Hallowe'en Party

Keeping all these possibilities in mind he pushed them, as it were, behind a curtain for the moment, and concentrated instead on his own appraisement of these two, their looks, their clothes, their manner, their voices and so on and so forth in the Hercule Poirot manner, masked behind a foreign shield of nattering words and much increased foreign mannerisms, so that they themselves should feel agreeably contemptuous of him, though hiding that under politeness and good manners. For both of them had excellent manners. Nicholas, the eighteen-year-old, was good-looking, wearing side-burns, hair that grew fairly far down his neck, and a rather funereal outfit of black. Not as a mourning for the recent tragedy, but what was obviously his personal taste in modern clothes. The younger one was wearing a rose-coloured velvet coat, mauve trousers and a kind of frilled shirting. They both obviously spent a good deal of money on their clothes which were certainly not purchased locally and were probably paid for by themselves and not by their parents or guardians.

Desmond^s hair was ginger coloured and there was a good deal of fluffy profusion about it.

"You were there in the morning or afternoon of the party, I understand, helping with the preparations for it?"

"Early afternoon," corrected Nicholas.

"What sort of preparations were you helping with? I have heard of preparation from several people, but I am not quite clear. They don't all agree."

"A good deal of the lighting, for one thing."

"Getting up on steps for things that had to be put high up."

"I understand there were some very good photographic results too."

Desmond immediately dipped into his pocket and took out a folder from which he proudly brought certain cards.

"We faked up these beforehand," he said.

"Husbands for the girls," he explained.

"They're all alike, birds are.

They all want something up-to-date. Not a bad assortment, are they?"

He handed a few specimens to Poirot who looked with interest at a rather fuzzy reproduction of a ginger-bearded young man and another young man with an aureole of hair, a third one whose hair came to his knees almost, and there were a few assorted whiskers, and other facial adornments.

"Made "em pretty well all different. It wasn't bad, was it?"

"You had models, I suppose?"

"Oh, they're all ourselves. Just make-up, you know. Nick and I got 'em done. Some Nick took of me and some I took of him. Just varied what you might call the hair motif."

"Very clever," said Poirot.

"We kept 'em a bit out of focus, you know, so that they'd look more like spirit pictures, as you might say."

The other boy said, "Mrs. Drake was very pleased with them.

She congratulated us. They made her laugh too. It was mostly electrical work we did at the house. You know, fitting up a light or two so that when the girls sat with the mirror one or other of us could take up a position, you'd only to bob up over a screen and the girl would see a face in the mirror with, mind you, the right kind of hair.

Beard or whiskers or something or other."

"Did they know it was you and your friend?"

"Oh, I don't think so for a moment. Not at the party, they didn't.

They knew we had been helping at the house with some things, but I don't think they recognised us in the mirrors. Weren't smart enough, I should say. Besides, we'd got sort of an instant make-up to change the image. First me, then Nicholas. The girls squeaked and shrieked.

Damned funny."

"And the people who were there in the afternoon? I do not ask you to remember who was at the party."

"At the party, there must have been about thirty, I suppose, knocking about.

In the afternoon there was Mrs. Drake, of course, and Mrs. Butler.

One of the school-teachers, Whittaker I think her name is. Mrs.

Flatterbut or some name like that. She's the organist's sister or wife.

Dr. Ferguson's dispenser. Miss Lee; it's her afternoon off and she came along and helped too and some of the kids came to make themselves useful if they could. Not that I think they were very useful. The girls just hung about and giggled."

"Ah yes. Do you remember what girls there were there?"

"Well, the Reynolds were there. Poor, old Joyce, of course. The one who got* done in, and her elder sister Arm.

Frightful girl. Puts no end of side on., Thinks she's terribly clever. Quite sure she's going to pass all her "A" levels. And the small kid, Leopold, he's awful," said Desmond.

"He's a sneak. He eavesdrops.

Tells tales. Real nasty bit of goods. And there was Beatrice Ardley and Cathie Grant, who is dim as they make and a couple of useful women, of course.

Cleaning women, I mean. And the authoress woman the one who brought you down here."

"Any men?"

"Oh, the vicar looked in if you count him. Nice old boy, rather dim.

And the new curate. He stammers when he's nervous. Hasn't been here long. That's all I can think of now."

"And then I understand you heard this girl Joyce Reynolds saying something about having seen a murder committed."

"I never heard that," said Desmond.

"Did she?"