Hercule Poirot and the Greenshore Folly. Агата Кристи
chauffeur slowed down and came to a purring halt beside the two girls. Two flushed and perspiring faces were raised hopefully. The door was opened and the girls climbed in.
‘It is most kind, please,’ said one of them politely in a foreign accent. ‘It is longer way than I think, yes.’ The other girl who clearly had not much English merely nodded her head several times gratefully and smiled, and murmured ‘Grazie’
Bright dark chestnut fuzzy curls escaped from her head scarf and she had on big earnest looking spectacles.
The English speaking girl continued talking vivaciously. She was in England for a fortnight’s holiday. Her home was Rotterdam. She had already seen Stratford on Avon, Clovelly, Exeter Cathedral, Torquay and, ‘after visiting beauty spot here and historic Dartmouth, I go to Plymouth, discovery of New World from Plymouth Hoe.’
The Italian girl murmered ‘Hoe?’ and shook her head, puzzled.
‘She does not much English speak,’ said the Dutch girl, but I understand she has relative near here married to gentleman who keeps a shop for groceries, so she will spend time with them. My friend I come from Rotterdam with has eat veal and ham pie not good in shop at Exeter and is sick there. It is not always good in hot weather, the veal and ham pie.’
The chauffeur slowed down at a fork in the road. The girls got out, uttered thanks in two languages and the chauffeur with a wave of the hand directed them to the left hand road. He also laid aside for a moment his Olympian aloofness.
‘You want to be careful of Cornish Pasties too,’ he warned them. Put anything in them, they will, holiday time.’
The car drove rapidly down the right hand road into a thick belt of trees.
‘Nice enough young women, some of them, though foreign,’ said the chauffeur. ‘But absolutely shocking the way they trespass. Don’t seem to understand places are private.’
They went on, down a steep hill through woods, then through a gate and along a drive, winding up finally in front of a big white Georgian house looking out over the river.
The chauffeur opened the door of the car as a tall butler appeared on the steps.
‘Mr. Hercule Poirot?’
‘Yes.’
‘Mrs. Oliver is expecting you, sir. You will find her down at the Battery. Allow me to show you the way.’
Poirot was directed to a winding path that led along the wood with glimpses of the river below. The path descended gradually until it came out at last on an open space, round in shape with a low battlemented parapet. On the parapet Mrs. Oliver was sitting.
She rose to meet him and several apples fell from her lap and rolled in all directions. Apples seemed to be an inescapable motif
‘I can’t think why I always drop things,’ said Mrs. Oliver somewhat indistinctly, since her mouth was full of apple. ‘How are you, M. Poirot?’
‘Très bien, chère Madame,’ replied Poirot politely. ‘And you?’
Mrs. Oliver was looking somewhat different from when Poirot had last seen her, and the reason lay, as she had already hinted over the telephone, in the fact that she had once more experimented with her coiffure. The last time Poirot had seen her, she had been adopting a windswept effect. Today, her hair, richly blued, was piled upward in a multiplicity of rather artificial little curls in a pseudo Marquise style. The Marquise effect ended at her neck; the rest of her could have been definitely labelled ‘country practical,’ consisting of a violent yolk of egg rough tweed coat and skirt and a rather bilious looking mustard coloured jumper.
‘I knew you’d come,’ said Mrs. Oliver cheerfully.
‘You could not possibly have known,’ said Poirot severely.
‘Oh, yes I did.’
‘I still ask myself why
‘Well, I know the answer. Curiosity.’
Poirot looked at her and his eyes twinkled a little.
‘Your famous Woman’s Intuition,’ he said, ‘has perhaps for once not led you too far astray.’
‘Now, don’t laugh at my woman’s intuition. Haven’t I always spotted the murderer right away?’
Poirot was gallantly silent. Otherwise he might have replied, ‘At the fifth attempt, perhaps, and not always then!’
Instead he said, looking round him, ‘It is indeed a beautiful property that you have here.’
‘This? But it doesn’t belong to me, M. Poirot. Did you think it did? Oh, no, it belongs to some people called Stubbs.’
‘Who are they?’
‘Oh, nobody really,’ said Mrs. Oliver vaguely. ‘Just rich. No, I’m down here professionally, doing a job.’
‘Ah, you are getting local colour for one of your chefs-d’oeuvre?’
‘No, no. Just what I said. I’m doing a job. I’ve been engaged to arrange a murder.’
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