“Ring her back,” said Hercule Poirot. “Tell her I shall be delighted to receive her.” George went away to carry out this order, and returned to say that Mrs. Oliver would be there about quarter to nine.
“Coffee,” said Poirot. “Let coffee be prepared and some petits fours. I rather think I ordered some in lately from Fortnum and Mason.” “A liqueur of any kind, sir?” “No, I think not. I myself will have some Sirop de Cassis.” “Yes, sir.” Mrs. Oliver arrived exactly on time. Poirot greeted her with every sign of pleasure.
“And how are you, chere madame?” “Exhausted,” said Mrs. Oliver, She sank down into the armchair that Poirot indicated.
“Completely exhausted.” “Ah. Qui va a la chasse–oh, I cannot remember the saying.” “I remember it,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I learned it as a child. ‘Qui va a la chasse perd sa place.’ ” “That, I am sure, is not applicable to the chase you have been conducting. I am referring to the pursuit of elephants, unless that was merely a figure of speech.” “Not at all,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I have been pursuing elephants madly. Here, there and everywhere. The amount of petrol I have used, the amount of trains I have taken, the amount of letters I’ve written, the amount of telegrams I’ve sent–you wouldn’t believe how exhausting it all is.” “Then repose yourself. Have some coffee.” “Nice, strong, black coffee–yes, I will. Just what I want.” “Did you, may I ask, get any results?” “Plenty of results,” said Mrs. Oliver. “The trouble is, I don’t know whether any of them are any use.” “You learned facts, however?” “No. Not really. I learned things that people told me were facts, but I strongly doubt myself whether any of them were facts.” “They were heresay?” “No. They were what I said they would be. They were memories. Lots of people who had memories. The trouble is, when you remember things, you don’t always remember them right, do you?” “No. But they are still what you might describe perhaps as results. Is not that so?” “And what have you done?” said Mrs. Oliver.
“You are always so stern, madame,” said Poirot. “You demand that I run about, that I also do things.” “Well, have you run about?” “I have not run about, but I have had a few consultations with others of my own profession.” “It sounds far more peaceful than what I have been doing,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Oh, this coffee is nice. It’s really strong.
You wouldn’t believe how tired I am. And how muddled.” “Come, come. Let us have good expectancy. You have got things. You have got something, I think.” “I’ve got a lot of different suggestions and stories. I don’t know whether any of them are true.” “They could be not true, but still be of use,” said Poirot.
“Well, I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and that’s what I think too. I mean, that’s what I thought when I went about it. When people remember something and tell you about it–I mean, it’s often not quite actually what occurred, but it’s what they themselves thought occurred.” “But they must have had something on which to base it,” said Poirot.
“I’ve brought you a list of a kind,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t need to go into details of where I went or what I said or why, I went out deliberately for–well, information one couldn’t perhaps get from anybody in this country now. But it’s all from people who knew something about the Ravenscrofts, even if they hadn’t known them very well.” “News from foreign places, do you mean?” “Quite a lot of them were from foreign places. Other people who knew them here rather slightly or from people whose aunts or cousins or friends knew them long ago.” “And each one that you’ve noted down had some story to tell—some reference to the tragedy or to people involved?” “That’s the idea,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I’ll tell you roughly, shall I?” “Yes. Have a petit four.” “Thank you,” said Mrs. Oliver.
She took a particularly sweet and rather bilious-looking one and champed it with energy.
“Sweet things,” she said, “really give you a lot of vitality, I always think. Well, now, I’ve got the following suggestions.