Agatha Christie
"Dead Mans Folly"
To Peggy and Humphrey Trevelyan
Agatha Christie
CHAPTER 1
It was Miss Lemon, Poirots efficient secretary, who took the telephone call.
Laying aside her shorthand notebook, she raised the receiver and said without emphasis, Trafalgar 8137.
Hercule Poirot leaned back in his upright chair and closed his eyes. His fingers beat a meditative soft tattoo[1] on the edge of the table. In his head he continued to compose the polished periods of the letter he had been dictating.
Placing her hand over the receiver, Miss Lemon asked in a low voice:
Will you accept a personal call from Nassecombe, Devon?
Poirot frowned. The place meant nothing to him.
The name of the caller? he demanded cautiously.
Miss Lemon spoke into the mouthpiece.
Air-raid? she asked doubtingly. Oh, yeswhat was the last name again?
Once more she turned to Hercule Poirot.
Mrs Ariadne Oliver.
Hercule Poirots eyebrows shot up. A memory rose in his mind: windswept grey hair an eagle profile
He rose and replaced Miss Lemon at the telephone.
Hercule Poirot speaks, he announced grandiloquently.
Is that Mr Hercules Porrot speaking personally? the suspicious voice of the telephone operator demanded.
Poirot assured her that that was the case.
Youre through to Mr Porrot, said the voice.
Its thin reedy accents were replaced by a magnificent booming contralto which caused Poirot hastily to shift the receiver a couple of inches farther from his ear.
M. Poirot, is that really you? demanded Mrs Oliver.
Myself in person, Madame.
This is Mrs Oliver. I dont know if youll remember me
But of course I remember you, Madame. Who could forget you?
Well, people do sometimes, said Mrs Oliver. Quite often, in fact. I dont think that Ive got a very distinctive personality. Or perhaps its because Im always doing different things to my hair. But all thats neither here nor there. I hope Im not interrupting you when youre frightfully busy?
No, no, you do not derange me in the least.
Good graciousIm sure I dont want to drive you out of your mind. The fact is, I need you.
Need me?
Yes, at once. Can you take an aeroplane?
I do not take aeroplanes. They make me sick.
They do me, too. Anyway, I dont suppose it would be any quicker than the train really, because I think the only airport near here is Exeter which is miles away. So come by train. Twelve oclock from Paddington to Nassecombe. You can do it nicely. Youve got three-quarters of an hour if my watch is rightthough it isnt usually.
But where are you, Madame? What is all this about?
Nasse House, Nassecombe. A car or taxi will meet you at the station at Nassecombe.
But why do you need me? What is all this about? Poirot repeated frantically.
Telephones are in such awkward places, said Mrs Oliver. This ones in the hall People passing through and talking I cant really hear. But Im expecting you. Everybody will be so thrilled. Goodbye.
There was a sharp click as the receiver was replaced. The line hummed gently.
With a baffled air of bewilderment[2], Poirot put back the receiver and murmured something under his breath. Miss Lemon sat with her pencil poised, incurious. She repeated in muted tones the final phrase of dictation before the interruption.
allow me to assure you, my dear sir, that the hypothesis you have advanced
Poirot waved aside the advancement of the hypothesis.
That was Mrs Oliver, he said. Ariadne Oliver, the detective novelist. You may have read But he stopped, remembering that Miss Lemon only read improving books and regarded such frivolities as fictional crime with contempt. She wants me to go down to Devonshire today, at once, inhe glanced at the clockthirty-five minutes.
Miss Lemon raised disapproving eyebrows.
That will be running it rather fine, she said. For what reason?
You may well ask! She did not tell me.
How very peculiar. Why not?
Because, said Hercule Poirot thoughtfully, she was afraid of being overheard. Yes, she made that quite clear.
Well, really, said Miss Lemon, bristling in her employers defence. The things people expect! Fancy thinking that youd go rushing off on some wild goose chase[3] like that! An important man like you! I have always noticed that these artists and writers are very unbalancedno sense of proportion. Shall I telephone through a telegram: Regret unable leave London?
Her hand went out to the telephone. Poirots voice arrested the gesture.
Du tout![4] he said. On the contrary. Be so kind as to summon a taxi immediately. He raised his voice. Georges! A few necessities of toilet in my small valise. And quickly, very quickly, I have a train to catch.
II
The train, having done one hundred and eighty-odd miles of its two hundred and twelve miles journey at top speed, puffed gently and apologetically through the last thirty and drew into Nassecombe station. Only one person alighted, Hercule Poirot. He negotiated with care a yawning gap between the step of the train and the platform and looked round him. At the far end of the train a porter was busy inside a luggage compartment. Poirot picked up his valise and walked back along the platform to the exit. He gave up his ticket and walked out through the booking-office.
A large Humber[5] saloon was drawn up outside and a chauffeur in uniform came forward.
Mr Hercule Poirot? he inquired respectfully.
He took Poirots case from him and opened the door of the car. They drove away from the station over the railway bridge and turned down a country lane which wound between high hedges on either side. Presently the ground fell away on the right and disclosed a very beautiful river view with hills of a misty blue in the distance. The chauffeur drew into the hedge and stopped.
The River Helm, sir, he said. With Dartmoor in the distance.
It was clear that admiration was necessary. Poirot made the necessary noises, murmuring Magnifique![6] several times. Actually, Nature appealed to him very little. A well-cultivated neatly arranged kitchen garden was far more likely to bring a murmur of admiration to Poirots lips. Two girls passed the car, toiling slowly up the hill. They were carrying heavy rucksacks on their backs and wore shorts, with bright coloured scarves tied over their heads.
There is a Youth Hostel next door to us, sir, explained the chauffeur, who had clearly constituted himself Poirots guide to Devon. Hoodown Park. Mr Fletchers place it used to be. The Youth Hostel Association bought it and its fairly crammed in summer time. Take in over a hundred a night, they do. Theyre not allowed to stay longer than a couple of nightsthen theyve got to move on. Both sexes and mostly foreigners.
Poirot nodded absently. He was reflecting, not for the first time, that seen from the back, shorts were becoming to very few of the female sex. He shut his eyes in pain. Why, oh why, must young women array themselves thus? Those scarlet thighs were singularly unattractive!
They seem heavily laden, he murmured.
Yes, sir, and its a long pull from the station or the bus stop. Best part of two miles to Hoodown Park. He hesitated. If you dont object, sir, we could give them a lift?
By all means, by all means, said Poirot benignantly. There was he in luxury in an almost empty car and here were these two panting and perspiring young women weighed down with heavy rucksacks and without the least idea how to dress themselves so as to appear attractive to the other sex. The chauffeur started the car and came to a slow purring halt beside the two girls. Their flushed and perspiring faces were raised hopefully.
Poirot opened the door and the girls climbed in.