Read Hallowe'en Party for Free Online

swear black's white for him and everything else. Yes, it's difficult. Difficult for us, I mean. Well, there's no good going on saying things were better in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so. Anyway, Poirot, how did you get yourself mixed up in all this? This isn't your part of the country, is it? Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knew you.”
    “I still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend, Mrs Oliver. You remember Mrs Oliver?”
    Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and appeared to reflect. “Mrs Oliver? Can't say that I do.”
    “She writes books. Detective stories. You met her, if you will throw your mind back, during the time that you persuaded me to investigate the murder of Mrs McGinty. You will not have forgotten Mrs McGinty?”
    “Good Lord, no. But it was a long time ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot, a very good turn. I went to you for help and you didn't let me down.”
    “I was honoured - flattered that you should come to consult me,” said Poirot.
    “I must say that I despaired once or twice. The man we had to save - to save his neck in those days I believe, it is long ago enough for that - was a man who was excessively difficult to do anything for. The kind of standard example of how not to do anything useful for himself.”
    “Married that girl, didn't he? The wet one. Not the bright one with the peroxide hair. Wonder how they got on together. Have you ever heard about it?”
    “No,” said Poirot. “I presume all goes well with them.” “Can't see what she saw in him.”
    “It is difficult,” said Poirot, “but it is one of the great consolations in nature that a man, however unattractive, will find that he is attractive - even what appears to be madly attractive - to some woman. One can only say or hope that they married and lived happily ever afterwards.”
    “Shouldn't think they lived happily ever afterwards if they had to have Mother to live with them.”
    “No, indeed,” said Poirot. “Or Stepfather,” he added.
    “Well,” said Spence, “here we are talking of old days again. All that's over. I always thought that man, can't remember his name now, ought to have run an undertaking parlour. Had just the face and manner for it. Perhaps he did. The girl had some money, didn't she? Yes, he'd have made a very good undertaker. I can see him, all in black, calling for orders for the funeral. Perhaps he can even have been enthusiastic over the right kind of elm or teak or whatever they use for coffins. But he'd never have made good selling insurance or real estate. Anyway, don't let's harp back.”
    Then he said suddenly, “Mrs Oliver. Ariadne Oliver. Apples. Is that how she's got herself mixed up in this? That poor child got her head shoved under water in a bucket of floating apples, didn't she, at a party? Is that what interested Mrs Oliver?”
    “I don't think she was particularly attracted because of the apples,” said Poirot, “but she was at the party.”
    “Do you say she lived here?”
    “No, she does not live here. She was staying with a friend, a Mrs Butler.”
    “Butler? Yes, I know her. Lives down not far from the church. Widow. Husband was an airline pilot. Has a daughter. Rather nice-looking girl. Pretty manners. Mrs Butler's rather an attractive woman, don't you think so?”
    “I have as yet barely met her, but, yes, I thought she was very attractive.” “And how does this concern you, Poirot? You weren't here when it happened?”
    “No. Mrs Oliver came to me in London. She was upset, very upset. She wanted me to do something.”
    A faint smile showed on Superintendent Spence's face.
    “I see. Same old story. I came up to you, too, because I wanted you to do something.”
    “And I have carried things one step further,” said Poirot. “I have come to you.” “Because you want me to do something? I tell you, there's nothing I can do.”
    “Oh yes there is. You can tell me all about the people.