Dead Man's Folly Read Online Free PDF Page B

bees.”
    He turned his head to look out of the window.
    â€œAnd what’s it all about? Some silly garden fête that doesn’t matter to anyone.”
    â€œBut obviously,” Poirot pointed out, “there are those to whom it does matter.”
    â€œWhy can’t people have some sense? Why can’t they think? Think of the mess the whole world has got itself into. Don’t they realize that the inhabitants of the globe are busy committing suicide?”
    Poirot judged rightly that he was not intended to reply to this question. He merely shook his head doubtfully.
    â€œUnless we can do something before it’s too late…” Alec Legge broke off. An angry look swept over his face. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m nervy, neurotic—all the rest of it. Like those damned doctors. Advising rest and change and sea air. All right, Sally and I came down here and took the MillCottage for three months, and I’ve followed their prescription. I’ve fished and bathed and taken long walks and sunbathed—”
    â€œI noticed that you had sunbathed, yes,” said Poirot politely.
    â€œOh, this?” Alec’s hand went to his sore face. “That’s the result of a fine English summer for once in a way. But what’s the good of it all? You can’t get away from facing truth just by running away from it.”
    â€œNo, it is never any good running away.”
    â€œAnd being in a rural atmosphere like this just makes you realize things more keenly—that and the incredible apathy of the people of this country. Even Sally, who’s intelligent enough, is just the same. Why bother? That’s what she says. It makes me mad! Why bother?”
    â€œAs a matter of interest, why do you?”
    â€œGood God, you too?”
    â€œNo, it is not advice. It is just that I would like to know your answer.”
    â€œDon’t you see, somebody’s got to do something.”
    â€œAnd that somebody is you?”
    â€œNo, no, not me personally. One can’t be personal in times like these.”
    â€œI do not see why not. Even in ‘these times’ as you call it, one is still a person.”
    â€œBut one shouldn’t be! In times of stress, when it’s a matter of life or death, one can’t think of one’s own insignificant ills or preoccupations.”
    â€œI assure you, you are quite wrong. In the late war, during a severe air raid, I was much less preoccupied by the thought of death than of the pain from a corn on my little toe. It surprised meat the time that it should be so. ‘Think,’ I said to myself, ‘at any moment now, death may come.’ But I was still conscious of my corn—indeed, I felt injured that I should have that to suffer as well as the fear of death. It was because I might die that every small personal matter in my life acquired increased importance. I have seen a woman knocked down in a street accident, with a broken leg, and she has burst out crying because she sees that there is a ladder in her stocking.”
    â€œWhich just shows you what fools women are!”
    â€œIt shows you what people are. It is, perhaps, that absorption in one’s personal life that has led the human race to survive.”
    Alec Legge gave a scornful laugh.
    â€œSometimes,” he said, “I think it’s a pity they ever did.”
    â€œIt is, you know,” Poirot persisted, “a form of humility. And humility is valuable. There was a slogan that was written up in your underground railways here, I remember, during the war. ‘It all depends on you. ’ It was composed, I think, by some eminent divine—but in my opinion it was a dangerous and undesirable doctrine. For it is not true. Everything does not depend on, say, Mrs. Blank of Little-Blank-in-the-Marsh. And if she is led to think it does, it will not be good for her character. While