“I am not too occupied at the present time,” he said.
“Tomorrow will be quite suitable.” Miss Lemon reminded him of two appointments which he already had, but agreed that that left plenty of hours vacant and she would arrange something as he wished.
“Something to do with the Zoological Gardens?” she inquired.
“Hardly,” said Poirot. “No, do not mention elephants in your letter. There can be too much of anything. Elephants are large animals. They occupy a great deal of the horizon. Yes.
We can leave elephants. They will no doubt arise in the course of the conversation I propose to hold with Desmond Burton-Cox.” “Mr. Desmond Burton-Cox,” announced George, ushering in the expected guest.
Poirot had risen to his feet and was standing beside the mantelpiece. He remained for a moment or two without speaking, then he advanced, having summed up his own impression. A somewhat nervous and energetic personality.
Quite naturally so, Poirot thought. A little ill at ease but managing to mask it very successfully. He said, extending a hand, “Mr. Hercule Poirot?” “That is right,” said Poirot. “And your name is Desmond Burton-Cox. Pray sit down and tell me what I can do for you, the reasons why you have come to see me.” “It’s all going to be rather difficult to explain,” said Desmond Burton-Cox.
“So many things are difficult to explain,” said Hercule Poirot, “but we have plenty of time. Sit down.” Desmond looked rather doubtfully at the figure confronting him. Really, a very comic personality, he thought. The eggshaped head, the big moustaches. Not somehow very imposing.
Not quite, in fact, what he had expected to encounter.
“You–you are a detective, aren’t you?” he said. “I mean you–you find out things. People come to you to find out, or to ask you to find out things for them.” “Yes,” said Poirot, “that is one of my tasks in life.” “I don’t suppose that you know what I’ve come about or that you know anything much about me.” “I know something,” said Poirot.
“You mean Mrs. Oliver, your friend Mrs. Oliver. She’s told you something?” “She told me that she had had an interview with a goddaughter others, a Miss Celia Ravenscroft. That is right, is it not?” “Yes. Yes, Celia told me. This Mrs. Oliver, is she–does she also know my mother–know her well, I mean?” “No. I do not think that they know each other well. Accord108
ing to Mrs. Oliver, she met her at a literary luncheon recently and had a few words with her. Your mother, I understand, made a certain request to Mrs. Oliver.” “She’d no business to do so,” said the boy.
His eyebrows came down over his nose. He looked angry now, angry–almost revengeful.
“Really,” he said, “Mother’s–I mean–” “I understand,” said Poirot. “There is much feeling these days, indeed perhaps there always has been. Mothers are continually doing things which their children would much rather they did not do. Am I right?” “Oh, you’re right enough. But my mother–I mean, she interferes in things in which really she has no concern.” “You and Celia Ravenscroft, I understand, are close friends.
Mrs. Oliver understood from your mother that there was some question of marriage. Perhaps in the near future?” “Yes, but my mother really doesn’t need to ask questions and worry about things which are–well, no concern of hers.” “But mothers are like that,” said Poirot. He smiled faintly.
He added, “You are, perhaps, very much attached to your mother?” “I wouldn’t say that,” said Desmond. “No, I certainly wouldn’t say that. You see–well, I’d better tell you straightaway, she’s not really my mother.” “Oh, indeed. I had not understood that.” “I’m adopted,” said Desmond. “She had a son. A little boy who died. And then she wanted to adopt a child, so I was adopted, and she brought me up as her son. She always speaks of me as her son, and thinks of me as her son, but I’m not really her son. We’re not a bit alike. We don’t look at things the same way.” “Very understandable,” said Poirot.
“I don’t seem to be getting on,” said Desmond, “with what I want to ask you.” “You want me to do something, to find out something, to cover a certain line of interrogation?” “I suppose that does cover it. I don’t know how much you know about–about well, what the trouble is all about.” “I know a little,” said Poirot. “Not details. I do not know very much about you or about Miss Ravenscroft, whom I have not yet met. I’d like to meet her.” “Yes, well, I was thinking of bringing her to talk to you, but I thought I’d better talk to you myself first.” “Well, that seems quite sensible,” said Poirot. “You are unhappy about something? Worried? You have difficulties?” “Not really. No. No, there shouldn’t be any difficulties.