Hallowe'en Party (12 page)

“At the party?”

“No—at the preparation for the party.”

T
he premises of Fullerton, Harrison and Leadbetter were typical of an old-fashioned firm of the utmost respectability. The hand of time had made itself felt. There were no more Harrisons and no more Leadbetters. There was a Mr. Atkinson and a young Mr. Cole, and there was still Mr. Jeremy Fullerton, senior partner.

A lean, elderly man, Mr. Fullerton, with an impassive face, a dry, legal voice, and eyes that were unexpectedly shrewd. Beneath his hand rested a sheet of notepaper, the few words on which he had just read. He read them once again, assessing their meaning very exactly. Then he looked at the man whom the note introduced to him.

“Monsieur Hercule Poirot?” He made his own assessment of the visitor. An elderly man, a foreigner, very dapper in his dress, unsuitably attired as to the feet in patent leather shoes which were, so Mr. Fullerton guessed shrewdly, too tight for him. Faint lines of pain were already etching themselves round the corners of his
eyes. A dandy, a fop, a foreigner and recommended to him by, of all people, Inspector Henry Raglan, C.I.D., and also vouched for by Superintendent Spence (retired), formerly of Scotland Yard.

“Superintendent Spence, eh?” said Mr. Fullerton.

Fullerton knew Spence. A man who had done good work in his time, had been highly thought of by his superiors. Faint memories flashed across his mind. Rather a celebrated case, more celebrated actually than it had showed any signs of being, a case that had seemed cut and dried. Of course! It came to him that his nephew Robert had been connected with it, had been Junior Counsel. A psychopathic killer, it had seemed, a man who had hardly bothered to try and defend himself, a man whom you might have thought really wanted to be hanged (because it had meant hanging at that time). No fifteen years, or indefinite number of years in prison. No. You paid the full penalty—and more's the pity they've given it up, so Mr. Fullerton thought in his dry mind. The young thugs nowadays thought they didn't risk much by prolonging assault to the point where it became mortal. Once your man was dead, there'd be no witness to identify you.

Spence had been in charge of the case, a quiet, dogged man who had insisted all along that they'd got the wrong man. And they
had
got the wrong man, and the person who found the evidence that they'd got the wrong man was some sort of an amateurish foreigner. Some retired detective chap from the Belgian police force. A good age then. And now—senile, probably, thought Mr. Fullerton, but all the same he himself would take the prudent course. Information, that's what was wanted from him. Information which, after all, could not be a mistake to give, since he could not see that he was likely to have any informa
tion that could be useful in this particular matter. A case of child homicide.

Mr. Fullerton might think he had a fairly shrewd idea of who had committed that homicide, but he was not so sure as he would like to be, because there were at least three claimants in the matter. Any one of three young ne'er-do-wells might have done it. Words floated through his head. Mentally retarded. Psychiatrist's report. That's how the whole matter would end, no doubt. All the same, to drown a child during a party—that was rather a different cup of tea from one of the innumerable school children who did not arrive home and who had accepted a lift in a car after having been repeatedly warned not to do so, and who had been found in a nearby copse or gravel pit. A gravel pit now. When was that? Many, many years ago now.

All this took about four minutes' time and Mr. Fullerton then cleared his throat in a slightly asthmatic fashion, and spoke.

“Monsieur Hercule Poirot,” he said again. “What can I do for you? I suppose it's the business of this young girl, Joyce Reynolds. Nasty business, very nasty business. I can't see actually where I can assist you. I know very little about it all.”

“But you are, I believe, the legal adviser to the Drake family?”

“Oh yes, yes. Hugo Drake, poor chap. Very nice fellow. I've known them for years, ever since they bought Apple Trees and came here to live. Sad thing, polio—he contracted it when they were holidaying abroad one year. Mentally, of course, his health was quite unimpaired. It's sad when it happens to a man who has been a good athlete all his life, a sportsman, good at games and all the rest of it. Yes. Sad business to know you're a cripple for life.”

“You were also, I believe, in charge of the legal affairs of Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe?”

“The aunt, yes. Remarkable woman really. She came here to live after her health broke down, so as to be near her nephew and his wife. Bought that white elephant of a place, Quarry House. Paid far more than it was worth—but money was no object to her. She was very well off. She could have found a more attractive house, but it was the quarry itself that fascinated her. Got a landscape gardener on to it, fellow quite high up in his profession, I believe. One of those handsome, long-haired chaps, but he had ability all right. He did well for himself in this quarry garden work. Got himself quite a reputation over it, illustrated in
Homes and Gardens
and all the rest of it. Yes, Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe knew how to pick people. It wasn't just a question of a handsome young man as a protégé. Some elderly women are foolish that way, but this chap had brains and was at the top of his profession. But I'm wandering on a bit. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe died nearly two years ago.”

“Quite suddenly.”

Fullerton looked at Poirot sharply.

“Well, no, I wouldn't say that. She had a heart condition and doctors tried to keep her from doing too much, but she was the sort of woman that you couldn't dictate to. She wasn't a hypochondriac type.” He coughed and said, “But I expect we are getting away from the subject about which you came to talk to me.”

“Not really,” said Poirot, “although I would like, if I may, to ask you a few questions on a completely different matter. Some information about one of your employees, by name Lesley Ferrier.”

Mr. Fullerton looked somewhat surprised. “Lesley Ferrier?”
he said. “Lesley Ferrier. Let me see. Really you know, I'd nearly forgotten his name. Yes, yes, of course. Got himself knifed, didn't he?”

“That is the man I mean.”

“Well, I don't really know that I can tell you much about him. It took place some years ago. Knifed near the Green Swan one night. No arrest was ever made. I daresay the police had some idea who was responsible, but it was mainly, I think, a matter of getting evidence.”

“The motive was emotional?” inquired Poirot.

“Oh yes, I should think certainly so. Jealousy, you know. He'd been going steady with a married woman. Her husband had a pub. The Green Swan at Woodleigh Common. Unpretentious place. Then it seems young Lesley started playing around with another young woman—or more than one, it was said. Quite a one for the girls, he was. There was a bit of trouble once or twice.”

“You were satisfied with him as an employee?”

“I would rather describe it as not dissatisfied. He had his points. He handled clients well and was studying for his articles, and if only he'd paid more attention to his position and keeping up a good standard of behaviour, it would have been better instead of mixing himself up with one girl after another, most of whom I am apt in my old-fashioned way to consider as considerably beneath him in station. There was a row one night at the Green Swan, and Lesley Ferrier was knifed on his way home.”

“Was one of the girls responsible, or would it be Mrs. Green Swan, do you think?”

“Really, it is not a case of knowing anything
definite.
I be
lieve the police considered it was a case of jealousy—but—” He shrugged his shoulders.

“But you are not sure?”

“Oh, it happens,” said Mr. Fullerton. “‘
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
' That is always being quoted in Court. Sometimes it's true.”

“But I think I discern that you yourself are not at all sure that that was the case here.”

“Well, I should have preferred rather more evidence, shall we say. The police would have preferred rather more evidence, too. Public prosecutor threw it out, I believe.”

“It
could
have been something quite different?”

“Oh yes. One could propound several theories. Not a very stable character, young Ferrier. Well brought up. Nice mother—a widow. Father not so satisfactory. Got himself out of several scrapes by the skin of his teeth. Hard luck on his wife. Our young man in some ways resembled his father. He was associated once or twice with rather a doubtful crowd. I gave him the benefit of the doubt. He was still young. But I warned him that he was getting himself mixed up with the wrong lot. Too closely connected with fiddling transactions outside the law. Frankly, but for his mother, I wouldn't have kept him. He was young, and he had ability; I gave him a warning or two which I hoped might do the trick. But there's a lot of corruption about these days. It's been on the increase for the last ten years.”

“Someone might have had it in for him, you think?”

“Quite possible. These associations—gangs is a rather melodramatic word—but you run a certain danger when you get tangled
up with them. Any idea that you may split on them, and a knife between your shoulder blades isn't an uncommon thing to happen.”

“Nobody saw it happen?”

“No. Nobody saw it happen. They wouldn't, of course. Whoever took the job on would have all the arrangements nicely made. Alibi at the proper place and time, and so on and so on.”

“Yet
somebody
might have seen it happen. Somebody quite unlikely. A child, for instance.”

“Late at night? In the neighbourhood of the Green Swan? Hardly a very credible idea, Monsieur Poirot.”

“A child,” persisted Poirot, “who might remember. A child coming home from a friend's house. At some short distance, perhaps, from her own home. She might have been coming by a footpath or seen something from behind a hedge.”

“Really, Monsieur Poirot, what an imagination you have got. What you are saying seems to me
most
unlikely.”

“It does not seem so unlikely to me,” said Poirot. “Children
do
see things. They are so often, you see, not expected to be where they are.”

“But surely when they go home and relate what they have seen?”

“They might not,” said Poirot. “They might not, you see, be sure of what they
had
seen. Especially if what they had seen had been faintly frightening to them. Children do not always go home and report a street accident they have seen, or some unexpected violence. Children keep their secrets very well. Keep them and think about them. Sometimes they like to feel that they know a secret, a secret which they are keeping to themselves.”

“They'd tell their mothers,” said Mr. Fullerton.

“I am not so sure of that,” said Poirot. “In my experience the things that children do
not
tell their mothers are quite numerous.”

“What interests you so much, may I know, about this case of Lesley Ferrier? The regrettable death of a young man by a violence which is so lamentably often amongst us nowadays?”

“I know nothing about him. But I wanted to know something about him because his is a violent death that occurred not many years ago. That might be important to me.”

“You know, Mr. Poirot,” said Mr. Fullerton, with some slight acerbity. “I really cannot quite make out why you have come to me, and in what you are really interested. You cannot surely suspect any tie-up between the death of Joyce Reynolds and the death of a young man of promise but slightly criminal activities who has been dead for some years?”

“One can suspect anything,” said Poirot. “One has to find out more.”

“Excuse me, what one has to have in all matters dealing with crime, is evidence.”

“You have perhaps heard that the dead girl Joyce was heard by several witnesses to say that she had with her own eyes witnessed a murder.”

“In a place like this,” said Mr. Fullerton, “one usually hears any rumour that may be going round. One usually hears it, too, if I may add these words, in a singularly exaggerated form not usually worthy of credence.”

“That also,” said Poirot, “is quite true. Joyce was, I gather, just thirteen years of age. A child of nine could remember something she had seen—a hit-and-run accident, a fight or a struggle with knives on a dark evening, or a schoolteacher who was strangled,
say—all these things might leave a very strong impression on a child's mind about which she would not speak, being uncertain, perhaps, of the actual facts she had seen, and mulling them over in her own mind. Forgetting about them even, possibly, until something happened to remind her. You agree that that is a possible happening?”

“Oh yes, yes, but I hardly—I think it is an extremely far-fetched supposition.”

“You had, also, I believe, a disappearance here of a foreign girl. Her name, I believe, was Olga or Sonia—I am not sure of the surname.”

“Olga Seminoff. Yes, indeed.”

“Not, I fear, a very reliable character?”

“No.”

“She was companion or nurse attendant to Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe, was she not, whom you described to me just now? Mrs. Drake's aunt—”

“Yes. She had had several girls in that position—two other foreign girls, I think, one of them with whom she quarrelled almost immediately, and another one who was nice but painfully stupid. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe was not one to suffer fools gladly. Olga, her last venture, seems to have suited her very well. She was not, if I remember rightly, a particularly attractive girl,” said Mr. Fullerton. “She was short, rather stocky, had rather a dour manner, and people in the neighbourhood did not like her very much.”

“But Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe
did
like her,” suggested Poirot.