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Five Little Pigs :: Christie Agatha
Страница: 4 из 147Supposing we were married and we’d quarrelled-and I saw him look at me and-andwonder?’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘How was your father killed?’
Carla’s voice came clear and firm.
‘He was poisoned.’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘I see.’
There was a silence.
Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:
‘Thank goodness you’re sensible. You see that it does matter-and what it involves. You don’t try and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.’
‘I understand very well,’ said Poirot. ‘What I do not understand is what you want ofme?’
Carla Lemarchant said simply:
‘I want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and two boys. And you’re going to make that possible!’
‘You mean-you want me to talk to your fiance? Ah no, it is idiocy what I say there! It is something quite different that you are suggesting. Tell me what is in your mind.’
‘Listen, M. Poirot. Get this-and get it clearly. I’m hiring you to investigate a case of murder.’
‘Do you mean-?’
‘Yes, I do mean. A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteen years ago.’
‘But my dear young lady-’
‘Wait, M. Poirot. You haven’t got it all yet. There’s a very important point.’
‘Yes?’
‘My mother was innocent,’ said Carla Lemarchant.
Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose. He murmured:
‘Well, naturally-I comprehend that-’
‘It isn’t sentiment. There’s her letter. She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to me when I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reason-that I should be quite sure. That’s all that was in it. That she hadn’t done it-that she was innocent-that I could be sure of that always.’
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young vital face staring so earnestly at him. He said slowly:
‘Tout de meme-’
Carla smiled.
‘No, mother wasn’t like that! You’re thinking that it might be a lie-a sentimental lie?’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘Listen, M. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well. I can remember my mother-a patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well thesort of person she was. She didn’t tell lies-kind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told you so. Dentists, or thorns in your finger-all that sort of thing. Truth was a-a natural impulse to her. I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her-but I trusted her.
Hercule Poirot said: ‘How was your father killed?’
Carla’s voice came clear and firm.
‘He was poisoned.’
Hercule Poirot said: ‘I see.’
There was a silence.
Then the girl said in a calm, matter-of-fact voice:
‘Thank goodness you’re sensible. You see that it does matter-and what it involves. You don’t try and patch it up and trot out consoling phrases.’
‘I understand very well,’ said Poirot. ‘What I do not understand is what you want ofme?’
Carla Lemarchant said simply:
‘I want to marry John! And I mean to marry John! And I want to have at least two girls and two boys. And you’re going to make that possible!’
‘You mean-you want me to talk to your fiance? Ah no, it is idiocy what I say there! It is something quite different that you are suggesting. Tell me what is in your mind.’
‘Listen, M. Poirot. Get this-and get it clearly. I’m hiring you to investigate a case of murder.’
‘Do you mean-?’
‘Yes, I do mean. A case of murder is a case of murder whether it happened yesterday or sixteen years ago.’
‘But my dear young lady-’
‘Wait, M. Poirot. You haven’t got it all yet. There’s a very important point.’
‘Yes?’
‘My mother was innocent,’ said Carla Lemarchant.
Hercule Poirot rubbed his nose. He murmured:
‘Well, naturally-I comprehend that-’
‘It isn’t sentiment. There’s her letter. She left it for me before she died. It was to be given to me when I was twenty-one. She left it for that one reason-that I should be quite sure. That’s all that was in it. That she hadn’t done it-that she was innocent-that I could be sure of that always.’
Hercule Poirot looked thoughtfully at the young vital face staring so earnestly at him. He said slowly:
‘Tout de meme-’
Carla smiled.
‘No, mother wasn’t like that! You’re thinking that it might be a lie-a sentimental lie?’ She leaned forward earnestly. ‘Listen, M. Poirot, there are some things that children know quite well. I can remember my mother-a patchy remembrance, of course, but I remember quite well thesort of person she was. She didn’t tell lies-kind lies. If a thing was going to hurt she always told you so. Dentists, or thorns in your finger-all that sort of thing. Truth was a-a natural impulse to her. I wasn’t, I don’t think, especially fond of her-but I trusted her.