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‘It would be more fun if it was melons,’ objected one of the boys. ‘They’re so juicy. Think of the mess it would make,’ he said, surveying the carpet with pleasurable anticipation.
Mrs Oliver, feeling a little guilty at the public arraignment of greediness, left the room in search of a particular apartment, the geography of which is usually fairly easily identified. She went up the staircase and, turning the corner on the half landing, cannoned into a pair, a girl and a boy, clasped in each other’s arms[15 - turning the corner on the half landing, cannoned into a pair, a girl and a boy, clasped in each other’s arms – завернув за угол на лестничной площадке, она натолкнулась на парочку, девочку и мальчика, сжавших друг друга в объятьях] and leaning against the door which Mrs Oliver felt fairly certain was the door to the room to which she herself was anxious to gain access. The couple paid no attention to her. Тhey sighed and they snuggled. Mrs Oliver wondered how old they were. The boy was fifteen, perhaps, the girl little more than twelve, although the development of her chest seemed certainly on the mature side.
Apple trees was a house of fair size. It had, she thought, several agreeable nooks and corners. How selfish people are, thought Mrs Oliver. No consideration for others. that well-known tag from the past came into her mind. It had been said to her in succession by a nursemaid, a nanny, a governess, her grandmother, two great-aunts, her mother and a few others. ‘
Excuse me,’ said Mrs Oliver in a loud, clear voice.
Тhe boy and the girl clung closer than ever, their lips fastened on each other’s.
‘Excuse me,’ said Mrs Oliver again, ‘do you mind letting me pass? I want to get in at this door.’
Unwillingly the couple fell apart. They looked at her in an aggrieved fashion. Mrs Oliver went in, banged the door and shot the bolt.
It was not a very close fitting door. The faint sound of words came to her from outside.
‘Isn’t that like people?’ one voice said in a somewhat uncertain tenor. ‘They might see we didn’t want to be disturbed.’
‘People are so selfish,’ piped a girl’s voice. ‘They never think of anyone but themselves.’
‘No consideration for others,’ said the boy’s voice.
CHAPTER 2
Preparations for a children’s party usually give far more trouble to the organizers than an entertainment devised for those of adult years. Food of good quality and suitable alcoholic refreshment—with lemonade on the side, that, to the right people, is quite enough to make a party go. It may cost more but the trouble is infinitely less. So Ariadne Oliver and her friend Judith Butler agreed together.
‘What about teenage parties?’ said Judith.
‘I don’t know much about them,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘In one way,’ said Judith, ‘I think they’re probably least trouble of all. I mean, they just throw all of us adults out. And say they’ll do it all themselves.’
‘And do they?’
‘Well, not in our sense of the word,’ said Judith. ‘They forget to order some of the things, and order a lot of other things that nobody likes. Having turfed us out, then they say there were things we ought to have provided for them to find. They break a lot of glasses, and other things, and there’s always somebody undesirable or who brings an undesirable friend. You know the sort of thing. Peculiar drugs and—what do they call it?—Flower Pot or Purple Hemp or L.S.D.[16 - Flower Pot or Purple Hemp– (жарг.) марихуана, L.S.D. – ЛСД (наркотическое вещество)], which I always have thought just meant money; but apparently it doesn’t.’
‘I suppose it costs it,’ suggested Ariadne Oliver.
‘It’s very unpleasant, and Hemp has a nasty smell.’
‘It all sounds very depressing,’ said Mrs Oliver.
‘Anyway, this party will go all right. Trust Rowena Drake for that. She’s a wonderful organizer. You’ll see.’
‘I don’t feel I even want to go to a party,’ sighed Mrs Oliver. ‘You go up and lie down for an hour or so. You’ll see. You’ll enjoy it when you get there. I wish Miranda hadn’t got a temperature—she’s so disappointed at not being able to go, poor child.’
The party came into being at half past seven. Ariadne Oliver had to admit that her friend was right. Arrivals were punctual. Everything went splendidly. It was well imagined, well run and ran like clockwork. There were red and blue lights on the stairs and yellow pumpkins in profusion[17 - in profusion – в изобилии]. The girls and boys arrived holding decorated broomsticks for a competition. After greetings, Rowena Drake announced the programme for the evening. ‘First, judging of the broomstick competition,’ she said, ‘three prizes, first, second and third. Then comes cutting the flour cake. That’ll be in the small conservatory. Then bobbing for apples—there’s a list pinned upon the wall over there of the partners for that event—then there’ll be dancing. Every time the lights go out you change partners. Then girls to the small study where they’ll be given their mirrors. After that, supper, Snapdragon and then prize-giving.’
Like all parties, it went slightly slightly at first. The brooms were admired, they were very small miniature brooms, and on the whole the decorating of them had not reached a very high standard of merit, ‘which makes it easier,’ said Mrs Drake in an aside[18 - aside(зд.) – замечание, сделанное «в сторону»] to one of her friends. ‘And it’s a very useful thing because I mean there are always one or two children one knows only too well won’t win a prize at anything else, so one can cheat a little over this.’
‘So unscrupulous, Rowena.’
‘I’m not really. I just arrange so that things should be fair and evenly divided. The whole point is that everyone wants to win something.’’
‘What’s the Flour Game[19 - Flour Game – традиционная в англоязычных странах игра; ее описание дается автором в следующем абзаце]?’ asked Ariadne Oliver.
‘Oh yes, of course, you weren’t here when we were doing it. Well, you just fill a tumbler with flour, press it in well, then you turn it out in a tray and place a sixpence on top of it. Then everyone slices a slice off it very carefully so as not to tumble the sixpence off. As soon as someone tumbles the sixpence off, that person goes out. It’s a sort of elimination. The last one left in gets the sixpence of course. Now then, away we go.’
And away they went. Squeals of excitement were heard coming from the library where bobbing for apples went on, and competitors returned from there with wet locks and having disposed a good deal of water about their persons.
One of the most popular contests, at any rate among the girls, was the arrival of the Hallowe’en witch played by Mrs Goodbody, a local cleaning woman who, not only having the necessary hooked nose and chin which almost met, was admirably proficient in producing a semi-cooing voice which had definitely sinister undertones and also produced magical doggerel rhymes[20 - proficient in producing a semi-cooing voice which had definitely sinister undertones and also produced magical doggerel rhymes – умела говорить воркующим голосом со зловещими интонациями, а также читала заклинания-доггерели (доггерель – форма неравносложного «вольного» стиха в староанглийской поэзии)].
‘Now then, come along, Beatrice, is it? Ah, Beatrice. A very interesting name. Now you want to know what your husband is going to look like. Now, my dear, sit here. Yes, yes, under this light here. Sit here and hold this little mirror in your hand, and presently when the lights go out you’ll see him appear. You’ll see him looking over your shoulder. Now hold the mirror steady. Abracadabra, who shall see? The face of the man who will marry me. Beatrice, Beatrice, you shall find, the face of the man who shall please your mind.’
A sudden shaft of light shot across the room from a step-ladder, placed behind a screen. It hit the right spot in the room, which was reflected in the mirror grasped in Beatrice’s excited hand.
‘Oh!’ cried Beatrice. ‘I’ve seen him. I’ve seen him! I can see him in my mirror!’
The beam was shut off, the lights came on and a coloured photograph pasted on a card floated down from the ceiling. Beatrice danced about excitedly.
‘That was him! That was him! I saw him,’ she cried. ‘Oh, he’s got a lovely ginger beard.’
She rushed to Mrs Oliver, who was the nearest person.
‘Do look, do look. Don’t you think he’s rather wonderful? He’s like Eddie Presweight, the pop singer. Don’t you think so?’
Mrs Oliver did think he looked like one of the faces she daily deplored having to see in her morning paper. The beard, she thought, had been an after-thought of genius.
‘Where do all these things come from?’ she asked.
‘Oh, Rowena gets Nicky to make them. And his friend Desmond helps. He experiments a good deal with photography. He and a couple of pals of his made themselves up, with a great deal of hair or side-burns or beards and things. And then with the light on him and everything, of course it sends the girls wild with delight.’
‘I can’t help thinking,’ said Ariadne Oliver, ‘that girls are really very silly nowadays.’
‘Don’t you think they always were?’ asked Rowena Drake.
Mrs Oliver considered.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ she admitted.
‘Now then,’ cried Mrs Drake—‘supper.’
Supper went off well. Rich iced cakes, savouries[21 - Rich iced cakes, savouries – Роскошные глазурованные торты, острые закуски], prawns, cheese and nut confections. The eleven-pluses stuffed themselves.
‘And now,’ said Rowena, ‘the last one for the evening. Snapdragon. Across there, through the pantry. That’s right. Now then. Prizes first.’
The prizes were presented, and then there was a wailing, banshee call[22 - wailing, banshee call – банши, в кельтском фольклоре – особая разновидность фей. Принимает различные облики: от уродливой старухи до призрачной красавицы. Издает пронзительные вопли, предвещая чью-либо гибель]. The children rushed across the hall back to the dining-room.
The food had been cleared away. A green baize cloth was laid across the table and here was borne a great dish of flaming raisins. Everybody shrieked, rushing forward, snatching the blazing raisins, with cries of ‘Ow, I’m burned! Isn’t it lovely?’ Little by little the Snapdragon flickered and died down. The lights went up. The party was over.
‘It’s been a great success,’ said Rowena.
‘So it should be with all the trouble you’ve taken.’
‘It was lovely,’ said Judith quietly. ‘Lovely.’
‘And now,’ she added ruefully, ‘we’ll have to clear up a bit. We can’t leave everything for those poor women tomorrow morning.’
CHAPTER 3
In a flat in London the telephone bell rang. The owner of the flat, Hercule Poirot, stirred in his chair. Disap point ment attacked him. He knew before he answered it what it meant. His friend Solly, with whom he had been going to spend the evening, reviving their never-ending contro versy about the real culprit in the Canning Road Municipal Baths murder, was about to say that he could not come. Poirot, who had collected certain bits of evidence in favour of his own somewhat far-fetched theory, was deeply disappointed. He did not think his friend Solly would accept his suggestions, but he had no doubt that when Solly in his turn produced his own fantastic beliefs, he himself, Hercule Poirot, would just as easily be able to demolish them in the name of sanity, logic, order and method. It was annoying, to say the least of it, if Solly did not come this evening. But it is true that when they had met earlier in the day, Solly had been racked with a chesty cough and was in a state of highly infectious catarrh[23 - highly infectious catarrh – очень заразный катар (воспаление слизистой оболочки к.-л. органа, вызванное вирусной инфекцией)].
‘He had a nasty cold,’ said Hercule Poirot, ‘and no doubt, in spite of the remedies that I have handy here, he would probably have given it to me. It is better that he should not come. Tout de même[24 - Tout de même – (фр.) Все равно],’ he added, with a sigh, ‘it will mean that now I shall pass a dull evening.’
Many of the evenings were dull now, Hercule Poirot thought. His mind, magnificent as it was (for he had never doubted that fact) required stimulation from outside sources. He had never been of a philosophic cast of mind[25 - cast of mind – склад ума]. There were times when he almost regretted that he had not taken to the study of theology instead of going into the police force in his early days. The number of angels who could dance on the point of a needle[26 - The number of angels who could dance on the point of a needle – Вопрос «сколько ангелов может танцевать на кончике иглы» пародирует средневековую схоластическую ученость, создан английскими протестантскими авторами в XVII в. в ходе полемики с католическим богословием]; it would be interesting to feel that that mattered and to argue passionately on the point with one’s colleagues.
His manservant, George, entered the room.
‘It was Mr Solomon Levy, sir.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘He very much regrets that he will not be able to join you this evening. He is in bed with a serious bout of ’flu.’
‘He has not got ’flu,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘He has only a nasty cold. Everyone always thinks they have ’flu. It sounds more important. One gets more sympathy. The trouble with a catarrhal cold is that it is hard to glean the proper amount of sympathetic consideration from one’s friends.’
‘Just as well he isn’t coming here, sir, really,’ said George. ‘Those colds in the head are very infectious. Wouldn’t be good for you to go down with one of those.’
‘It would be extremely tedious,’ Poirot agreed.
The telephone bell rang again.
‘And now who has a cold?’ he demanded. ‘I have not asked anyone else.’
George crossed towards the telephone.
‘I will take the call here,’ said Poirot. ‘I have no doubt that it is nothing of interest. But at any rate—’ he shrugged his shoulders ‘—it will perhaps pass the time. Who knows?’
George said, ‘Very good, sir,’ and left the room.
Poirot stretched out a hand, raised the receiver, thus stilling the clamour of the bell.
‘Hercule Poirot speaks,’ he said, with a certain grandeur of manner designed to impress whoever was at the other end of the line[27 - he said, with a certain grandeur of manner designed to impress whoever was at the other end of the line – произнес он напыщенным тоном, чтобы произвести впечатление на собеседника на другом конце телефонной линии].
‘That’s wonderful,’ said an eager voice. A female voice, slightly impaired with breathlessness. ‘I thought you’d be sure to be out, that you wouldn’t be there.’
‘Why should you think that?’ inquired Poirot.
‘Because I can’t help feeling that nowadays things always happen to frustrate one. You want someone in a terrible hurry, you feel you can’t wait, and you have to wait. I wanted to get hold of you urgently—absolutely urgently.’
‘And who are you?’ asked Hercule Poirot.
The voice, a female one, seemed surprised.
‘Don’t you know?’ it said incredulously.
‘Yes, I know,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘You are my friend, Ariadne.’
‘And I’m in a terrible state,’ said Ariadne.
‘Yes, yes, I can hear that. Have you also been running? You are very breathless, are you not?’
‘I haven’t exactly been running. It’s emotion. Can I come and see you at once?
Poirot let a few moments elapse before he answered. His friend, Mrs Oliver, sounded in a highly excitable condition. whatever was the matter with her, she would no doubt spend a very long time pouring out her grievances, her woes, her frustrations or whatever was ailing her. Once having established herself within Poirot’s sanctum, it might be hard to induce her to go home without a certain amount of impoliteness. The things that excited Mrs Oliver were so numerous and frequently so unexpected that one had to be careful how one embarked upon a discussion of them.
‘Something has upset you?’
‘Yes. Of course I’m upset. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know—oh, I don’t know anything. What I feel is that I’ve got to come and tell you—tell you just what’s happened, for you’re the only person who might know what to do. Who might tell me what I ought to do. So can I come?’
‘But certainly, but certainly. I shall be delighted to receive you.’
The receiver was thrown down heavily at the other end and Poirot summoned George, reflected a few minutes, then ordered lemon barley water[28 - barley water – ячменный отвар (сладкий напиток, приготовленный из ячменного отвара и фруктового сока)], bitter lemon and a glass of brandy for himself.
‘Mrs Oliver will be here in about ten minutes,’ he said.
George withdrew. He returned with the brandy for Poirot, who accepted it with a nod of satisfaction, and George then proceeded to provide the teetotal refreshment that was the only thing likely to appeal to Mrs Oliver. Poirot took a sip of brandy delicately, fortifying himself for the ordeal which was about to descend upon him.
‘It’s a pity,’ he murmured to himself, ‘that she is so scatty. And yet, she has originality of mind. It could be that I am going to enjoy what she is coming to tell me. It could be—’ he reflected a minute ‘—that it may take a great deal of the evening and that it will all be excessively foolish. Eh bien[29 - Eh bien – (фр.) Ну что же], one must take one’s risks in life.’
A bell sounded. A bell on the outside door of the flat this time. It was not a single pressure of the button. It lasted for a long time with a kind of steady action that was very effective, the sheer making of noise.
‘Assuredly, she has excited herself,’ said Poirot.
He heard George go to the door, open it, and before any decorous announcement could be made the door of his sitting-room opened and Ariadne Oliver charged through it, with George in tow[30 - in tow – на буксире] behind her, hanging on to something that looked like a fisherman’s sou’wester and oilskins[31 - sou’wester – непромокаемая шляпа, зюйдвестка; oilskins – штормовка, дождевик].
‘What on earth are you wearing?’ said Hercule Poirot.
‘Let George take it from you. It’s very wet.’
‘Of course it’s wet,’ said Mrs Oliver. ‘It’s very wet out. I never thought about water before. It’s a terrible thing to think of.’
Poirot looked at her with interest.
‘Will you have some lemon barley water,’ he said, ‘or could I persuade you to a small glass of eau de vie[32 - eau de vie – (фр., букв. вода жизни) вид французского фруктового бренди]?’
‘I hate water,’ said Mrs Oliver.
Poirot looked surprised.
