“There have been other attempts on your life, have there not?”
“Sounds quite melodramatic,” said Blunt, with a slight twinkle. “Someone sent me a bomb by post not long ago. It wasn’t a very efficient bomb. You know, these fellows who want to take on the management of the world—what sort of an efficient business do they think they could make of it, when they can’t even devise an effectual bomb?”
He shook his head.
“It’s always the same thing—long-haired woolly idealists—without one practical bit of knowledge in their heads. I’m not a clever chap—never have been—but I can just read and write and do arithmetic. D’you understand what I mean by that?”
“I think so, but explain to me further.”
“Well, if I read something that is written down in English I can understand what it means—I am not talking of abstruse stuff, formulae or philosophy—just plain businesslike English—most people can’t! If I want to write down something I can write down what I mean—I’ve discovered that quite a lot of people can’t do that either! And, as I say, I can do plain arithmetic. If Jones has eight bananas and Brown takes ten away from him, how many will Jones have left? That’s the kind of sum people like to pretend has a simple answer. They won’t admit, first that Brown can’t do it—and second that there won’t be an answer in plus bananas!”
“They prefer the answer to be a conjuring trick?”
“Exactly. Politicians are just as bad. But I’ve always held out for plain common sense. You can’t beat it, you know, in the end.”
He added with a slightly self-conscious laugh:
“But I mustn’t talk shop. Bad habit. Besides, I like to leave business matters behind when I get away from London. I’ve been looking forward, M. Poirot, to hearing a few of your adventures. I read a lot of thrillers and detective stories, you know. Do you think any of them are true to life?”
The conversation dwelt for the rest of the journey on the more spectacular cases of Hercule Poirot. Alistair Blunt displayed himself as vivid as any schoolboy for details.
This pleasant atmosphere sustained a chill on arrival at Exsham, where behind her massive bust Mrs. Olivera radiated a freezing disapproval. She ignored Poirot as far as possible, addressing herself exclusively to her host and to Mr. Selby.
The latter showed Poirot to his room.
The house was a charming one, not very big, and furnished with the same quiet good taste that Poirot had noticed in London. Everything was costly but simple. The vast wealth that owned it was only indicated by the smoothness with which this apparent simplicity was produced. The service was admirable—the cooking English, not Continental—the wines at dinner stirred Poirot to a passion of appreciation. They had a perfect clear soup, a grilled sole, saddle of lamb
with tiny young garden peas and strawberries and cream.
Poirot was so enjoying these creature comforts that the continued frigid demeanour of Mrs. Olivera and the brusque rudeness of her daughter hardly attracted his attention. Jane, for some reason, was regarding him with definite hostility. Hazily, towards the end of the dinner, Poirot wondered why!
Looking down the table with mild curiosity, Blunt asked:
“Helen not dining with us tonight?”
Julia Olivera’s lips drew themselves in with a taut line. She said:
“Dear Helen has been overtiring herself, I think, in the garden. I suggested it would be far better for her to go to bed and rest than to bother to dress herself up and come here. She quite saw my point.”
“Oh, I see.” Blunt looked vague and a little puzzled. “I thought it made a bit of a change for her at weekends.”
“Helen is such a simple soul. She likes turning in early,” said Mrs. Olivera firmly.
When Poirot joined the ladies in the drawing room, Blunt having remained behind for a few minutes’ conversation with his secretary, he heard Jane Olivera say to her mother:
“Uncle Alistair didn’t like the cool way you’d shelved Helen Montressor, Mother.”
“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Olivera robustly. “Alistair is too good-natured. Poor relations are all very well—very kind of him to let her have the cottage rent free, but to think he has to have her up to the house every weekend for dinner is absurd! She’s only a second cousin or something. I don’t think Alistair ought to be imposed upon!”
“I think she’s proud in her way,” said Jane. “She does an awful lot in the garden.”
“That shows a proper spirit,” said Mrs. Olivera comfortably. “The Scotch are very independent and one respects them for it.”
She settled herself comfortably on the sofa and, still not taking any notice of Poirot, added:
“Just bring me the Low Down Review, dear. There’s something about Lois Van Schuyler in it and that Moroccan guide of hers.”
Alistair Blunt appeared in the doorway. He said: