“There were other times, I think, when she didn’t want to talk about her. She talked about her mother and her father.
She was fond of them, I think, in the ordinary sort of way.
Her mother came once to Paris and took her out, I remember.
Nice woman. Not very exciting or good-looking or anything.
Nice, quiet, kindly.” “I see. So you have nothing to help us there? Boy friends?” “We didn’t have so many boy friends then,” said Mrs. Oliver. “It’s not like nowadays when it’s a matter of course.
Later, when we were both back again at home we more or less drifted apart. I think Molly went abroad somewhere with her parents. I don’t think it was India–I don’t think so. Somewhere else, I think it was. Egypt, perhaps. I think now they were in the Diplomatic Service. They were in Sweden at one time, and after that somewhere like Bermuda or the West Indies. I think he was a governor or something there. But those sort of things one doesn’t really remember. All one remembers is all the silly things that we said to each other. I had a crush on the violin master, I remember. Molly was very keen on the music master, which was very satisfying to us both and I should think much less troublesome than boy friends seem to be nowadays. I mean, you adored–longed for the day when they came again to teach you. They were, I have no doubt, quite indifferent to you. But one dreamt about them at night and I remember having a splendid kind of daydream in which I nursed my beloved Monsieur Adolphe when he had cholera and I gave him, I think, blood transfusions to save his life. How very silly one is. And think of all the other things you think of doing! There was one time when I was quite determined to be a nun and later on I thought I’d be a hospital nurse. Well, I suppose we shall have Mrs. BurtonCox in a moment. I wonder how she will react to you?” Poirot gazed at his watch.
“We shall be able to see that fairly soon.” “Have we anything else we ought to talk about first?” “I think there are a few things we might compare notes on. As I say, there are one or two things that I think could do with investigation. An elephant investigation for you, shall we say? And an understudy for an elephant for me.” “What an extraordinary thing to say,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I told you I was done with elephants.” “Ah,” said Poirot, “but elephants perhaps have not done with you.” The front doorbell sounded once again. Poirot and Mrs.
Oliver looked at each other.
“Well,” said Mrs. Oliver, “here we go.” She left the room once more. Poirot heard sounds of greeting going on outside and in a moment or two Mrs. Oliver returned, ushering the somewhat massive figure of Mrs.
Burton-Cox.
“What a delightful flat you have,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox.
“So charming of you to have spared time–your very valuable time, I’m sure–and asked me to come and see you.” Her eyes shot sideways to Hercule Poirot. A faint expression of surprise passed over her face. For a moment her eyes went from him to the baby grand piano that stood in one window. It occurred to Mrs. Oliver that Mrs. Burton-Cox was thinking that Hercule Poirot was a piano tuner. She hastened to dispel this illusion.
“I want to introduce you,” she said, “to Mr. Hercule Poirot.” Poirot came forward and bent over her hand.
“I think he is the only person who might be able to help you in some way. You know. What you were asking me about the other day concerning my godchild, Celia Ravenscroft.” “Oh, yes, how kind of you to remember. I do so hope you can give me a little more knowledge of what really happened.” “I’m afraid I haven’t been very successful,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and that is really why I asked Mr. Poirot to meet you. He is a wonderful person, you know, for information on things generally.
Really on top of his profession. I cannot tell you how many friends of mine he has assisted and how many, well, I can really call them mysteries, he has elucidated. And this was such a tragic thing to have happened.” “Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Burton-Cox. Her eyes were still somewhat doubtful. Mrs. Oliver indicated chairs and remarked: “Now what will you have? A glass of sherry? It’s too late for tea, of course. Or would you prefer a cocktail of some kind?” “Oh, a glass of sherry. You are very kind.” “Monsieur Poirot?” “I, too,” said Poirot.