Hallowe'en Party / Вечеринка на Хэллоуин. Книга для чтения на английском языке

Elspeth McKay was as unlike her brother, Superintendent Spence, as she could be in every way. where he was broad, she was angular. Her sharp, thin face looked out on the world with shrewd appraisal. She was thin as a thread, yet there was a certain likeness between them. Mainly the eyes and the strongly marked line of the jaw. either of them, Poirot thought, could be relied upon for judgement and good sense. they would express themselves differently, but that was all. Superintendent Spence would express himself slowly and carefully as the result of due thought and deliberation. Mrs McKay would pounce, quick and sharp, like a cat upon a mouse.

‘a lot depends,’ said Poirot, ‘upon the character of this child. Joyce Reynolds. This is what puzzles me most.’

He looked inquiringly at Spence.

‘You can’t go by me,’ said Spence, ‘I’ve not lived here long enough. Better ask Elspeth.’

Poirot looked across the table, his eyebrows raised inquiringly. Mrs McKay was sharp as usual in response.

‘I’d say she was a proper little liar,’ she said.

‘Not a girl whom you’d trust and believe what she said?’

Elspeth shook her head decidedly.

‘No, indeed. Tell a tall tale, she would, and tell it well, mind you. But I’d never believe her.’

‘Tell it with the object of showing off?’

‘That’s right. They told you the Indian story, didn’t they? There’s many as believed that, you know. Been away for the holidays, the family had. Gone abroad somewhere. I don’t know if it was her father and mother or her uncle and aunt, but they went to India and she came back from those holidays with tall tales of how she’d been taken there with them. Made a good story of it, she did. A Maharajah and a tiger shoot and elephants—ah, it was fine hearing and a lot of those around her here believed it. But I said straight along, she’s telling more than ever happened. Could be, I thought at first, she was just exaggerating. But the story got added to every time. There were more tigers, if you know what I mean. Far more tigers than could possibly happen. And elephants, too, for that matter. I’d known her before, too, telling tall stories.’

‘Always to get attention?’

‘Aye[68 - aye = yes], you’re right there. She was a great one for getting attention.’

‘Because a child told a tall story about a travel trip she never took,’ said Superintendent Spence, ‘you can’t say that every tall tale she told was a lie.’

‘It might not be,’ said Elspeth, ‘but I’d say the likelihood was that it usually would be.’

‘So you think that if Joyce Reynolds came out with a tale that she’d seen a murder committed, you’d say she was probably lying and you wouldn’t believe the story was true?’

‘That’s what I’d think,’ said Mrs McKay.

‘You might be wrong,’ said her brother.

‘Yes,’ said Mrs McKay. ‘Anyone may be wrong. It’s like the old story of the boy who cried “Wolf, wolf,” and he cried it once too often, when it was a real wolf, and nobody believed him, and so the wolf got him.’

‘So you’d sum it up—’

‘I’d still say the probabilities are that she wasn’t speaking the truth. But I’m a fair woman. She may have been. She may have seen something. Not quite so much as she said she saw, but something.’’

‘And so she got herself killed,’ said Superintendent Spence. ‘You’ve got to mind that, Elspeth. She got herself killed.’

‘That’s true enough,’ said Mrs McKay. ‘And that’s why I’m saying maybe I’ve misjudged her. And if so, I’m sorry. But ask anyone who knew her and they’ll tell you that lies came natural to her. It was a party she was at, remember, and she was excited. She’d want to make an effect.’

‘Indeed, they didn’t believe her,’ said Poirot.

Elspeth McKay shook her head doubtfully.

‘Who could she have seen murdered?’ asked Poirot.

He looked from brother to sister.

‘Nobody,’ said Mrs McKay with decision.

‘There must have been deaths here, say, over the last three years.’

‘Oh that, naturally,’ said Spence. ‘Just the usual—old folks or invalids or what you’d expect—or maybe a hit- and-run motorist—’

‘No unusual or unexpected deaths?’

‘Well—’ Elspeth hesitated. ‘I mean—’

Spence took over.

‘I’ve jotted a few names down here.’ He pushed the paper over to Poirot. ‘Save you a bit of trouble, asking questions around.’

‘Are these suggested victims?’

‘Hardly as much as that. Say within the range of possibility.’

Poirot read aloud.

‘Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe. Charlotte Benfield. Janet White. Lesley Ferrier—’ He broke off, looked across the table and repeated the first name. Mrs Llewellyn-Smythe.

‘Could be,’ said Mrs McKay. ‘Yes, you might have some thing there.’ She added a word that sounded like ‘opera.’