Free Hallowe'en Party by Agatha Christie Page B

wolf,’ and he cried it once too often, when it was a real wolf, and nobody believed him, and so the wolf got him.”
    â€œSo you’d sum it up—”
    â€œI’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. ”
    â€œAnd so she got herself killed,” said Superintendent Spence. “You’ve got to mind that, Elspeth. She got herself killed.”
    â€œThat’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.”
    â€œIndeed, they didn’t believe her,” said Poirot.
    Elspeth McKay shook her head doubtfully.
    â€œWho could she have seen murdered?” asked Poirot.
    He looked from brother to sister.
    â€œNobody,” said Mrs. McKay with decision.
    â€œThere must have been deaths here, say, over the last three years.”
    â€œOh that, naturally,” said Spence. “Just the usual—old folks or invalids or what you’d expect—or maybe a hit-and-run motorist—”
    â€œNo unusual or unexpected deaths?”
    â€œWell—” Elspeth hesitated. “I mean—”
    Spence took over.
    â€œI’ve jotted a few names down here.” He pushed the paper over to Poirot. “Save you a bit of trouble, asking questions around.”
    â€œAre these suggested victims?”
    â€œHardly as much as that. Say within the range of possibility.”
    Poirot read aloud.
    â€œMrs. Llewellyn-Smythe. Charlotte Benfield. Janet White. Lesley Ferrier—” He broke off, looked across the table and repeated the first name. Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe.
    â€œCould be,” said Mrs. McKay. “Yes, you might have something there.” She added a word that sounded like “opera.”
    â€œOpera?” Poirot looked puzzled. He had heard of no opera.
    â€œWent off one night, she did,” said Elspeth, “was never heard of again.”
    â€œMrs. Llewellyn-Smythe?”
    â€œNo, no. The opera girl. She could have put something in the medicine easily enough. And she came into all the money, didn’t she—or so she thought at the time?”
    Poirot looked at Spence for enlightenment.
    â€œAnd never been heard of since,” said Mrs. McKay. “These foreign girls are all the same.”
    The significance of the word “opera” came to Poirot.
    â€œAn au pair girl,” he said.
    â€œThat’s right. Lived with the old lady, and a week or two after the old lady died, the au pair girl just disappeared.”
    â€œWent off with some man, I’d say,” said Spence.
    â€œWell, nobody knew of him if so,” said Elspeth. “And there’s usually plenty to talk about here. Usually know just who’s going with who.”
    â€œDid anybody think there had been anything wrong about Mrs. Llewellyn-Smythe’s death?” asked Poirot.
    â€œNo. She’d got heart trouble. Doctor attended her regularly.”
    â€œBut you headed your list of possible victims with her, my friend?”
    â€œWell, she was a rich woman, a very rich woman. Her death was not unexpected but it was sudden. I’d say offhand that Dr. Ferguson was surprised, even if only slightly surprised. I think he expected her to live longer. But doctors do have these surprises. She wasn’t one to do as the doctor ordered. She’d been told not to overdo things, but she did exactly as she liked. For one thing, she was a passionate gardener, and that doesn’t do heart cases any good.”
    Elspeth McKay took up the tale.
    â€œShe came here when her health failed. She was living abroad