“Well, that’s why I’ve come to you,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You like finding out things. Things that you can’t see the reason for at first. I mean, that nobody can see the reason for.” “Do you think Mrs, Burton-Cox has any preference?” said Poirot.
“You mean that she’d rather the husband killed the wife, or the wife killed the husband? I don’t think so.” “Well,” said Poirot, “I see your dilemma. It is very intriguing.
You come home from a party. You’ve been asked to do something that is very difficult, almost impossible, and–you wonder what is the proper way to deal with such a thing.” “Well, what would you think is the proper way?” said Mrs.
Oliver.
“It is not easy for me to say,” said Poirot. “I’m not a woman. A woman whom you do not really know, whom you had met at a party, has put this problem to you, asked you to do it, giving no discernible reason.” “Right,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Now what does Ariadne do?
What does A do, in other words, if you were reading this as a problem in a newspaper?” “Well, I suppose,” said Poirot, “there are three things that A could do. A could write a note to Mrs. Burton-Cox and say, ‘I’m very sorry, but I really feel I cannot oblige you in this matter,’ or whatever words you like to put. B. You get in touch with your goddaughter and you tell her what has been asked of you by the mother of the boy, or the young man, or whatever he is, whom she is thinking of marrying. You will find out from her if she is really thinking of marrying this young man. If so, whether she has any idea or whether the young man has said anything to her about what his mother has got in her head. And there will be other interesting points, like finding out what this girl thinks of the mother of the young man she wants to marry. The third thing you could do,” said Poirot, “and this really is what I firmly advise you to do, is…” “I know,” said Mrs. Oliver, “one word.” “Nothing,” said Poirot.
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I know that is the simple and proper thing to do. Nothing. It’s darned cheek to go and tell a girl who’s my goddaughter what her future mother-in-law is going about saying and asking people. But–” “I know,” said Poirot, “it is human curiosity.” “I want to know why that odious woman came and said what she did to me,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Once I knew that I could relax and forget all about it. But until I know that…” “Yes,” said Poirot, “you won’t sleep. You’ll wake up in the night and, if I know you, you will have the most extraordinary and extravagant ideas which presently, probably, you will be able to make into a most attractive crime story. A whodunit–a thriller. All sorts of things.” “Well, I suppose I could if I thought of it that way,” said Mrs. Oliver. Her eyes flashed slightly.
“Leave it alone,” said Poirot. “It will be a very difficult plot to undertake. It seems as though there could be no good reason for this.” “But I’d like to make sure that there is no good reason.” “Human curiosity,” said Poirot. “Such a very interesting thing.” He sighed. “To think what we owe to it throughout history. Curiosity. I don’t know who invented curiosity. It is said to be usually associated with the cat. Curiosity killed the cat. But I should say really that the Greeks were the inventors of curiosity. They wanted to know. Before them, as far as I can see, nobody wanted to know much. They just wanted to know what the rules of the country they were living in were, and how they could avoid having their heads cut off or being impaled on spikes or something disagreeable happening to them. But they either obeyed or disobeyed. They didn’t want to know why. But since then a lot of people have wanted to know why and all sorts of things have happened because of that. Boats, trains, flying machines and atom bombs and penicillin and cures for various illnesses. A little boy watches his mother’s kettle raising its lid because of the steam. And the next thing we know is we have railway trains, leading on in due course to railway strikes and all that. And so on and so on.” “Just tell me,” said Mrs. Oliver, “do you think I’m a terrible nosey-parker?” “No, I don’t,” said Poirot. “On the whole I don’t think you are a woman of great curiosity. But I can quite see you getting in a het-up state at a literary party, busy defending yourself against too much kindness, too much praise. You ran yourself instead into a very awkward dilemma, and took a very strong dislike to the person who ran you into it.” “Yes. She’s a very tiresome woman, a very disagreeable woman.” “This murder in the past of this husband and wife who were supposed to get on well together and no apparent sign of a quarrel was known. One never really read about any cause for it, according to you?” “They were shot. Yes, they were shot. It could have been a suicide pact. I think the police thought it was at first. Of course, one can’t find out about things all those years afterwards.” “Oh, yes,” said Poirot, “I think I could find out something about it.” “You mean–through the exciting friends you’ve got?” “Well, I wouldn’t say the exciting friends, perhaps. Certainly there are knowledgeable friends, friends who could get certain records, look up the accounts that were given of the crime at the time, some access I could get to certain records.” “You could find out things,” said Mrs. Oliver hopefully, “and then tell me.” “Yes,” said Poirot, “I think I could help you to know at any rate the full facts of the case. It’ll take a little time, though.” “I can see that if you do that, which is what I want you to do, I’ve got to do something myself. I’ll have to see the girl.