Hallowe'en Party by Agatha Christie Page A

frankly, a compulsive liar. And by that I do not mean that she was specially deceitful. She was not trying to avoid retribution or to avoid being found out in some peccadillo. She boasted. She boasted of things that had not happened, but that would impress her friends whowere listening to her. As a result, of course, they inclined not to believe the tall stories she told.”
    â€œYou think that she boasted of having seen a murder committed in order to make herself important, to intrigue someone—?”
    â€œYes. And I would suggest that Ariadne Oliver was doubtless the person whom she wanted to impress….”
    â€œSo you don’t think Joyce saw a murder committed at all?”
    â€œI should doubt it very much.”
    â€œYou are of the opinion that she made the whole thing up?”
    â€œI would not say that. She did witness, perhaps, a car accident, or someone perhaps who was hit with a ball on the golf links and injured—something that she could work up into an impressive happening that might, just conceivably, pass as an attempted murder.”
    â€œSo the only assumption we can make with any certainty is that there was a murderer present at the Hallowe’en party.”
    â€œCertainly,” said Miss Emlyn, without turning a grey hair. “Certainly. That follows on logically, does it not?”
    â€œWould you have any idea who that murderer might be?”
    â€œThat is certainly a sensible question,” said Miss Emlyn. “After all, the majority of the children at the party were aged between nine and fifteen, and I suppose nearly all of them had been or were pupils at my school. I ought to know something about them. Something, too, about their families and their backgrounds.”
    â€œI believe that one of your own teachers, a year or two ago, was strangled by an unknown killer.”
    â€œYou are referring to Janet White? About twenty-four years of age. An emotional girl. As far as is known, she was out walking alone. She may, of course, have arranged to meet some young man. She was a girl who was quite attractive to men in a modest sort ofway. Her killer has not been discovered. The police questioned various young men or asked them to assist them in their inquiries, as the technique goes, but they were not able to find sufficient evidence to bring a case against anyone. An unsatisfactory business from their point of view. And, I may say, from mine.”
    â€œYou and I have a principle in common. We do not approve of murder.”
    Miss Emlyn looked at him for a moment or two. Her expression did not change, but Poirot had an idea that he was being sized up with a great deal of care.
    â€œI like the way you put it,” she said. “From what you read and hear nowadays, it seems that murder under certain aspects is slowly but surely being made acceptable to a large section of the community.”
    She was silent for a few minutes, and Poirot also did not speak. She was, he thought, considering a plan of action.
    She rose and touched a bell.
    â€œI think,” she said, “that you had better talk to Miss Whittaker.”
    Some five minutes passed after Miss Emlyn had left the room and then the door opened and a woman of about forty entered. She had russet-coloured hair, cut short, and came in with a brisk step.
    â€œMonsieur Poirot?” she said. “Can I help you? Miss Emlyn seems to think that that might be so.”
    â€œIf Miss Emlyn thinks so, then it is almost a certainty that you can. I would take her word for it.”
    â€œYou know her?”
    â€œI have only met her this afternoon.”
    â€œBut you have made up your mind quickly about her.”
    â€œI hope you are going to tell me that I am right.”
    Elizabeth Whittaker gave a short, quick sigh.
    â€œOh, yes, you’re right. I presume that this is about the death of Joyce Reynolds. I don’t know exactly how you come into it. Through the police?” She