Go on finding out. Go on telling Mrs. Oliver or telling me direct. I'd rather you told me direct." She turned towards Mrs. Olivet. "I don't mean to be horrid to you, Godmother.

You've been a very nice godmother to me always, but-but I'd like it straight from the horse's mouth. I'm afraid that's rather rude, Monsieur Poirot, but I didn't mean it that way." "No," said Poirot, "I am content to be the horse's mouth." "And you think you will be?" "I always believe that I can." "And it's always true, is it?" "It is usually true," said Poirot. "I do not say more than that."

"Well," said Mrs. Oliver as she returned to the room after seeing Celia to the door. "What do you think of her?" "She is.a personality," said Poirot, "an interesting girl.

Definitely, if I may put it so, she is somebody, not anybody." "Yes, that's true enough," said Mrs. Oliver.

"I would like you to tell me something." "About her? I don't really know her very well. One doesn't really, with godchildren. I mean, you only see them, as it were, at stated intervals rather far apart." "I didn't mean her. Tell me about her mother." "Oh. I see." "You knew her mother?" "Yes. We were in a sort of pensionnat in Paris together.

People used to send girls to Paris then to be finished," said Mrs. Oliver. "That sounds more like an introduction to a cemetery than an introduction into society. What do you want to know about her?" "You remember her? You remember what she was like?" "Yes. As I tell you, one doesn't entirely forget things or.

people because they're in the past." "What impression did she make on you?" "She was beautiful," said Mrs. Oliver. "I do remember that. Not when she was about thirteen or fourteen. She had a lot of puppy fat then. I think we all did," she added thoughtfully.

"Was she a personality?" "It's difficult to remember because, you see, she wasn't my only friend or my greatest friend. I mean, there were several of us together-a little pack, as you might say. People with tastes more or less the same. We were keen on tennis and we were keen on being taken to the opera and we were bored to death being taken to the picture galleries. I really can only give you a general idea." "Molly Preston-Grey. That was her name. Had few boy friends?" "We had one or two passions, I think. Not for pop singers, of course. They hadn't happened yet. Actors usually. There was one rather famous variety actor. A girl-one of the girls- had him pinned up over her bed and Mademoiselle Girand, the French mistress, on no account allowed that actor to be pinned up there. 'Ce nest pas convenable,' she said. The girl didn't tell her that he was her father! We laughed," added Mrs. Oliver. "Yes, we laughed a good deal." "Well, tell me more about Molly or Margaret Preston-Grey.

Does this girl remind you of her?" "No, I don't think she does. No. They are not alike. I think Molly was more-was more emotional than this girl." "There was a twin sister, I understand. Was she at the same pensionnat'?" "No, she wasn't. She might have been since they were the same age, but no, I think she was in some entirely different place in England. I'm not sure. I have a feeling that the twin sister Dolly, whom I had met once or twice very occasionally and who of course at that time looked exactly like Molly-I mean they hadn't started trying to look different, have different hair-dos and all that, as twins do usually when they grow up. I think Molly was devoted to her sister Dolly, but she didn't talk about her very much. I have a feeling-nowadays, I mean, I didn't have it then-that there might have been something a bit wrong perhaps with the sister even then.

Once or twice, I remember, there were mentions of her having been ill or gone away for a course of treatment somewhere.

Something like that. I remember once wondering whether she was a cripple. She was taken once by an aunt on a sea voyage to do her health good." She shook her head. "I can't really remember, though. I just had a feeling that Molly was devoted to her and would have liked to have protected her in some way. Does that seem nonsense to you?" "Not at all," said Hercule Poirot.

"There were other times, I think, when she didn't want to talk about her. She talked about her mother and her father.

She was fond of them, I think, in the ordinary sort of way.

Her mother came once to Paris and took her out, I remember.

Nice woman. Not very exciting or good-looking or anything.

Nice, quiet, kindly." "I see. So you have nothing to help us there? Boy friends?" "We didn't have so many boy friends then," said Mrs. Oliver. "It's not like nowadays when it's a matter of course.

Later, when we were both back again at home we more or less drifted apart. I think Molly went abroad somewhere with her parents. I don't think it was India-I don't think so. Somewhere else, I think it was. Egypt, perhaps. I think now they were in the Diplomatic Service. They were in Sweden at one time, and after that somewhere like Bermuda or the West Indies. I think he was a governor or something there. But those sort of things one doesn't really remember. All one remembers is all the silly things that we said to each other. I had a crush on the violin master, I remember. Molly was very keen on the music master, which was very satisfying to us both and I should think much less troublesome than boy friends seem to be nowadays. I mean, you adored-longed for the day when they came again to teach you. They were, I have no doubt, quite indifferent to you. But one dreamt about them at night and I remember having a splendid kind of daydream in which I nursed my beloved Monsieur Adolphe when he had cholera and I gave him, I think, blood transfusions to save his life. How very silly one is. And think of all the other things you think of doing! There was one time when I was quite determined to be a nun and later on I thought I'd be a hospital nurse. Well, I suppose we shall have Mrs. BurtonCox in a moment. I wonder how she will react to you?" Poirot gazed at his watch.

"We shall be able to see that fairly soon." "Have we anything else we ought to talk about first?" "I think there are a few things we might compare notes on. As I say, there are one or two things that I think could do with investigation. An elephant investigation for you, shall we say? And an understudy for an elephant for me." "What an extraordinary thing to say," said Mrs. Oliver. "I told you I was done with elephants." "Ah," said Poirot, "but elephants perhaps have not done with you." The front doorbell sounded once again. Poirot and Mrs.

Oliver looked at each other.

"Well," said Mrs. Oliver, "here we go." She left the room once more. Poirot heard sounds of greeting going on outside and in a moment or two Mrs. Oliver returned, ushering the somewhat massive figure of Mrs.

Burton-Cox.

"What a delightful flat you have," said Mrs. Burton-Cox.

"So charming of you to have spared time-your very valuable time, I'm sure-and asked me to come and see you." Her eyes shot sideways to Hercule Poirot. A faint expression of surprise passed over her face. For a moment her eyes went from him to the baby grand piano that stood in one window. It occurred to Mrs. Oliver that Mrs. Burton-Cox was thinking that Hercule Poirot was a piano tuner. She hastened to dispel this illusion.

"I want to introduce you," she said, "to Mr. Hercule Poirot." Poirot came forward and bent over her hand.

"I think he is the only person who might be able to help you in some way. You know. What you were asking me about the other day concerning my godchild, Celia Ravenscroft." "Oh, yes, how kind of you to remember. I do so hope you can give me a little more knowledge of what really happened." "I'm afraid I haven't been very successful," said Mrs. Oliver, "and that is really why I asked Mr. Poirot to meet you. He is a wonderful person, you know, for information on things generally.