Elephants Can Remember: A Hercule Poirot Mystery (Hercule Poirot Mysteries)
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The Queen of Mystery has come to Harper Collins! Agatha Christie, the acknowledged mistress of suspense—creator of indomitable sleuth Miss Marple, meticulous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, and so many other unforgettable characters—brings her entire oeuvre of ingenious whodunits, locked room mysteries, and perplexing puzzles to Harper Paperbacks. A classic Poirot investigation, Elephants Can Remember has the expert detective delving into an unsolved crime from the past involving the strange death of a husband and wife.
Poirot, turning to him. “In the case of Mrs. McGinty. Yes.”3 “You weren’t satisfied,” said Poirot, “when that extremely difficult young man was arrested. He had every reason for doing it, he looked as though he had done it, everyone thought he had done it. But you knew he hadn’t done it. You were so sure of it that you came to me and told me to go along to see what I could find out.” “See if you could help—and you did help, didn’t you?” said Spence. Poirot sighed. “Fortunately, yes. But what
Come now, you had a theory?” “You’re quite right, of course. One does have theories. One expects them all, or one of them at least, to work out, but they don’t usually. I think that my theory was in the end that you couldn’t look for the cause, because one didn’t know enough. What did I know about them? General Ravenscroft was close on sixty, his wife was thirty-five. All I knew of them, strictly speaking, was the last five or six years of their lives. The General had retired on a pension. They
think then that it was someone outside that did it?” “Well, I think it must have been because I can’t see any other thing. Mind you, I didn’t like the man who came and did the gardening for them very much. He hadn’t got a very good reputation and I gather he’d had a few jail sentences earlier in his life. But of course the General took up his references and he wanted to give him a chance.” “So you think the gardener might have killed them?” “Well, I—I always thought that. But then I’m probably
it was very difficult. They thought it might be a suicide pact and—I forget what the verdict was. Something—it could have been misadventure or something like that. But of course everyone knew it must have been meant, and there were a lot of stories that went about, of course, at the time—” “Probably all invented ones,” said Mrs. Oliver hopefully, trying to remember even one of the stories if she could. “Well, maybe. Maybe. It’s very hard to say, I know. There were tales of a quarrel either that
“Ah!” said Mrs. Oliver, with the sigh of someone who has relief. “I expect you’re going to think I’m awfully silly, but still. . . .” “I see, or rather, I saw in the paper that you were attending a literary luncheon today. Famous women writers. Something of that kind. I thought you never did that kind of thing.” “I don’t usually,” said Mrs. Oliver, “and I shan’t ever do it again.” “Ah. You suffered much?” Poirot was quite sympathetic. He knew Mrs. Oliver’s embarrassing moments. Extravagant