Hallowe'en Party

"Oh, I don't think so. I mean, you do hear of things. Or read about them in the papers. You know, I mean women being attacked, or a girl and her young man, or things like that. But nothing important that I can remember, nothing that Joyce took an interest in or anything of that kind."

"But if Joyce said positively she saw a murder, would you think she really thought so?"

"She wouldn't say so unless she really did think so, would she?" said Mrs. Reynolds.

"I think she must have got something mixed up really."

"Yes, it seems possible. I wonder," he asked, "if I might speak to your two children who were also at the party?"

"Well, of course, though I don't know what you can expect them to tell you.

Ann's doing her work for her "A' levels upstairs and Leopold's in the garden assembling a model aeroplane."

Leopold was a solid, pudgy faced boy entirely absorbed, it seemed, in mechani- ^ construction. It was some few mornei^ before he could pay attention to ^^^stions he was being asked. y \ were there, weren't you, Leopold? you ^and what your sister said. What did she say?" oh,\ you mean about the murder?" He ^Vbored. oi, \ that's what I mean," said Poirot. ne ^aid she saw a murder once. Did she really ^ee such a thing?" , \ of course she didn't," said Leopc^ ^^ ^ ^.^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^"^ed? It was just like Joyce, that." , yAw do you mean, it was just like Sowing off," said Leopold, winding rOUnd ri i- r r r a piece of wire and breathing force- u^ Wough his nose as he concentrated. , e ^vas an awfully stupid sort of girl," e W. "She'd say anything, you know, ^"^kc people sit up and take notice." , ^ you really think she invented the whole thing?" ^^pold shifted his gaze to Mrs. Oliver. ,. expect she wanted to impress you all, he said.

"You write detective stories, on you? I think she was just putting it on so that you should take more notice of her than you did of the others."

"That would also be rather like her, would it?" said Poirot.

"Oh, she'd say anything," said Leopold.

"I bet nobody believed her though."

"Were you listening? Do you think anyone believed it?"

"Well, I heard her say it, but I didn't really listen. Beatrice laughed at her and so did Cathie. They said ^at's a tall story', or something."

There seemed little more to be got out of Leopold. They went upstairs to where Arm, looking rather more than her sixteen years, was bending over a table with various study books spread round her.

"Yes, I was at the party," she said.

"You heard your sister say something about having seen a murder?"

"Oh yes, I heard her. I didn't take any notice, though."

"You didn't think it was true?"

"Of course it wasn't true. There haven't been any murders here for ages. I don't Aink there's been a proper murder for years."

"Then why do you think she said so?"

"Oh, she likes showing off. I mean she used to like showing off. She had a wonderful story once about having travelled to India. My uncle had been on a voyage there and she pretended she went with him. Lots of girls at school actually believed her."

"So you don't remember any what you call murders taking place here in the last three or four years?"

"No, only the usual kind," said Arm.

"I mean, the ones you read every day in the newspaper. And they weren't actually here in Woodleigh Common. They were mostly in Medchester, I think."

"Who do you think killed your sister, Arm? You must have known her friends, you would know any people who didn't like her."

"I can't imagine who'd want to kill her.

I suppose someone who was just batty.

Nobody else would, would they?"

"There was no-one who had-quarrelled with her or who did not get on with her?"

"You mean, did she have an enemy? I think that's silly. People don't have enemies really. There are just people you don't like."

As they departed from the room, Arm said:

"I don't want to be nasty about Joyce, because she's dead, and it wouldn't be kind, but she really was the most awful liar, you know. I mean, I'm sorry to say things about my sister, but it's quite true."

"Are we making any progress?" said Mrs. Oliver as they left the house.

"None whatever," said Hercule Poirot.

"That is interesting," he said thoughtfully.

Mrs. Oliver looked as though she didn't agree with him.

IT was six o'clock at Pine Crest.

Hercule Poirot put a piece of sausage into his mouth and followed it up with a sip of tea. The tea was strong and to Poirot singularly unpalatable. The sausage, on the other hand, was delicious. Cooked to perfection. He looked with appreciation across the table to where Mrs.

McKay presided over the large brown teapot.

Elspeth McKay was as unlike her brother. Superintendent Spence, as she could be in every way. Where he was broad, she was angular. Her sharp, thin face looked out on the world with shrewd appraisal. She was thin as a thread, yet there was a certain likeness between them.

Mainly the eyes and the strongly marked line of the jaw. Either of them, Poirot thought, could be relied upon for judgment and good sense.