formulate one of my own. There is an older one in this country which contents me very well.’
‘What is that?’
‘“Put your trust in God, and keep your powder dry.”’
‘Well, well…’ Alec Legge seemed amused. ‘Most unexpected coming from you. Do you know what I should like to see done in this country?’
‘Something, no doubt, forceful and unpleasant,’ said Poirot, smiling.
Alec Legge remained serious.
‘I should like to see every feeble-minded person put out – right out! Don’t let them breed. If, for one generation, only the intelligent were allowed to breed, think what the result would be.’
‘A very large increase of patients in the psychiatric wards, perhaps,’ said Poirot dryly. ‘One needs roots as well as flowers on a plant, Mr Legge. However large and beautiful the flowers, if the earthy roots are destroyed there will be no more flowers.’ He added in a conversational tone: ‘Would you consider Lady Stubbs a candidate for the lethal chamber?’
‘Yes, indeed. What’s the good of a woman like that? What contribution has she ever made to society? Has she ever had an idea in her head that wasn’t of clothes or furs or jewels? As I say, what good is she?’
‘You and I,’ said Poirot blandly, ‘are certainly much more intelligent than Lady Stubbs. But’ – he shook his head sadly – ‘it is true, I fear, that we are not nearly so ornamental.’
‘Ornamental…’ Alec was beginning with a fierce snort, but he was interrupted by the re-entry of Mrs Oliver and Captain Warburton through the window.
‘You must come and see the clues and things for the Murder Hunt, M. Poirot,’ said Mrs Oliver breathlessly.
Poirot rose and followed them obediently.
The three of them went across the hall and into a small room furnished plainly as a business office.
‘Lethal weapons to your left,’ observed Captain Warburton, waving his hand towards a small baize-covered card table. On it were laid out a small pistol, a piece of lead piping with a rusty sinister stain on it, a blue bottle labelled Poison, a length of clothes line and a hypodermic syringe.
‘Those are the Weapons,’ explained Mrs Oliver, ‘and these are the Suspects.’
She handed him a printed card which he read with interest.
Suspects
| Estelle Glynne | – | a beautiful and mysterious young woman, the guest of |
| Colonel Blunt | – | the local Squire, whose daughter |
| Joan | – | is married to |
| Peter Gaye | – | a young Atom Scientist. |
| Miss Willing | – | a housekeeper. |
| Quiett | – | a butler. |
| Maya Stavisky | – | a girl hiker. |
| Esteban Loyola | – | an uninvited guest. |
Poirot blinked and looked towards Mrs Oliver in mute incomprehension.
‘A magnificent Cast of Characters,’ he said politely. ‘But permit me to ask, Madame, what does the Competitor do?’
‘Turn the card over,’ said Captain Warburton.
Poirot did so.
On the other side was printed:
Name and address .….….….….….………
Solution:
Name of Murderer:….….….….….………
Weapon:….….….….….….….………
Motive:….….….….….….….….
Time and Place:….….….….….…..
Reasons for arriving at your conclusions:.….…..….….….….….….….….….…..
‘Everyone who enters gets one of these,’ explained Captain Warburton rapidly. ‘Also a notebook and pencil for copying clues. There will be six clues. You go on from one to the other like a Treasure Hunt, and the weapons are concealed in suspicious places. Here’s the first clue. A snapshot. Everyone starts with one of these.’
Poirot took the small print from him and studied it with a frown. Then he turned it upside down. He still looked puzzled. Warburton laughed.
‘Ingenious bit of trick photography, isn’t it?’ he said complacently. ‘Quite simple once you know what it is.’
Poirot, who did not know what it was, felt a mounting annoyance.
‘Some kind of barred window?’ he suggested.
‘Looks a bit like it, I admit. No, it’s a section of a tennis net.’
‘Ah.’ Poirot looked again at the snapshot. ‘Yes, it is as you say – quite obvious when you have been told what it is!’
‘So much depends on how you look at a thing,’ laughed Warburton.
‘That is a very profound truth.’
‘The second clue will be found in a box under the centre of the tennis net. In the box are this empty poison bottle – here, and a loose cork.’
‘Only, you see,’ said Mrs Oliver rapidly, ‘it’s a screw-topped bottle, so the cork is really the clue.’
‘I know, Madame, that you are always full of ingenuity, but I do not quite see –’
Mrs Oliver interrupted him.
‘Oh, but of course,’ she said, ‘there’s a story. Like in a magazine serial – a synopsis.’ She turned to Captain Warburton. ‘Have you got the leaflets?’
‘They’ve not come from the printers yet.’
‘But they promised!’
‘I know. I know. Everyone always promises. They’ll be ready this evening at six. I’m going in to fetch them in the car.’
‘Oh, good.’
Mrs Oliver gave a deep sigh and turned to Poirot.
‘Well, I’ll have to tell it you, then. Only I’m not very good at telling things. I mean if I write things, I get them perfectly clear, but if I talk, it always sounds the most frightful muddle; and that’s why I never discuss my plots with anyone. I’ve learnt not to, because if I do, they just look at me blankly and say “– er – yes, but – I don’t see what happened – and surely that can’t possibly make a book.” So damping. And not true, because when I write it, it does!’
Mrs Oliver paused for breath, and then went on:
‘Well, it’s like this. There’s Peter Gaye who’s a young Atom Scientist and he’s suspected of being in the pay of the Communists, and he’s married to this girl, Joan Blunt, and his first wife’s dead, but she isn’t, and she turns up because she’s a secret agent, or perhaps not, I mean she may really