Dead Man's Folly Read Online Free PDF

storey, I’ve never discovered. Probably thinks it doesn’t matter. After all, these financial johnnies don’t ask for intellectual companionship.”
    â€œWhat nationality is she?” Poirot asked curiously.
    â€œLooks South American, I always think. But I believe she comes from the West Indies. One of those islands with sugar and rum and all that. One of the old families there—a creole, I don’t mean a half-caste. All very intermarried, I believe, on these islands. Accounts for the mental deficiency.”
    Young Mrs. Legge came over to join them.
    â€œLook here, Jim,” she said, “you’ve got to be on my side. That tent’s got to be where we all decided—on the far side of the lawn backing on the rhododendrons. It’s the only possible place.”
    â€œMa Masterton doesn’t think so.”
    â€œWell, you’ve got to talk her out of it.”
    He gave her his foxy smile.
    â€œMrs. Masterton’s my boss.”
    â€œWilfred Masterton’s your boss. He’s the M.P.”
    â€œI dare say, but she should be. She’s the one who wears the pants—and don’t I know it.”
    Sir George reentered the window.
    â€œOh, there you are, Sally,” he said. “We need you. You wouldn’t think everyone could get het up over who butters the buns and who raffles a cake, and why the garden produce stall is where the fancy woollens was promised it should be. Where’s Amy Folliat? She can deal with these people—about the only person who can.”
    â€œShe went upstairs with Hattie.”
    â€œOh, did she—?”
    Sir George looked round in a vaguely helpless manner and Miss Brewis jumped up from where she was writing tickets, and said, “I’ll fetch her for you, Sir George.”
    â€œThank you, Amanda.”
    Miss Brewis went out of the room.
    â€œMust get hold of some more wire fencing,” murmured Sir George.
    â€œFor the fête?”
    â€œNo, no. To put up where we adjoin Hoodown Park in the woods. The old stuff’s rotted away, and that’s where they get through.”
    â€œWho get through?”
    â€œTrespassers!” ejaculated Sir George.
    Sally Legge said amusedly:
    â€œYou sound like Betsy Trotwood campaigning against donkeys.”
    â€œBetsy Trotwood? Who’s she?” asked Sir George simply.
    â€œDickens.”
    â€œOh, Dickens. I read the Pickwick Papers once. Not bad. Not bad at all—surprised me. But, seriously, trespassers are a menace since they’ve started this Youth Hostel tomfoolery. They come out at you from everywhere wearing the most incredible shirts—boy this morning had one all covered with crawling turtles and things—made me think I’d been hitting the bottle or something. Half of them can’t speak English—just gibber at you…” He mimicked: “‘Oh, plees—yes, haf you—tell me—iss way to ferry?’ I say no, it isn’t, roar at them, and send them back where they’ve come from, but half the time they just blink and stare and don’t understand. And the girls giggle. All kinds of nationalities, Italian, Yugoslavian,Dutch, Finnish—Eskimos I shouldn’t be surprised! Half of them communists, I shouldn’t wonder,” he ended darkly.
    â€œCome now, George, don’t get started on communists,” said Mrs. Legge. “I’ll come and help you deal with the rabid women.”
    She led him out of the window and called over her shoulder: “Come on, Jim. Come and be torn to pieces in a good cause.”
    â€œAll right, but I want to put M. Poirot in the picture about the Murder Hunt since he’s going to present the prizes.”
    â€œYou can do that presently.”
    â€œI will await you here,” said Poirot agreeably.
    In the ensuing silence, Alec Legge stretched himself out in his chair and sighed.
    â€œWomen!” he said. “Like a swarm of