder,” he ended darkly.

“Come now, George, don't get started on communists,” said Mrs. Legge. “I'll come and help you deal with the rabid women.”

She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: “Come on, Jim. Come and be torn to pieces in a good cause.”

“All right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since he's going to present the prizes.”

“You can do that presently.”

“I will await you here,” said Poirot agreeably.

In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.

“Women!” he said. “Like a swarm of bees.”

He turned his head to look out of the window.

“And what's it all about? Some silly garden fête that doesn't matter to anyone.”

“But obviously,” Poirot pointed out, “there are those to whom it does matter.”

“Why can't people have some
sense?
Why can't they
think?
Think of the mess the whole world has got itself into. Don't they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committing suicide?”

Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook his head doubtfully.

“Unless we can do something before it's too late…” Alec Legge broke off. An angry look swept over his face. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I know what you're thinking. That I'm nervy, neurotic—all the rest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and I came down here and took the Mill
Cottage for three months, and I've followed their prescription. I've fished and bathed and taken long walks and sunbathed—”

“I noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,” said Poirot politely.

“Oh, this?” Alec's hand went to his sore face. “That's the result of a fine English summer for once in a way. But what's the
good
of it all? You can't get away from facing truth just by running away from it.”

“No, it is never any good running away.”

“And being in a rural atmosphere like this just makes you realize things more keenly—that and the incredible apathy of the people of this country. Even Sally, who's intelligent enough, is just the same. Why bother? That's what she says. It makes me mad! Why bother?”

“As a matter of interest, why do you?”

“Good God, you too?”

“No, it is not advice. It is just that I would like to know your answer.”

“Don't you see, somebody's got to do something.”

“And that somebody is you?”

“No, no, not me personally. One can't be
personal
in times like these.”

“I do not see why not. Even in ‘these times' as you call it, one is still a person.”

“But one shouldn't be! In times of stress, when it's a matter of life or death, one can't think of one's own insignificant ills or preoccupations.”

“I assure you, you are quite wrong. In the late war, during a severe air raid, I was much less preoccupied by the thought of death than of the pain from a corn on my little toe. It surprised me
at the time that it should be so. ‘Think,' I said to myself, ‘at any moment now, death may come.' But I was still conscious of my corn—indeed, I felt injured that I should have that to suffer as well as the fear of death. It was
because
I might die that every small personal matter in my life acquired increased importance. I have seen a woman knocked down in a street accident, with a broken leg, and she has burst out crying because she sees that there is a ladder in her stocking.”

“Which just shows you what fools women are!”

“It shows you what
people
are. It is, perhaps, that absorption in one's personal life that has led the human race to survive.”

Alec Legge gave a scornful laugh.

“Sometimes,” he said, “I think it's a pity they ever did.”

“It is, you know,” Poirot persisted, “a form of humility. And humility is valuable. There was a slogan that was written up in your underground railways here, I remember, during the war. ‘It all depends on
you.
' It was composed, I think, by some eminent divine—but in my opinion it was a dangerous and undesirable doctrine. For it is not
true.
Everything does
not
depend on, say, Mrs. Blank of Little-Blank-in-the-Marsh. And if she is led to think it does, it will not be good for her character. While she thinks of the part she can play in world affairs, the baby pulls over the kettle.”

“You are rather old-fashioned in your views, I think. Let's hear what your slogan would be.”

“I do not need to formulate one of my own. There is an older one in this country which contents me very well.”

“What is that?”

“‘Put your trust in God, and keep your powder dry.'”

“Well, well…” Alec Legge seemed amused. “Most unex
pected coming from you. Do you know what I should like to see done in this country?”

“Something, no doubt, forceful and unpleasant,” said Poirot, smiling.

Alec Legge remained serious.

“I should like to see every feeble-minded person put out—right out! Don't let them breed. If, for one generation, only the intelligent were allowed to breed, think what the result would be.”

“A very large increase of patients in the psychiatric wards, perhaps,” said Poirot dryly. “One needs roots as well as flowers on a plant, Mr. Legge. However large and beautiful the flowers, if the earthy roots are destroyed there will be no more flowers.” He added in a conversational tone: “Would you consider Lady Stubbs a candidate for the lethal chamber?”

“Yes, indeed. What's the good of a woman like that? What contribution has she ever made to society? Has she ever had an idea in her head that wasn't of clothes or furs or jewels? As I say, what good is she?”

“You and I,” said Poirot blandly, “are certainly much more intelligent than Lady Stubbs. But”—he shook his head sadly—“it is true, I fear, that we are not nearly so ornamental.”

“Ornamental…” Alec was beginning with a fierce snort, but he was interrupted by the reentry of Mrs. Oliver and Captain Warburton through the window.

“Y
ou must come and see the clues and things for the Murder Hunt, M. Poirot,” said Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.

Poirot rose and followed them obediently.

The three of them went across the hall and into a small room furnished plainly as a business office.

“Lethal weapons to your left,” observed Captain Warburton, waving his hand towards a small baize-covered card table. On it were laid out a small pistol, a piece of lead piping with a rusty sinister stain on it, a blue bottle labelled Poison, a length of clothesline and a hypodermic syringe.

“Those are the Weapons,” explained Mrs. Oliver, “and these are the Suspects.”

She handed him a printed card which he read with interest.

 

Suspects

 

Poirot blinked and looked towards Mrs. Oliver in mute incomprehension.

“A magnificent Cast of Characters,” he said politely. “But permit me to ask, Madame, what does the Competitor do?”

“Turn the card over,” said Captain Warburton.

Poirot did so.

On the other side was printed:

 

Name and address……………………………

 

Solution:

Name of Murderer:…………………………..

Weapon:………………………………….

Motive:…………………………………..

Time and Place:……………………………..

Reasons for arriving at your conclusions:…………….

 

“Everyone who enters gets one of these,” explained Captain Warburton rapidly. “Also a notebook and pencil for copying clues. There will be six clues. You go on from one to the other like a Treasure Hunt, and the weapons are concealed in suspicious places. Here's the first clue. A snapshot. Everyone starts with one of these.”

Poirot took the small print from him and studied it with a frown. Then he turned it upside down. He still looked puzzled. Warburton laughed.

“Ingenious bit of trick photography, isn't it?” he said complacently. “Quite simple once you know what it is.”

Poirot, who did not know what it was, felt a mounting annoyance.

“Some kind of barred window?” he suggested.

“Looks a bit like it, I admit. No, it's a section of a tennis net.”

“Ah.” Poirot looked again at the snapshot. “Yes, it is as you say—quite obvious when you have been told what it is!”

“So much depends on how you look at a thing,” laughed Warburton.

“That is a very profound truth.”

“The second clue will be found in a box under the centre of the tennis net. In the box are this empty poison bottle—here, and a loose cork.”

“Only, you see,” said Mrs. Oliver rapidly, “it's a screw-topped bottle, so the
cork
is really the clue.”

“I know, Madame, that you are always full of ingenuity, but I do not quite see—”

Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

“Oh, but of course,” she said, “there's a story. Like in a maga
zine serial—a synopsis.” She turned to Captain Warburton. “Have you got the leaflets?”

“They've not come from the printers yet.”

“But they
promised!
”

“I know. I know. Everyone always promises. They'll be ready this evening at six. I'm going in to fetch them in the car.”

“Oh, good.”

Mrs. Oliver gave a deep sigh and turned to Poirot.

“Well, I'll have to tell it you, then. Only I'm not very good at telling things. I mean if I write things, I get them perfectly clear, but if I talk, it always sounds the most frightful muddle; and that's why I never discuss my plots with anyone. I've learnt not to, because if I do, they just look at me blankly and say ‘—er—yes, but—I don't see what happened—and surely that can't possibly make a book.' So damping. And
not
true, because when I write it, it does!”

Mrs. Oliver paused for breath, and then went on:

“Well, it's like this. There's Peter Gaye who's a young Atom Scientist and he's suspected of being in the pay of the Communists, and he's married to this girl, Joan Blunt, and his first wife's dead, but she isn't, and she turns up because she's a secret agent, or perhaps not, I mean she may really
be
a hiker—and the wife's having an affair, and this man Loyola turns up either to meet Maya, or to spy upon her, and there's a blackmailing letter which might be from the housekeeper, or again it might be the butler, and the revolver's missing, and as you don't know who the blackmailing letter's to, and the hypodermic syringe fell out at dinner, and after that it disappeared….”

Mrs. Oliver came to a full stop, estimating correctly Poirot's reaction.

“I know,” she said sympathetically. “It sounds just a muddle, but it isn't really—not in my head—and when you see the synopsis leaflet, you'll find it's quite clear.

“And, anyway,” she ended, “the story doesn't really matter, does it? I mean, not to
you.
All you've got to do is to present the prizes—very nice prizes, the first's a silver cigarette case shaped like a revolver—and say how remarkably clever the solver has been.”

Poirot thought to himself that the solver would indeed have been clever. In fact, he doubted very much that there would be a solver. The whole plot and action of the Murder Hunt seemed to him to be wrapped in impenetrable fog.

“Well,” said Captain Warburton cheerfully, glancing at his wristwatch, “I'd better be off to the printers and collect.”

Mrs. Oliver groaned.

“If they're not done—”

“Oh, they're done all right. I telephoned. So long.”

He left the room.

Mrs. Oliver immediately clutched Poirot by the arm and demanded in a hoarse whisper:

“Well?”

“Well—what?”

“Have you found out anything? Or spotted anybody?”

Poirot replied with mild reproof in his tones:

“Everybody and everything seems to me completely normal.”

“Normal?”

“Well, perhaps that is not quite the right word. Lady Stubbs, as you say, is definitely subnormal, and Mr. Legge would appear to be rather abnormal.”

“Oh, he's all right,” said Mrs. Oliver impatiently. “He's had a nervous breakdown.”

Poirot did not question the somewhat doubtful wording of this sentence but accepted it at its face value.

“Everybody appears to be in the expected state of nervous agitation, high excitement, general fatigue, and strong irritation, which are characteristic of preparations for this form of entertainment. If you could only indicate—”

“Sh!” Mrs. Oliver grasped his arm again. “Someone's coming.”

It was just like a bad melodrama, Poirot felt, his own irritation mounting.

The pleasant mild face of Miss Brewis appeared round the door.

“Oh, there you are, M. Poirot. I've been looking for you to show you your room.”

She led him up the staircase and along a passage to a big airy room looking out over the river.

“There is a bathroom just opposite. Sir George talks of adding more bathrooms, but to do so would sadly impair the proportions of the rooms. I hope you'll find everything quite comfortable.”

“Yes, indeed.” Poirot swept an appreciative eye over the small bookstand, the reading lamp and the box labelled “Biscuits” by the bedside. “You seem, in this house, to have everything organized to perfection. Am I to congratulate you, or my charming hostess?”

“Lady Stubbs' time is fully taken up in being charming,” said Miss Brewis, a slightly acid note in her voice.

“A very decorative young woman,” mused Poirot.

“As you say.”

“But in other respects is she not, perhaps…” He broke off.
“
Pardon.
I am indiscreet. I comment on something I ought not, perhaps, to mention.”

Miss Brewis gave him a steady look. She said dryly:

“Lady Stubbs knows perfectly well exactly what she is doing. Besides being, as you said, a very decorative young woman, she is also a very shrewd one.”

She had turned away and left the room before Poirot's eyebrows had fully risen in surprise. So that was what the efficient Miss Brewis thought, was it? Or had she merely said so for some reason of her own? And why had she made such a statement to him—to a newcomer? Because he
was
a newcomer, perhaps? And also because he was a foreigner. As Hercule Poirot had discovered by experience, there were many English people who considered that what one said to foreigners didn't count!

He frowned perplexedly, staring absentmindedly at the door out of which Miss Brewis had gone. Then he strolled over to the window and stood looking out. As he did so, he saw Lady Stubbs come out of the house with Mrs. Folliat and they stood for a moment or two talking by the big magnolia tree. Then Mrs. Folliat nodded a good-bye, picked up her gardening basket and gloves and trotted off down the drive. Lady Stubbs stood watching her for a moment, then absentmindedly pulled off a magnolia flower, smelt it and began slowly to walk down the path that led through the trees to the river. She looked just once over her shoulder before she disappeared from sight. From behind the magnolia tree Michael Weyman came quietly into view, paused a moment irresolutely and then followed the tall slim figure down into the trees.

A good-looking and dynamic young man, Poirot thought.
With a more attractive personality, no doubt, than that of Sir George Stubbs….

But if so, what of it? Such patterns formed themselves eternally through life. Rich middle-aged unattractive husband, young and beautiful wife with or without sufficient mental development, attractive and susceptible young man. What was there in that to make Mrs. Oliver utter a peremptory summons through the telephone? Mrs. Oliver, no doubt, had a vivid imagination, but….

“But after all,” murmured Hercule Poirot to himself, “I am not a consultant in adultery—or in incipient adultery.”

Could there really be anything in this extraordinary notion of Mrs. Oliver's that something was wrong? Mrs. Oliver was a singularly muddle-headed woman, and how she managed somehow or other to turn out coherent detective stories was beyond him, and yet, for all her muddle-headedness she often surprised him by her sudden perception of truth.

“The time is short—short,” he murmured to himself. “
Is
there something wrong here, as Mrs. Oliver believes? I am inclined to think there is. But what? Who is there who could enlighten me? I need to know more, much more, about the people in this house. Who is there who could inform me?”

After a moment's reflection he seized his hat (Poirot never risked going out in the evening air with uncovered head), and hurried out of his room and down the stairs. He heard afar the dictatorial baying of Mrs. Masterton's deep voice. Nearer at hand, Sir George's voice rose with an amorous intonation.

“Damned becoming that yashmak thing. Wish I had you in my harem, Sally. I shall come and have my fortune told a good deal tomorrow. What'll you tell me, eh?”

There was a slight scuffle and Sally Legge's voice said breathlessly:

“George, you mustn't.”

Poirot raised his eyebrows, and slipped out of a conveniently adjacent side door. He set off at top speed down a back drive which his sense of locality enabled him to predict would at some point join the front drive.

His manoeuvre was successful and enabled him—panting very slightly—to come up beside Mrs. Folliat and relieve her in a gallant manner of her gardening basket.

“You permit, Madame?”

“Oh, thank you, M. Poirot, that's very kind of you. But it's not heavy.”

“Allow me to carry it for you to your home. You live near here?”

“I actually live in the lodge by the front gate. Sir George very kindly rents it to me.”

The lodge by the front gate of her former home…How did she really feel about
that,
Poirot wondered. Her composure was so absolute that he had no clue to her feelings. He changed the subject by observing:

“Lady Stubbs is much younger than her husband, is she not?”

“Twenty-three years younger.”

“Physically she is very attractive.”

Mrs. Folliat said quietly:

“Hattie is a dear good child.”

It was not an answer he had expected. Mrs. Folliat went on:

“I know her very well, you see. For a short time she was under my care.”

“I did not know that.”

“How should you? It is in a way a sad story. Her people had estates, sugar estates, in the West Indies. As a result of an earthquake, the house there was burned down and her parents and brothers and sisters all lost their lives. Hattie herself was at a convent in Paris and was thus suddenly left without any near relatives. It was considered advisable by the executors that Hattie should be chaperoned and introduced into society after she had spent a certain time abroad. I accepted the charge of her.” Mrs. Folliat added with a dry smile: “I can smarten myself up on occasions and, naturally, I had the necessary connections—in fact, the late Governor had been a close friend of ours.”