Free Elephants Can Remember by Agatha Christie Page A

have been mostly made since retirement, though I suppose old friends did come and visit them or see them occasionally. But one doesn't hear about things that happened in the past. People forget.”
    “Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “People forget.”
    “They're not like elephants,” said Superintendent Garroway, giving a faint smile. “Elephants, they always say, remember everything.”
    “It is odd that you should say that,” said Poirot.
    “That I should say about long sins?”
    “Not so much that. It was your mention of elephants that interested me.”
    Superintendent Garroway looked at Poirot with some surprise. He seemed to be waiting for more. Spence also cast a quick glance at his old friend.
    “Something that happened in India, perhaps,” he suggested.
    “I mean - well, that's where elephants come from, isn't it? Or from Africa. Anyway, who's been talking to you about elephants?” he added.
    “A friend of mine happened to mention them,” said Poirot.
    “Someone you know,” he said to Superintendent Spence. “Mrs. Oliver.”
    “Oh, Mrs. Ariadne Oliver. Well!” He paused.
    “Well what?” said Poirot.
    “Well, does she know something, then?” he asked.
    “I do not think so as yet,” said Poirot, “but she might know something before very long.”
    He added thoughtfully, “She's that kind of person. She gets around, if you know what I mean.”
    “Yes,” said Spence. “Yes. Has she got any ideas?” he asked.
    “Do you mean Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, the writer?” asked Garroway with some interest.
    “That's the one,” said Spence.
    “Does she know a good deal about crime? I know she writes crime stories. I've never known where she got her ideas from or her facts.”
    “Her ideas,” said Poirot, “come out of her head. Her facts - well, that's more difficult.”
    He paused for a moment.
    “What are you thinking of, Poirot? Something in particular?”
    “Yes,” said Poirot. “I ruined one of her stories once, or so she tells me. She had just had a very good idea about a fact, something that had to do with a long-sleeved woolen vest. I asked her something over the telephone and it put the idea for the story out of her head. She reproaches me at intervals.”
    “Dear, dear,” said Spence. “Sounds rather like that parsley that sank into the butter on a hot day. You know. Sherlock Holmes and the dog who did nothing in the night-time.”
    “Did they have a dog?” asked Poirot.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I said did they have a dog? General and Mrs. Ravenscroft. Did they take a dog for that walk with them on the day they were shot? The Ravenscrofts.”
    “They had a dog - yes,” said Garroway. “I suppose, they did take him for a walk most days.”
    “If it had been one of Mrs. Oliver's stories,” said Spence, “you ought to have found the dog howling over the two dead bodies. But that didn't happen.”
    Garroway shook his head.
    “I wonder where the dog is now?” said Poirot.
    “Buried in somebody's garden, I expect,” said Garroway. “It's fourteen years ago.”
    “So we can't go and ask the dog, can we?” said Poirot. He added thoughtfully, “A pity. It's astonishing, you know, what dogs can know. Who was there exactly in the house? I mean on the day when the crime happened?”
    “I brought you a list,” said Superintendent Garroway, “in case you like to consult it. Mrs. Whittaker, the elderly cook-housekeeper. It was her day out, so we couldn't get much from her that was helpful. A visitor was staying there who had been governess to the Ravenscroft children once, I believe. Mrs. Whittaker was rather deaf and slightly blind. She couldn't tell us anything of interest, except that recently Lady Ravenscroft had been in hospital or in a nursing home - for nerves but not illness, apparently. There was a gardener, too.”
    “But a stranger might have come from outside. A stranger from the past. That's your idea, Superintendent Garroway?”
    “Not so much an idea as