Hallowe'en Party (13 page)

“She became very much attached to her—unwisely so, it seemed at one moment.”

“Ah, indeed.”

“I have no doubt,” said Mr. Fullerton, “that I am not telling you anything that you have not heard already. These things, as I say, go round the place like wildfire.”

“I understand that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe left a large sum of money to the girl.”

“A most surprising thing to happen,” said Mr. Fullerton. “Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had not changed her fundamental testamentary disposition for many years, except for adding new charities or altering legacies left void by death. Perhaps I am telling you what you know already, if you are interested in this matter. Her money had always been left jointly to her nephew, Hugo Drake, and his wife, who was also his first cousin, and so also niece to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. If either of them predeceased her the money went to the survivor. A good many bequests were left to charities and to old servants. But what was alleged to be her final disposal of her property was made about three weeks before her death, and not, as heretofore, drawn up by our firm. It was a codicil written in her own handwriting. It included one or two charities—not so many as before—the old servants had no legacies at all, and the whole residue of her considerable fortune was left to Olga Seminoff in gratitude for the devoted service and affection she had shown her. A most astonishing disposition, one that seemed totally unlike anything Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had ever done before.”

“And then?” said Poirot.

“You have presumably heard more or less the developments. From the evidence of handwriting experts, it became clear that the codicil was a complete forgery. It bore only a faint resemblance to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe's handwriting, no more than that. Mrs. Smythe had disliked the typewriter and had frequently got
Olga to write letters of a personal nature, as far as possible copying her employer's handwriting—sometimes, even, signing the letter with her employer's signature. She had had plenty of practice in doing this. It seems that when Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died the girl went one step further and thought that she was proficient enough to make the handwriting acceptable as that of her employer. But that sort of thing won't do with experts. No, indeed it won't.”

“Proceedings were about to be taken to contest the document?”

“Quite so. There was, of course, the usual legal delay before the proceedings actually came to court. During that period the young lady lost her nerve and well, as you said yourself just now, she—disappeared.”

W
hen Hercule Poirot had taken his leave and departed, Jeremy Fullerton sat before his desk drumming gently with his fingertips. His eyes, however, were far away—lost in thought.

He picked up a document in front of him and dropped his eyes down to it, but without focusing his glance. The discreet buzz of the house telephone caused him to pick up the receiver on his desk.

“Yes, Miss Miles?”

“Mr. Holden is here, sir.”

“Yes. Yes, his appointment, I believe was for nearly three quarters of an hour ago. Did he give any reason for having been so late?…Yes, yes. I quite see. Rather the same excuse he gave last time. Will you tell him I've seen another client, and I am now too short of time. Make an appointment with him for next week, will you? We can't have this sort of thing going on.”

“Yes, Mr. Fullerton.”

He replaced the receiver and sat looking thoughtfully down
at the document in front of him. He was still not reading it. His mind was going over events of the past. Two years—close on two years ago—and that strange little man this morning with his patent leather shoes and his big moustaches, had brought it back to him, asking all those questions.

Now he was going over in his own mind a conversation of nearly two years ago.

He saw again, sitting in the chair opposite him, a girl, a short, stocky figure—the olive brown skin, the dark red generous mouth, the heavy cheekbones and the fierceness of the blue eyes that looked into his beneath the heavy, beetling brows. A passionate face, a face full of vitality, a face that had known suffering—would probably always know suffering—but would never learn to accept suffering. The kind of woman who would fight and protest until the end. Where was she now, he wondered? Somehow or other she had managed—what had she managed exactly? Who had helped her? Had anyone helped her? Somebody must have done so.

She was back again, he supposed, in some trouble-stricken spot in Central Europe where she had come from, where she belonged, where she had had to go back to because there was no other course for her to take unless she was content to lose her liberty.

Jeremy Fullerton was an upholder of the law. He believed in the law, he was contemptuous of many of the magistrates of today with their weak sentences, their acceptance of scholastic needs. The students who stole books, the young married women who denuded the supermarkets, the girls who filched money from their employers, the boys who wrecked telephone boxes, none of them in real need, none of them desperate, most of them had known nothing but overindulgence in bringing up and a fervent belief that any
thing they could not afford to buy was theirs to take. Yet along with his intrinsic belief in the administration of the law justly, Mr. Fullerton was a man who had compassion. He could be sorry for people. He could be sorry, and was sorry, for Olga Seminoff though he was quite unaffected by the passionate arguments she advanced for herself.

“I came to you for help. I thought you would help me. You were kind last year. You helped me with forms so that I could remain another year in England. So they say to me: ‘You need not answer any questions you do not wish to. You can be represented by a lawyer.' So I come to you.”

“The circumstances you have instanced—” and Mr. Fullerton remembered how drily and coldly he had said that, all the more drily and coldly because of the pity that lay behind the dryness of the statement “—do not apply. In this case I am not at liberty to act for you legally. I am representing already the Drake family. As you know, I was Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe's solicitor.”

“But she is dead. She does not want a solicitor when she is dead.”

“She was fond of you,” said Mr. Fullerton.

“Yes, she was fond of me. That is what I am telling you. That is why she wanted to give me the money.”

“All her money?”

“Why not? Why not? She did not like her relations.”

“You are wrong. She was very fond of her niece and nephew.”

“Well, then, she may have liked Mr. Drake but she did not like Mrs. Drake. She found her very tiresome. Mrs. Drake interfered. She would not let Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe do always what she liked. She would not let her eat the food she liked.”

“She is a very conscientious woman, and she tried to get her aunt to obey the doctor's orders as to diet and not too much exercise and many other things.”

“People do not always want to obey a doctor's orders. They do not want to be interfered with by relations. They like living their own lives and doing what they want and having what they want. She had plenty of money. She could have what she wanted! She could have as much as she liked of everything. She was rich—rich—rich, and she could do what she liked with her money. They have already quite enough money, Mr. and Mrs. Drake. They have a fine house and clothes and two cars. They are very well-to-do. Why should they have any more?”

“They were her only living relations.”

“She wanted
me
to have the money. She was sorry for me. She knew what I had been through. She knew about my father, arrested by the police and taken away. We never saw him again, my mother and I. And then my mother and how she died. All my family died. It is terrible, what I have endured. You do not know what it is like to live in a police state, as I have lived in it. No, no. You are on the side of the police. You are not on
my
side.”

“No,” Mr. Fullerton said, “I am not on your side. I am very sorry for what has happened to you, but you've brought this trouble about yourself.”

“That is not true! It is not true that I have done anything I should not do. What have I done? I was kind to her, I was nice to her. I brought her in lots of things that she was not supposed to eat. Chocolates and butter. All the time nothing but vegetable fats. She did not like vegetable fats. She wanted butter. She wanted lots of butter.”

“It's not just a question of butter,” said Mr. Fullerton.

“I looked after her, I was nice to her! And so she was grateful. And then when she died and I find that in her kindness and her affection she has left a signed paper leaving all her money to me, then those Drakes come along and say I shall not have it. They say all sorts of things. They say I had a bad influence. And then they say worse things than that. Much worse. They say
I
wrote the Will myself. That is nonsense.
She
wrote it.
She
wrote it. And then she sent me out of the room. She got the cleaning woman and Jim the gardener. She said they had to sign the paper, not me. Because I was going to get the money. Why should not I have the money? Why should I not have some good luck in my life, some happiness? It seemed so wonderful. All the things I planned to do when I knew about it.”

“I have no doubt, yes, I have no doubt.”

“Why shouldn't I have plans? Why should not I rejoice? I am going to be happy and rich and have all the things I want. What did I do wrong? Nothing.
Nothing,
I tell you.
Nothing.
”

“I have tried to explain to you,” said Mr. Fullerton.

“That is all lies. You say I tell lies. You say I wrote the paper myself. I did not write it myself.
She
wrote it. Nobody can say anything different.”

“Certain people say a good many things,” said Mr. Fullerton. “Now listen. Stop protesting and listen to me. It is true, is it not, that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe in the letters you wrote for her, often asked you to copy her handwriting as nearly as you could? That was because she had an old-fashioned idea that to write typewritten letters to people who are friends or with whom you have a personal acquaintance, is an act of rudeness. That is a survival from Vic
torian days. Nowadays nobody cares whether they receive handwritten letters or typewritten ones. But to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe that was discourtesy. You understand what I am saying?”

“Yes, I understand. And so she asks me. She says, ‘Now, Olga,' she says. ‘These four letters you will answer as I have told you and that you have taken down in shorthand. But you will write them in handwriting and you will make the handwriting as close to mine as possible.' And she told me to practise writing her handwriting, to notice how she made her a's, and her b's and her l's and all the different letters. ‘So long as it is reasonably like my handwriting,' she said, ‘that will do, and then you can sign my name. But I do not want people to think that I am no longer able to write my own letters. Although, as you know, the rheumatism in my wrist is getting worse and I find it more difficult, but I don't want my personal letters typewritten.'”

“You could have written them in your ordinary handwriting,” said Mr. Fullerton, “and put a note at the end saying ‘per secretary' or per initials if you liked.”

“She did not want me to do that. She wanted it to be thought that
she
wrote the letters herself.”

And that, Mr. Fullerton thought, could be true enough. It was very like Louise Llewellyn-Smythe. She was always passionately resentful of the fact that she could no longer do the things she used to do, that she could no longer walk far or go up hills quickly or perform certain actions with her hands, her right hand especially. She wanted to be able to say “I'm perfectly well, perfectly all right and there's nothing I can't do if I set my mind to it.” Yes, what Olga was telling him now was perfectly true, and because it was true it was one of the reasons why the codicil appended to the last Will
properly drawn out and signed by Louise Llewellyn-Smythe had been accepted at first without suspicion. It was in his own office, Mr. Fullerton reflected, that suspicions had arisen because both he and his younger partner knew Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe's handwriting very well. It was young Cole who had first said,

“You know, I really can't believe that Louise Llewellyn-Smythe wrote that codicil. I know she had arthritis lately but look at these specimens of her own writing that I've brought along from amongst her papers to show you. There's something wrong about that codicil.”

Mr. Fullerton had agreed that there was something wrong about it. He had said they would take expert opinion on this handwriting question. The answer had been quite definite. Separate opinions had not varied. The handwriting of the codicil was definitely not that of Louise Llewellyn-Smythe. If Olga had been less greedy, Mr. Fullerton thought, if she had been content to write a codicil beginning as this one had done—“Because of her great care and attention to me and the affection and kindness she has shown me, I leave—” That was how it had begun, that was how it could have begun, and if it had gone on to specify a good round sum of money left to the devoted
au pair girl,
the relations might have considered it overdone, but they would have accepted it without questioning. But to cut out the relations altogether, the nephew who had been his aunt's residuary legatee in the last four wills she had made during a period of nearly twenty years, to leave everything to the stranger Olga Seminoff—that was not in Louise Llewellyn-Smythe's character. In fact, a plea of undue influence could upset such a document anyway. No. She had been greedy, this hot, passionate child. Possibly Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe had told her that
some money would be left to her because of her kindness, because of her attention, because of a fondness the old lady was beginning to feel for this girl who fulfilled all her whims, who did whatever she asked her. And that had opened up a vista for Olga. She would have everything. The old lady should leave everything to her, and she would have
all
the money. All the money and the house and the clothes and the jewels. Everything. A greedy girl. And now retribution had caught up with her.

And Mr. Fullerton, against his will, against his legal instincts and against a good deal more, felt sorry for her. Very sorry for her. She had known suffering since she was a child, had known the rigours of a police state, had lost her parents, lost a brother and a sister and known injustice and fear, and it had developed in her a trait that she had no doubt been born with but which she had never been able so far to indulge. It had developed a childish passionate greed.

“Everyone is against me,” said Olga. “Everyone. You are all against me. You are not fair because I am a foreigner, because I do not belong to this country, because I do not know what to say, what to do. What
can
I do? Why do you not tell me what I can do?”

“Because I do not really think there is anything much you can do,” said Mr. Fullerton. “Your best chance is to make a clean breast of things.”

“If I say what you want me to say, it will be all lies and not true. She made that Will. She wrote it down there. She told me to go out of the room while the others signed it.”

“There is evidence against you, you know. There are people who will say that Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe often did not know what
she was signing. She had several documents of different kinds, and she did not always reread what was put before her.”

“Well, then she did not know what she was saying.”

“My dear child,” said Mr. Fullerton, “your best hope is the fact that you are a first offender, that you are a foreigner, that you understand the English language only in a rather rudimentary form. In that case you may get off with a minor sentence—or you may, indeed, get put on probation.”

“Oh, words. Nothing but words. I shall be put in prison and never let out again.”

“Now you are talking nonsense,” Mr. Fullerton said.

“It would be better if I ran away, if I ran away and hid myself so that nobody could find me.”

“Once there is a warrant out for your arrest, you would be found.”

“Not if I did it quickly. Not if I went at once. Not if someone helped me. I could get away. Get away from England. In a boat or a plane. I could find someone who forges passports or visas, or whatever you have to have. Someone who will do something for me. I have friends. I have people who are fond of me. Somebody could help me to disappear. That is what I needed. I could put on a wig. I could walk about on crutches.”