JК
Five Little Pigs :: Christie Agatha
Страница: 34 из 147On the other hand, hedid have moods of furyand despondency according as to whether his painting was not going as he liked it. On those occasions one left him alone and said as little as possible to him. That’s what these two did on this occasion.
‘As to the others, the servants were busy with housework and cooking lunch. Miss Williams was in the schoolroom part of the morning correcting some exercise books. Afterwards she took some household mending to the terrace. Angela Warren spent most of the morning wandering about the garden, climbing trees and eating things-you know what a girl of fifteen is! Plums, sour apples, hard pears, etc. After she came back to the house and, as I say, went down with Philip Blake to the beach and had a bathe before lunch.’
Superintendent Hale paused:
‘Now then,’ he said belligerently, ‘do you find anything phoney about that?’
Poirot said: ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Well, then!’
The two words expressed volumes.
‘But all the same,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I am going to satisfy myself. I-’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I am going to visit these five people-and from each one I am going to get his or her own story.’
Superintendent Hale sighed with a deep melancholy.
He said:
‘Man, you’re nuts! None of their stories are going to agree! Don’t you grasp that elementary fact? No two people remember a thing in the same order anyway. And after all this time! Why, you’ll hear five accounts of five separate murders!’
‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is what I am counting upon. It will be very instructive.’
Chapter 6. This Little Pig Went to Market…
Philip Blake was recognizably like the description given of him by Montague Depleach. A prosperous, shrewd, jovial-looking man-slightly running to fat.
Hercule Poirot had timed his appointment for half-past six on a Saturday afternoon. Philip Blake had just finished his eighteen holes, and he had been on his game-winning a fiver from his opponent. He was in the mood to be friendly and expansive.
Hercule Poirot explained himself and his errand. On this occasion at least he showed no undue passion for unsullied truth. It was a question, Blake gathered, of a series of books dealing with famous crimes.
Philip Blake frowned. He said:
‘Good Lord, why make up these things?’
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He was at his most foreign today. He was out to be despised but patronized.
He murmured:
‘It is the public.
‘As to the others, the servants were busy with housework and cooking lunch. Miss Williams was in the schoolroom part of the morning correcting some exercise books. Afterwards she took some household mending to the terrace. Angela Warren spent most of the morning wandering about the garden, climbing trees and eating things-you know what a girl of fifteen is! Plums, sour apples, hard pears, etc. After she came back to the house and, as I say, went down with Philip Blake to the beach and had a bathe before lunch.’
Superintendent Hale paused:
‘Now then,’ he said belligerently, ‘do you find anything phoney about that?’
Poirot said: ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Well, then!’
The two words expressed volumes.
‘But all the same,’ said Hercule Poirot. ‘I am going to satisfy myself. I-’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I am going to visit these five people-and from each one I am going to get his or her own story.’
Superintendent Hale sighed with a deep melancholy.
He said:
‘Man, you’re nuts! None of their stories are going to agree! Don’t you grasp that elementary fact? No two people remember a thing in the same order anyway. And after all this time! Why, you’ll hear five accounts of five separate murders!’
‘That,’ said Poirot, ‘is what I am counting upon. It will be very instructive.’
Chapter 6. This Little Pig Went to Market…
Philip Blake was recognizably like the description given of him by Montague Depleach. A prosperous, shrewd, jovial-looking man-slightly running to fat.
Hercule Poirot had timed his appointment for half-past six on a Saturday afternoon. Philip Blake had just finished his eighteen holes, and he had been on his game-winning a fiver from his opponent. He was in the mood to be friendly and expansive.
Hercule Poirot explained himself and his errand. On this occasion at least he showed no undue passion for unsullied truth. It was a question, Blake gathered, of a series of books dealing with famous crimes.
Philip Blake frowned. He said:
‘Good Lord, why make up these things?’
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. He was at his most foreign today. He was out to be despised but patronized.
He murmured:
‘It is the public.