Hallowe'en Party

"What are you writing down there?"

"Certain things that have occurred in the past."

"You seem to be very perturbed by the past altogether."

"The past is the father of the present," said Poirot sententiously.

He offered her the notebook.

"Do you wish to see what I have written?"

"Of course I do. I daresay it won't mean anything to me. The things you think important to write down, I never do."

He held out the small black notebook.

"Deaths: e.g. Mrs. LlewellynSmythe (Wealthy). Janet White (Schoolteacher).

Lawyer's clerk-Knifed, Former prosecution for forgery."

Below it was written "Opera girl disappears."

"What opera girl?"

"It is the word my friend, Spence's sister, uses for what you and I call au pair girl."

"Why should she disappear?"

"Because she was possibly about to get into some form of legal trouble."

Poirofs finger went down to the next entry. The word was simply "Forgery", with two question marks after it.

"Forgery?" said Mrs. Oliver.

"Why forgery?"

"That is what I asked. Why forgery?"

"^at kind of forgery?"

"^\Will was forged, or rather a codicil to a. ^ill. A codicil in the au pair girl's favour."

"Undue influence?" suggested Mrs.

Oliver.

"Forgery is something rather more serious than undue influence," said Poirot.

"I don't see what that's got to do with the murder of poor Joyce."

"hor do I," said Poirot.

"But, therefore:, it is interesting."

"What is the next word? I can't read it."

"Ilephants."

"I don't see what that's got to do with anything."

" It might have," said Poirot, "believe me,. it might have."

He rose.

"I must leave you now," he said.

"Apologise, please, to my hostess for my not saying good-bye to her. I much enjoyed meeting her and her lovely and unusual daughter. Tell her to take care of that child."

"

"My mother said I never should, play with the children in the wood,"9 quoted Mrs. Oliver.

"Well, good-bye. If you like to be mysterious, I suppose you will go on being mysterious. You don't even say what you're going to do next."

"I have made an appointment for to-morrow morning with Messrs.

Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter in Medchester."

"Why?"

"To talk about forgery and other matters."

"And after that?"

"I want to talk to certain people who were also present."

"At the party?"

"No-at the preparations for the party."

THE premises of Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter were typical of an old-fashioned firm of the utmost respectability. The hand of time had made itself felt. There were no more Harrisons and no more Leadbetters. There was a Mr.

Atkinson and a young Mr. Cole, and there was still Mr. Jeremy Fullerton, senior partner.

A lean, elderly man, Mr. Fullerton, with an impassive face, a dry, legal voice, and eyes that were unexpectedly shrewd.

Beneath his hand rested a sheet of notepaper, the few words on which he had just read. He read them once again, assessing their meaning very exactly. Then he looked at the man whom the note introduced to him.

"Monsieur Hercule Poirot?" He made his own assessment of the visitor.

An elderly man, a foreigner, very dapper in his dress, unsuitably attired as to the feet in patent leather shoes which were, so Mr.

Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for him. Faint lines of pain were already etching themselves round the corners of his eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and recommended to him by, of all people, Inspector Henry Raglan, CID, and also vouched for by Superintendent Spence (retired), formerly of Scotland Yard.

"Superintendent Spence, eh?" said Mr.

Fullerton.

Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had done good work in his time, had been highly thought of by his superiors. Faint memories flashed across his mind. Rather a celebrated case, more celebrated actually than it had showed any signs of being, a case that had seemed cut and dried. Of course! It came to him that his nephew Robert had been connected with it, had been Junior Counsel. A psychopathic killer, it had seemed, a man who had hardly bothered to try and defend himself, a man whom you might have thought really wanted to be hanged (because it had meant hanging at that time). No fifteen years, or indefinite number of years in prison. No. You paid the full penalty and more's the pity they've given it up, so Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind.

The young thugs nowadays thought they didn't risk much by prolonging assault to the point where it became mortal. Once your man was dead, there'd be no witness to identify you.

Spence had been in charge of the case, a quiet, dogged man who had insisted all along that they'd got the wrong man. And they had got the wrong man, and the person who found the evidence that they'd got the wrong man was some sort of an amateurish foreigner. Some retired detective chap from the Belgian police force. A good age then. And now-senile probably, thought Mr. Fullerton, but all the same he himself would take the prudent course.