“But of course I’m not as distinctive as you are. I mean you wouldn’t be able to tell me very easily from a lot of other elderly women. I don’t stand out very much, do I?” “Do you write books that are published?
Have I ever come across them?” “Well, I don’t know. You may have.
I’ve written forty-three by now. My name’s Oliver.” “Ariadne Oliver?” “So you do know my name,” said Mrs.
Oliver. “Well, that’s rather gratifying, of course, though I daresay you wouldn’t like my books very much. You probably would find them rather old-fashioned– not violent enough.” “You didn’t know me personally beforehand ?” Mrs. Oliver shook her head. “No, I’m sure I don’t — didn’t, I mean.” “What about the girl I was with?” “You mean the one you were having — baked beans was it — with in the cafe?
No, I don’t think so. Of course I only saw the back of her head. She looked to me — well, I mean girls do look rather alike, don’t they?” “She knew you,” said the boy suddenly.
His tone in a moment had a sudden acid sharpness. “She mentioned once that she’d met you not long ago. About a week ago, I believe.” “Where? Was it at a party? I suppose I might have met her. What’s her name?
Perhaps I’d know that.” She thought he was in two moods whether to mention the name or not, but he decided to and he watched her face very keenly as he did so.
“Her name’s Norma Restarick.” “Norma Restarick. Oh, of course, yes, it was at a party in the country. A place called — wait a minute — Long Norton was it? — I don’t remember the name of the house. I went there with some friends.
I don’t think I would have recognised her anyway, though I believe she did say something about my books. I even promised I’d give her one. It’s very odd, isn’t it, that I should make up my mind and actually choose to follow a person who was sitting with somebody I more or less knew.
Very odd. I don’t think I could put anything like that in my book. It would look rather too much of a coincidence, don’t you think?” Mrs. Oliver rose from her seat. “Good gracious, what have I been sitting on? A dustbin! Really! Not a very nice dustbin either.” She sniffed. “What is this place I’ve got to?” David was looking at her. She felt suddenly that she was completely mistaken in everything she had previously thought.
“Absurd of me,” thought Mrs. Oliver, “absurd of me. Thinking that he was dangerous, that he might do something to me.” He was smiling at her with an extraordinary charm. He moved his head slightly and his chestnut ringlets moved on his shoulders. What fantastic creatures there were in the way of young men nowadays!
“The least I can do,” he said, “is to show you, I think, where you’ve been brought to, just by following me. Come on, up these stairs.” He indicated a ramshackle outside staircase running up to what seemed to be a loft.
“Up those stairs?” Mrs. Oliver was not so certain about this. Perhaps he was trying to lure her up there with his charm, and he would then knock her on the head.
“It’s no good, Ariadne,” said Mrs. Oliver to herself, “you’ve got yourself into this spot, and now you’ve got to go on with it and find out what you can find out.” “Do you think they’ll stand my weight?” she said, “they look frightfully rickety.” “They’re quite all right. I’ll go up first,” he said, “and show you the way.” Mrs. Oliver mounted the ladder-like stairs behind him. It was no good. She was, deep down, still frightened. Frightened, not so much of the Peacock, as frightened of where the Peacock might be taking her. Well, she’d know very soon.
He pushed open the door at the top and went into a room. It was a large, bare room and it was an artist’s studio, an improvised kind of one. A few matresses lay here and there on the floor, there were canvases stacked against the wall, a couple of easels. There was a pervading smell of paint. There were two people in the room, a bearded young man was standing at an easel, painting. He turned his head as they entered.