the gate. Hercule Poirot stood there without moving.
'God bless my soul,' said Superintendent Spence.
'It must be. It can't be but it is. Yes, it must be. Hercule Poirot, as I live.'
'Aha,' said Hercule Poirot, 'you know me. That is gratifying.'
'May your moustaches never grow less,' said Spence.
He abandoned the watering can and came down to the gate.
'Diabolical weeds,' he said. 'And what brings you down here?'
'What has brought me to many places in my time,' said Hercule Poirot, 'and what once a good many years ago brought you to see me. Murder.'
'I've done with murder,' said Spence, 'except in the case of weeds. That's what I'm doing now. Applying weed killer.
Never so easy as you think, something's always wrong, usually the weather.
Mustn't be too wet, mustn't be too dry and all the rest of it. How did you know where to find me?' he asked as he unlatched the gate and Poirot passed through.
'You sent me a Christmas card. It had your new address notified on it.'
'Ah yes, so I did. I'm old-fashioned, you know. I like to send round cards at Christmas time to a few old friends.'
'I appreciate that,' said Poirot.
Spence said, 'I'm an old man now.'
'We are both old men.'
'Not much grey in your hair,' said Spence.
'I attend to that with a bottle,' said Hercule Poirot. 'There is no need to appear in public with grey hair unless you wish to do so.'
'Well, I don't think jet black would suit me,' said Spence.
'I agree,' said Poirot. 'You look most distinguished with grey hair.'
'I should never think of myself as a distinguished man.'
'I think of you as such. Why have you come to live in Woodleigh Common?'
'As a matter of fact, I came here to join forces with a sister of mine.
She lost her husband, her children are married and living abroad, one in Australia and the other in South Africa. So I moved in here.
Pensions don't go far nowadays, but we do pretty comfortably living together. Come and sit down.'
He led the way on to the small glazed-in verandah where there were chairs and a table or two. The autumn sun fell pleasantly upon this retreat.
'What shall I get you?' said Spence. 'No fancy stuff here, I'm afraid. No black currant or rose hip syrup or any of your patent things. Beer? Or shall I get Elspeth to make you a cup of tea? Or I can do you a shandy or Coca-Cola or some cocoa if you like it. My sister, Elspeth, is a cocoa drinker.'
'You are very kind. For me, I think a shandy. The ginger beer and the beer?
That is right, is it not?'
'Absolutely so.'
He went into the house and returned shortly afterwards carrying two large glass mugs.
'I'm joining you,' he said.
He drew a chair up to the table and sat down, placing the two glasses in front of himself and Poirot.
'What was it you said just now?' he said, raising his glass.
'We won't say 'Here's to crime.' I've done with crime, and if you mean the crime I think you do, in fact which I think you have to do, because I don't recall any other crime just lately, I don't like the particular form of murder we've just had.'
'No, I do not think you would do so.'
'We are talking about the child who had her head shoved into a bucket?'
'Yes,' said Poirot, 'that is what I am talking about.'
'I don't know why you come to me,' said Spence. 'I'm nothing to do with the police nowadays. All that's over many years ago.'
'Once a policeman,' said Hercule Poirot, 'always a policeman. That is to say, there is always the point of view of the policeman behind the point of view of the ordinary man. I know, I who talk to you. I, too, started in the police force in my country.'
'Yes, so you did. I remember now your telling me. Well, I suppose one's outlook is a bit slanted, but it's a long time since I've had any active connection.'
'But you hear the gossip,' said Poirot. 'You have friends of your own trade. You will hear what they think or suspect or what they know.'
Spence sighed.
'One knows too much,' he said, 'that is one of the troubles nowadays.
There is a crime, a crime of which the pattern is familiar, and you know, that is to say the active police officers know, pretty well who's probably done that crime. They don't tell the newspapers but they make their inquiries, and they know. But whether they're going to get any further than that well, things have their difficulties.'
'You mean the wives and the girl friends and the rest of it?'
'Partly that, yes. In the end, perhaps, one gets one's man. Sometimes a year or two passes. I'd say, you know, roughly, Poirot, that more girls nowadays marry wrong 'uns than they ever used to in my time.'
Hercule Poirot considered, pulling his moustaches.
'Yes,' he said, 'I can see that that might be so. I suspect that girls have always been partial to the bad lots, as you say, but in the past there were safeguards.'
'That's right. People were looking after them. Their mothers looked after them.
Their aunts and their older sisters looked after them. Their younger sisters and brothers knew what was going on. Their fathers were not averse to kicking the wrong young men out of the house. Sometimes, of course, the girls used to run away with one of the bad lots. Nowadays there's no need even to do that. Mother doesn't know who the girl's out with, father's not told who the girl is out with, brothers know who the girl is out with but they think 'more fool her'. If the parents refuse consent, the couple go before a magistrate and manage to get permission to marry, and then when the young man who everyone knows is a bad lot proceeds to prove to everybody, including his wife, that he is a bad lot, the fat's in the fire!
But love's love; the girl doesn't want to think that her Henry has these revolting habits, these criminal tendencies, and all the rest of it. She'll lie for him, swear black's white for him and everything else.
Yes, it's difficult. Difficult for us, I mean.
Well, there's no good going on saying things were better in the old days. Perhaps we only thought so. Anyway, Poirot, how did you get yourself mixed up in all this?
This isn't your part of the country, is it?
Always thought you lived in London. You used to when I knew you.'
'I still live in London. I involved myself here at the request of a friend, Mrs. Oliver. You remember Mrs. Oliver?'
Spence raised his head, closed his eyes and apeared to reflect.
'Mrs. Oliver? Can't say that I do.'
'She writes books. Detective stories.
You met her, if you will throw your mind back, during the time that you persuaded me to investigate the murder of Mrs. McGinty. You will not have forgotten Mrs. McGinty?'
'Good lord, no. But it was a long time ago. You did me a good turn there, Poirot, a
