So it felt to you as though you were in a )ungle and you were afraid of a peacock?” “I don’t know that I was especially afraid of him. After all, a peacock isn’t a dangerous sort of animal. It’s–well I mean I thought of him as a peacock because I thought of him as a decorative creature. A peacock is very decorative, isn’t it? And this awful boy is decorative too.” “You didn’t have any idea anyone was following you before you were hit?” “No. No, I’d no idea — but I think he directed me wrong all the same.” Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
“But of course it must have been the Peacock who hit me,” said Mrs. Oliver.
“Who else? The dirty boy in the greasy clothes? He smelt nasty but he wasn’t sinister. And it could hardly be that limp Frances something — she was draped over a packing case with long black hair streaming all over the place. She reminded me of some actress or other.” “You say she was acting as a model?” “Yes. Not for the Peacock. For the dirty boy. I can’t remember if you’ve seen her or not.” “I have not yet had that pleasure — if it is a pleasure.” “Well, she’s quite nice looking in an untidy, arty sort of way. Very much made up. Dead white and lots of mascara and the usual kind of limp hair hanging over her face. Works in an art gallery so I suppose it’s quite natural that she should be among all the beatniks, acting as a model. How these girls can\ I suppose she might have fallen for the Peacock. But it’s probably the dirty one. All the same I don’t see her coshing me on the head somehow.” “I had another possibility in mind, Madame. Someone may have noticed you following David–and in turn followed you.” “Someone saw me trailing David, and then they trailed me?” “Or someone may have been already in the mews or the yard, keeping perhaps an eye on the same people that you were observing.” “That’s an idea, of course,” said Mrs.
Oliver. “I wonder who they could be?” Poirot gave an exasperated sigh. “Ah, it is there. It is difficult–too difficult.
Too many people, too many things. I cannot see anything clearly. I see only a girl who said that she may have committed a murder! That is all that I have to go on and you see even there there are difficulties.” “What do you mean by difficulties?” “Reflect,” said Poirot.
Reflection had never been Mrs. Oliver’s strong point.
“You always mix me up,” she complained.
“I am talking about a murder, but what murder?” “The murder of the stepmother, I suppose.” “But the stepmother is not murdered.
She is alive.” “You really are the most maddening man,” said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot sat up in his chair. He brought the tips of his fingers together and prepared — or so Mrs. Oliver suspected — to enjoy himself.
“You refuse to reflect,” he said. “But to get anywhere we must reflect.” “I don’t want to reflect. What I want to know is what you’ve been doing about everything while I’ve been in hospital.
You must have done something. What have you done?” Poirot ignored this question.
“We must begin at the beginning.
One day you rang me up. I was in distress.
Yes, I admit it, I was in distress. Something extremely painful had been said to me. You, Madame, were kindness itself.
You cheered me, you encouraged me.
You gave me a delicious tasse de chocolat. And what is more you not only offered to help me, but you did help me. You helped me to find a girl who had come to me and said that she thought she might have committed a murder! Let us ask ourselves, Madame, what about this murder?
Who has been murdered? Where have they been murdered? Why have they been murdered?” “Oh do stop,” said Mrs. Oliver. “You’re making my head ache again, and that’s bad for me.” Poirot paid no attention to this plea.
“Have we got a murder at all? You say — the stepmother — but I reply that the stepmother is not dead — so as yet we have no murder. But there ought to have been a murder. So me, I enquire first of all, who is dead? Somebody comes to me and mentions a murder. A murder that has been committed somewhere and somehow.