One wants to find out more. I have an interest now in that couple of kindly people, with two nice children. I presume they are nice children?” “I don’t know the boy,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t think I’ve ever met him. Do you want to see my goddaughter? I could send her to see you, if you like.” “Yes, I think I would like to see her, meet her some way.
Perhaps she would not wish to come and see me, but a meeting could be brought about. It might, I think, be interesting.
And there is someone else I would like to see.” “Oh! Who is that?” “The woman at the party. The bossy woman. Your bossy friend.” “She’s no friend of mine,” said Mrs. Oliver. “She just came up and spoke to me, that’s all.” “You could resume acquaintance with her?” *Murder in Retrospect.
“Oh, yes, quite easily. I would think she’d probably jump at it.” “I would like to see her. I would like to know why she wants to know these things.” “Yes. I suppose that might be useful. Anyway–” Mrs.
Oliver sighed–“I shall be glad to have a rest from elephants.
Nanny–you know, the old Nanny I talked about–she mentioned elephants and that elephants didn’t forget. That sort of silly sentence is beginning to haunt me. Ah, well, you must look for more elephants. It’s your turn.” “And what about you?” “Perhaps I could look for swans.” “Mow dieu, where do swans come in?” “It is only what I remember, which Nanny reminded me of.
That there were little boys I used to play with and one used to call me Lady Elephant and the other one used to call me Lady Swan. When I was Lady Swan, I pretended to be swimming about on the floor. When I was Lady Elephant, they rode on my back. There are no swans in this.” “That is a good thing,” said Poirot. “Elephants are quite enough.”
CHAPTER X Desmond
Twelve days later, as Hercule Poirot drank his morning chocolate, he read at the same time a letter that had been among his correspondence that morning. He was reading it now for the second time. The handwriting was a moderately good one, though it hardly bore the stamp of maturity.
Dear Monsieur Poirot, I am afraid you will find this letter of mine somewhat peculiar, but I believe it would help if I mentioned a friend of yours. I tried to get in touch with her to ask her if she would arrange for me to come and see you, but apparently she had left home. Her secretary–I am referring to Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the novelist–her secretary seemed to say something about her having gone on a safari in East Africa. If so, I can see she may not return for some time. But I’m sure she would help me. I would indeed like to see you so much. I am badly in need of advice of some kind.
Mrs. Oliver, I understand, is acquainted with my mother, who met her at a literary luncheon party. If you could give me an appointment to visit you one day, I should be very grateful. I can suit my time to anything you suggested. I don’t know if it is helpful at all, but Mrs. Oliver’s secretary did mention the word “elephants.” I presume this has something to do with Mrs. Oliver’s travels in East Africa. The secretary spoke as though it was some kind of password. I don’t really understand this but perhaps you will. I am in a great state of worry and anxiety and I would be very grateful if you could see me.
Yours truly, Desmond Burton-Cox.
“Nom d’un petit bonhomme!” said Hercule Poirot.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said George.
“A mere ejaculation,” said Hercule Poirot. “There are some things, once they have invaded your life, which you find very difficult to get rid of again. With me it seems to be a question of elephants.” He left the breakfast table, summoned his faithful secretary, Miss Lemon, handed her the letter from Desmond Cox and gave her directions to arrange an appointment with the writer of the letter.