The Hollow

David shrugged his shoulders. He said:

"Does one really think about relations?"

Midge said:

"Does one really think about anything?"

Doubtless, David thought, she didn't. He »aid almost graciously:

"I was analyzing my reactions to murder." "It is certainly odd," said Midge, "to be In one."

David sighed and said:

"Wearisome…" That was quite the best attitude. "All the cliches that one thought existed only in the pages of detective Fiction!"

"You must be sorry you came," said

Midge.

David sighed.

"Yes, I might have been staying with a friend of mine in London." He added: "He keeps a Left Wing bookshop."

"I expect it's more comfortable here," said Midge.

"Does one really care about being comfortable?"

David asked scornfully.

"There are times," said Midge, "when I feel I don't care about anything else."

"The pampered attitude to life," said

David. "If you were a worker-"

Midge interrupted him.

"I am a worker. That's just why being comfortable is so attractive. Box beds, down pillows-early morning tea softly deposited beside the bed-a porcelain bath with lashings of hot water-and delicious bath salts. The kind of easy chair you really sink into…"

Midge paused in her catalogue.

"The workers," said David, "should have all these things."

But he was a little doubtful about the softly deposited early morning tea which sounded impossibly sybaritic for an earnestly organised world.

"I couldn't agree with you more," said

Midge heartily.

Chapter XV

Hercule Poirot, enjoying a midmorning cup of chocolate, was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. He got up and lifted the receiver.

"Allo?"

"M. Poirot?"

"Lady Angkatell?"

"How nice of you to know my voice. Am

I disturbing you?"

"But not at all. You are, I hope, none the worse for the distressing events of yesterday?"

"No, indeed. Distressing, as you say, but one feels, I find, quite detached. I rang you up to know if you could possibly come over-an imposition, I know, but I am really in great distress…"

"But certainly. Lady Angkatell. Did you mean now?"

"Well, yes, I did mean now. As quickly as you can. That's very sweet of you."

"Not at all. I will come by the woods, then?"

"Oh, of course-the shortest way. Thank you so much, dear M. Poirot."

Pausing only to brush a few specks of dust off the lapels of his coat and to slip on a thin overcoat, Poirot crossed the lane and hurried along the path through the chestnuts. The swimming pool was deserted-the police had finished their work and gone. It looked innocent and peaceful in the soft, misty Autumnal light.

Poirot took a quick look into the pavilion.

The platinum fox cape, he noted, had been removed. But the six boxes of matches still stood upon the table by the settee. He wondered more than ever about those matches.

"It is not a place to keep matches-here in the damp. One box, for convenience, perhaps-but not six."

He frowned down on the painted iron table.

The tray of glasses had been removed.

Someone had scrawled with a pencil on the table-a rough design of a nightmarish tree.

It pained Hercule Poirot. It offended his tidy mind.

He clicked his tongue, shook his head, and hurried on towards the house, wondering at the reason for this urgent summons.

Lady Angkatell was waiting for him at the French windows and swept him into the empty drawing-room.

"It was nice of you to come, M. Poirot."

She clasped his hand warmly.

"Madame, I am at your service."

Lady AngkatelFs hands floated out expressively.

Her wide beautiful eyes opened.

"You see, it's all so difficult. The Inspector person is interviewing, no, questioning -taking a statement-what is the term they use?-Gudgeon. And really, our whole life here depends on Gudgeon, and one does so sympathize with him. Because, naturally, it is terrible for him to be questioned by the police-even Inspector Grange, who I do feel is really nice and probably a family man-boys, I think, and he helps them with Meccano in the evenings-and a wife who has everything spotless but a little overcrowded …"

Hercule Poirot blinked as Lady Angkatell developed her imaginary sketch of Inspector Grange's home life.

"By the way his moustache droops," went on Lady Angkatell-"I think that a home that is too spotless might be sometimes depressing-like soap on hospital nurses' faces. Quite a shine! But that is more abroad where things lag behind-in London nursing homes they have lots of powder and really vivid lipstick. But I was saying, M.

Poirot, that you really must come to lunch properly when all this ridiculous business is over."

"You are very kind."

"I do not mind the police myself," said Lady Angkatell. "I really find it all quite interesting. 'Do let me help you in any way I can,' I said to Inspector Grange. He seems rather a bewildered sort of person, but methodical.