'Criminal assault,' said Mrs. Oliver and closed her eyes in a satisfied manner. When she opened them again, she took in her surroundings more fully. She was in a bed, one of those rather high hygienic looking beds, she decided. The kind that you shoot up and down and round and about. She was not in her own home. She looked round and decided on her environment.
'Hospital, or could be nursing home,' she said.
A sister was standing with an air of authority at the door, and a nurse was standing by her bed. She identified a fourth figure. 'Nobody,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'could mistake those moustaches. What are you doing here, M. Poirot?' Hercule Poirot advanced towards the bed. 'I told you to be careful, Madame,' he said.
'Anyone might lose their way,' said Mrs. Oliver, somewhat obscurely, and added, 'my head aches.'
'With good cause. As you surmise, you were hit on the head.'
'Yes. By the Peacock.' The policeman stirred uneasily then said, 'Excuse me. Madam, you say you were assaulted by a peacock?'
'Of course. I'd had an uneasy feeling for some time - you know, atmosphere.' Mrs. Oliver tried to wave her hand in an appropriate gesture to describe atmosphere, and winced. 'Ouch,' she said, 'I'd better not try that again.'
'My patient must not get overexcited,' said the sister with disapproval.
'Can you tell me where this assault occurred?'
'I haven't the faintest idea. I'd lost my way. I was coming from a kind of studio.
Very badly kept. Dirty. The other young man hadn't shaved for days. A greasy leather jacket.'
'Is this the man who assaulted you?'
'No, it's another one.'
'If you could just tell me - '
'I am telling you, aren't I? I'd followed him, you see, all the way from the cafe - only I'm not very good at following people.
No practice. It's much more difficult than you'd think.' Her eyes focused on the policeman. 'But I suppose you know all about that. You have courses - in following people, I mean? Oh, never mind, it doesn't matter.
You see,' she said, speaking with sudden rapidity, 'it's quite simple. I had got off at The World's End, I think it was, and naturally I thought he had stayed with the others - or gone the other way. But instead, he came up behind me.'
'Who was this?'
'The Peacock,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'and he startled me, you see. It does startle you when you find things are the wrong way round. I mean he was following you instead of you following him-only it was earlier - and I had a sort of uneasy feeling. In fact, you know, I was afraid. I don't know why. He spoke quite politely but I was afraid. Anyway there it was and he said 'Come up and see the studio' and so I came up rather a rickety staircase. A kind of ladder staircase and there was this other young man - the dirty young man - and he was painting a picture, and the girl was acting as model. She was quite clean.
Rather pretty really. And so there we were and they were quite nice and polite, and then I said I must be getting home, and they told me the right way to get back to the King's Road. But they can't really have told me the right way. Of course I might have made a mistake. You know, when people tell you second left and third right, well, you sometimes do it the wrong way round. At least I do. Anyway, I got into a rather peculiar slummy part quite close to the river. The afraid feeling had gone away by then. I must have been quite off my guard when the Peacock hit me.'
'I think she's delirious,' said the nurse in an explanatory voice.
'No, I'm not,' said Mrs. Oliver. 'I know what I'm talking about.' The nurse opened her mouth, caught the sister's admonitory eye and shut it again quickly.
'Velvets and satins and long curly hair,' said Mrs. Oliver.
'A peacock in satin? A real peacock, Madam. You thought you saw a peacock near the river in Chelsea?'
'A real peacock?' said Mrs. Oliver. 'Of course not. How silly. What would a real peacock be doing down on Chelsea Embankment.'
Nobody appeared to have an answer to this question.
'He struts,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'that's why I nicknamed him a peacock. Shows off, you know. Vain, I should think. Proud of his looks. Perhaps a lot of other things as well.' She looked at Poirot. 'David something.
You know who I mean.'
'You say this young man of the name of David assaulted you by striking you on the head?'
'Yes I do.' Hercule Poirot spoke. 'You saw him?'
'I didn't see him,' said Mrs. Oliver, 'I didn't know anything about it. I just thought I heard something behind me, and before I could turn my head to look - it all happened! Just as if a ton of bricks or something fell on me. I think I'll go to sleep now,' she added.
She moved her head slightly, made a grimace of pain, and relapsed into what appeared to be a perfectly satisfactory unconsciousness.
Chapter Thirteen
POIROT seldom used the key to his flat. Instead, in an old-fashioned manner, he pressed the bell and waited for that admirable factotum, George, to open the door. On this occasion, however, after his visit to the hospital, the door was opened to him by Miss Lemon.
'You've got two visitors,' said Miss Lemon, pitching her voice in an admirable tone, not as carrying as a whisper but a good many notes lower than her usual pitch. 'One's Mr. Goby and the other is an old gentleman called Sir Roderick Horsefield. I don't know which you want to see first.'
'Sir Roderick Horsefield,' mused Poirot.
He considered this with his head on one side, looking rather like a robin while he decided how this latest development was likely to affect the general picture. Mr. Goby, however, materialised with his usual suddenness from the small room which was sacred to Miss Lemon's typewriting and where she had evidently kept him in storage.
Poirot removed his overcoat. Miss Lemon hung it up on the hall-stand, and Mr. Goby, as was his fashion, addressed the back of Miss Lemon's head.
'I'll have a cup of tea in the kitchen with George,' said Mr. Goby. 'My time is my own. I'll keep.' He disappeared obligingly into the kitchen.
Poirot went into his sitting-room where Sir Roderick was pacing up and down full of vitality.
'Run you down, my boy,' he said genially. 'Wonderful thing the telephone.'
'You remembered my name? I am gratified.'
'Well, I didn't exactly remember your name,' said Sir Roderick. 'Names, you know, have never been my strong point.
Never forget a face,' he ended proudly.
'No. I rang up Scotland Yard.'
'Oh!' Poirot looked faintly startled, though reflecting that that was the sort of thing that Sir Roderick would do.
'Asked me who I wanted to speak to. I said, put me on to the top. That's the thing to do in life, my boy. Never accept second in charge. No good. Go to the top, that's what I say. I said who I was, mind you.
Said I wanted to speak to the top brass and I got on to it in the end. Very civil fellow.
Told him I wanted the address of a chap in Allied Intelligence who was out with me at a certain place in France at a certain date.
The chap seemed a bit at sea, so I said: 'You know who I mean.' A Frenchman, I said, or a Belgian. Belgian, weren't you? I said: 'He's got a Christian name something like Achilles. It's not Achilles,' I said, 'but it's like Achilles. Little chap,' I said, 'big moustaches.' And then he seemed to catch on, and he said you'd be in the telephone book, he thought. I said that's all right, but I said: 'He won't be listed under Achilles or Hercules (as he said it was), will he? and I can't remember his second name.' So then he gave it me. Very civil sort of fellow.
Very civil, I must say.'
