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down.”
    He led the way on to the small glazed-in verandah where there were chairs and a table or two. The autumn sun fell pleasantly upon this retreat.
    â€œWhat shall I get you?” said Spence. “No fancy stuff here, I’m afraid. No blackcurrant or rose hip syrup or any of your patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth to make you a cup of tea? Or I can do you a shandy or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoa drinker.”
    â€œYou are very kind. For me, I think a shandy. The ginger beer and the beer? That is right, is it not?”
    â€œAbsolutely so.”
    He went into the house and returned shortly afterwards carrying two large glass mugs. “I’m joining you,” he said.
    He drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing the two glasses in front of himself and Poirot.
    â€œWhat was it you said just now?” he said, raising his glass. “We won’t say ‘Here’s to crime.’ I’ve done with crime, and if you mean the crime I think you do, in fact which I think you have to do, because I don’t recall any other crime just lately. I don’t like the particular form of murder we’ve just had.”
    â€œNo. I do not think you would do so.”
    â€œWe are talking about the child who had her head shoved into a bucket?”
    â€œYes,” said Poirot, “that is what I am talking about.”
    â€œI don’t know why you come to me,” said Spence. “I’m nothing to do with the police nowadays. All that’s over many years ago.”
    â€œOnce a policeman,” said Hercule Poirot, “always a policeman. That is to say, there is always the point of view of the policeman behind the point of view of the ordinary man. I know, I who talk to you. I, too, started in the police force in my country.”
    â€œYes, so you did. I remember now your telling me. Well, I suppose one’s outlook is a bit slanted, but it’s a long time since I’ve had any active connection.”
    â€œBut you hear the gossip,” said Poirot. “You have friends of your own trade. You will hear what they think or suspect or what they know.”
    Spence sighed.
    â€œOne knows too much,” he said, “that is one of the troubles nowadays. There is a crime, a crime of which the pattern is familiar, and you know, that is to say the active police officers know, pretty well who’s probably done that crime. They don’t tell the newspapers but they make their inquiries, and they know. But whether they’re going to get any further than that—well, things have their difficulties.”
    â€œYou mean the wives and the girl friends and the rest of it?”
    â€œPartly that, yes. In the end, perhaps, one gets one’s man. Sometimes a year or two passes. I’d say, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry wrong ’uns than they ever used to in my time.”
    Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his moustaches.
    â€œYes,” he said, “I can see that that might be so. I suspect thatgirls have always been partial to the bad lots, as you say, but in the past there were safeguards.”
    â€œThat’s right. People were looking after them. Their mothers looked after them. Their aunts and their older sisters looked after them. Their younger sisters and brothers knew what was going on. Their fathers were not averse to kicking the wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, of course, the girls used to run away with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there’s no need even to do that. Mother doesn’t know who the girl’s out with, father’s not told who the girl is out with, brothers know who the girl is out with but they think ‘more fool her.’ If the parents refuse consent, the couple go before a magistrate and manage to get permission to marry, and then when the young man who everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to prove to