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  hallowHALLOWE'EN PARTY

  Mrs. Ariadne Oliver, famed mysterystory

  writer is visiting her friend Judith

  Butler in Woodleigh Common. During

  her visit she attends a Hallowe'en party

  given by the local society leader. On the

  evening following the party, Hercule

  Poirot receives a visit from Mrs. Oliver

  at his London flat. Nearly hysterical

  Ariadne tells him that Joyce has been

  drowned in a galvanized bucket of

  water, her head pushed down among

  the bobbing apples. Hercule Poirot sets

  out to find the murderer but first he

  seeks the aid of his old friend Superintendent

  Spence who has surprisingly

  retired in Woodleigh Commo

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  HALLOWE'EN

  PARTY

  jj Complete and Unabridged

  ^w^

  Q

  ULVERSCROFT

  Leicester

  First published in Great Britain in 1969 by

  William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.,

  London

  First Large Print Edition

  published August 1987

  by arrangement with

  William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd.,

  London

  and

  Dodd, Mead & Company, Inc.,

  New York

  Copyright © 1969 by Agatha Christie

  All rights reserved

  e^THE

  scarborough______

  Pl JRL1C LipP^RY British Library CIP Data

  BQABP --------------------------

  Christie, Agatha

  Hallowe'en party.--Large print ed.--

  Ulverscroft large print series: mystery

  I. Title

  823'.912[F] PR6005.H66

  ISBN 0-7089-1666-X

  Published by IF . A. Thorpe (Publishing) Ltd.

  Anstey, Leicestershire

  Set by Rowland Phototypesetting Ltd. Bury St. Edmunds, Suffolk

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by

  T. J. Press (Padstow) Ltd., Padstow, Cornwall

  To P. G. Wodehouse

  whose books and stories have brightened

  my life for many years. Also to show my

  pleasure in his having been kind enough

  to tell me that he enjoys my books

  1

  MRS. ARIADNE OLIVER had

  gone with the friend with whom

  she was staying, Judith Butler, to

  help with the preparations for a children's

  party which was to take place that same

  evening.

  At the moment it was a scene of chaotic

  activity. Energetic women came in and out

  of doors moving chairs, small tables, flower vases, and carrying large quantities

  of yellow pumpkins which they disposed

  strategically in selected spots.

  It was to be a Hallowe'en party for

  invited guests of an age group between ten

  and seventeen years old.

  Mrs. Oliver, removing herself from the

  main group, leant against a vacant background

  of wall and held up a large yellow pumpkin, looking at it critically--"The

  last time I saw one of these," she said, sweeping back her grey hair from her

  prominent forehead, "was in the United

  States last year--hundreds of them. All

  over the house. I've never seen so many

  pumpkins. As a matter of fact," she added

  thoughtfully, "I've never really known the

  difference between a pumpkin and a

  vegetable marrow. What's this one?"

  "Sorry, dear," said Mrs. Butler, as she

  fell over her friend's feet.

  Mrs. Oliver pressed herself closer

  against the wall.

  "My fault," she said. "I'm standing

  about and getting in the way. But it was rather remarkable, seeing so many pumpkins

  or vegetable marrows, whatever they

  are. They were everywhere, in the shops, and in people's houses, with candles or

  nightlights inside them or strung up. Very

  interesting really. But it wasn't for a

  Hallowe'en party, it was Thanksgiving.

  Now I've always associated pumpkins with

  Hallowe'en and that's the end of October.

  Thanksgiving comes much later, doesn't

  it? Isn't it November, about the third

  week in November? Anyway, here, Hallowe'en is definitely the 31st of

  October, isn't it? First Hallowe'en and

  then, what comes next? All Souls' Day?

  That's when in Paris you go to cemeteries

  and put flowers on graves. Not a sad sort

  2

  of feast. I mean, all the children go too,

  and enjoy themselves. You go to flower

  markets first and buy lots and lots of lovely

  flowers. Flowers never look so lovely as

  they do in Paris in the market there."

  A lot of busy women were falling over

  Mrs. Oliver occasionally, but they were not

  listening to her. They were all too busy

  with what they were doing.

  They consisted for the most part of

  mothers, one or two competent spinsters;

  there were useful teenagers, boys of

  sixteen and seventeen climbing up ladders

  or standing on chairs to put decorations,

  pumpkins or vegetable marrows or

  brightly coloured witchballs at a suitable

  elevation; girls from eleven to fifteen hung

  about in groups and giggled.

  "And after All Souls' Day and

  cemeteries," went on Mrs. Oliver,

  lowering her bulk on to the arm of a

  settee, "you have All Saints' Day. I think

  I'm right?"

  Nobody responded to this question.

  Mrs. Drake, a handsome middle-aged

  woman who was giving the party, made a

  pronouncement.

  "I'm not calling this a Hallowe'en party,

  although of course it is one really. I'm

  calling it the Eleven Plus party. It's that

  sort of age group. Mostly people who are

  leaving The Elms and going on to other

  schools."

  "But that's not very accurate, Rowena, is it?" said Miss Whittaker, resetting her

  pince-nez on her nose disapprovingly.

  Miss Whittaker as a local schoolteacher

  was always firm on accuracy.

  "Because we've abolished the elevenplus

  some time ago."

  Mrs. Oliver rose from the settee apologetically.

  "I haven't been making myself

  useful. I've just been sitting here saying

  silly things about pumpkins and vegetable

  marrows"--And resting my feet, she

  thought, with a slight pang of conscience, but without sufficient feeling of guilt to say

  it aloud.

  "Now what can I do next?" she asked, and added, "What lovely apples!"

  Someone had just brought a large bowl

  of apples into the room. Mrs. Oliver was

  partial to apples.

  "Lovely red ones," she added.

  "They're not really very good," said

  Rowena Drake. "But they look nice and

  4

  parti
fied. That's for bobbing for apples.

  They're rather soft apples, so people will

  be able to get their teeth into them better.

  Take them into the library, will you,

  Beatrice? Bobbing for apples always makes

  a mess with the water slopping over, but

  that doesn't matter with the library carpet, it's so old. Oh! thank you, Joyce."

  Joyce, a sturdy thirteen-year-old, seized

  the bowl of apples. Two rolled off it and

  stopped, as though arrested by a witch's

  wand, at Mrs. Oliver's feet.

  "You like apples, don't you?" said

  Joyce. "I read you did, or perhaps I heard

  it on the telly. You're the one who writes

  murder stories, aren't you?"

  "Yes," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "We ought to have made you do something

  connected with murders. Have a

  murder at the party to-night and make

  people solve it."

  "No, thank you," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "Never again."

  "What do you mean, never again?"

  "Well, I did once, and it didn't turn out

  much of a success," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "But you've written lots of books," said

  Joyce, "you make a lot of money out of

  them, don't you?"

  "In a way.," said Mrs. Oliver, her

  thoughts flying to the Inland Revenue.

  "And you've got a detective who's a

  Finn."

  Mrs. Oliver admitted the fact. A small

  stolid boy not yet, Mrs. Oliver would have

  thought, arrived at the seniority of the

  eleven-plus, said sternly, "Why a Finn?"

  "I've often wondered," said Mrs. Oliver

  truthfully.

  Mrs. Hargreaves, the organist's wife,

  came into the room breathing heavily, and

  bearing a large green plastic pail.

  "What about this," she said, "for the

  apple bobbing? Kind of gay, I thought."

  Miss Lee, the doctor's dispenser, said,

  "Galvanised bucket's better. Won't tip

  over so easily. Where are you going to

  have it, Mrs. Drake?"

  "I thought the bobbing for apples had

  better be in the library. The carpet's old

  there and a lot of water always gets spilt,

  anyway."

  "All right. We'll take 'em along.

  Rowena, here's another basket of apples."

  "Let me help," said Mrs. Oliver.

  6

  She picked up the two apples at her feet.

  Almost without noticing what she was

  doing, she sank her teeth into one of them

  and began to crunch it. Mrs. Drake

  abstracted the second apple from her

  firmly and restored it to the basket. A buzz

  of conversation broke out.

  "Yes, but where are we going to have

  the Snapdragon?"

  "You ought to have the Snapdragon in

  the library, it's much the darkest room."

  "No, we're going to have that in the

  dining-room."

  "We'll have to put something on the

  table first."

  "There's a green baize cloth to put on

  that and then the rubber sheet over it."

  "What about the looking-glasses? Shall

  we really see our husbands in them?"

  Surreptitiously removing her shoes and

  still quietly champing at her apple, Mrs.

  Oliver lowered herself once more on to the

  settee and surveyed the room full of people

  critically. She was thinking in her

  authoress's mind: "Now, if I was going to

  make a book about all these people, how

  should I do it? They're nice people, I

  should think, on the whole, but who

  knows?"

  In a way, she felt, it was rather fascinating

  not to know anything about them.

  They all lived in Woodleigh Common, some of them had c

  faint tags attached to

  them in her memory because of what

  Judith had told her. Miss Johnson--something

  to do with the church, not the vicar's

  sister. Oh no, it was the organist's sister,

  of course. Rowena Drake, who seemed to

  run things in Woodleigh Common. The

  puffing woman who had brought in the

  pail, a particularly hideous plastic pail. But

  then Mrs. Oliver had never been fond of

  plastic things. And then the children, the

  teenage girls and boys.

  So far they were really only names to

  Mrs. Oliver. There was a Nan and a

  Beatrice and a Cathie, a Diana and a

  Joyce, who was boastful and asked questions.

  I don't like Joyce much, thought

  Mrs. Oliver. A girl called Arm, who

  looked tall and superior. There were two

  adolescent boys who appeared to have just

  got used to trying out different hair styles, with rather unfortunate results.

  8

  ^ smallish boy^ entered in some

  condition of shynesss. "Mummy sent th^iese mirrors to see if

  they'd do," he said ; in a slightly breathless

  voice,

  ^ts. Drake took them from him. "^hank you so irouch. Eddy," she said. "They're just ordinary looking hand- "^"ors," said the ^iri called Arm. "Shall

  we r^lly see our fuflture husbands' faces in

  them>»

  "Some of you maiy and some may not," said Judith Butler.

  "^id you ever sese your husband's face

  whe^ you went to a party--I mean this

  kin^ of a party?" ^Of course she diidn't," said Joyce. ^he might hav»e," said the superior Beatdce. "E.S.P. they call it. Extra

  sens^iy perception,'" she added in the tone

  °^ ^ne pleased with being thoroughly

  conv^sant with the; terms of the times.

  ^ read one of yonir books," said Arm to Mrs. Oliver. "The JDying Goldfish. It was

  quit^ good," she said kindly.

  ^ didn't like titiat one," said Joyce. ^ere wasn't enouigh blood in it. I like "^ders to have lotfs of blood."

  Hr.

  9

  "A bit messy," said Mrs. Oliver, "don't

  you think?"

  "But exciting," said Joyce.

  "Not necessarily," said Mrs. Oliver.

  "I saw a murder once," said Joyce.

  "Don't be silly, Joyce," said Miss Whittaker,

  the schoolteacher.

  "I did," said Joyce.

  "Did you really," asked Cathie, gazing

  at Joyce with wide eyes, "really and truly

  see a murder?"

  "Of course she didn't," said Mrs.

  Drake. "Don't say silly things, Joyce."

  "I did see a murder," said Joyce. "I did.

  I did. I did."

  A seventeen-year-old boy poised on a

  ladder looked down interestedly.

  "What kind of a murder?" he asked.

  "I don't believe it," said Beatrice.

  "Of course not," said Cathie's mother.

  "She's just making it up."

  "I'm not. I saw it."

  "Why didn't you go to the police about

  it?" asked Cathie.

  "Because I didn't know it was a murder

  when I saw it. It wasn't really till a long

  time afterwards, I mean, that I began to

  know that it was a murder. Something that

  10

  somebody said only about a month or two

  ago suddenly made me think: Of course, that was a murder I saw."

  "You see," said Arm, "she's makin
g it

  all up. It's nonsense."

  "When did it happen?" asked Beatrice.

  "Years ago," said Joyce. "I was quite

  young at the time," she added.

  "Who murdered who?" said Beatrice.

  "I shan't tell any of you," said Joyce.

  "You're all so horrid about it."

  Miss Lee came in with another kind of ^bucket. Conversation shifted to a comparison

  of buckets or plastic pails as most suitable for the sport of bobbing for

  sapples. The majority of the helpers

  irepaired to the library for an appraisal on

  tthe spot. Some of the younger members, lit may be said, were anxious to demongstrate,

  by a rehearsal of the difficulties and Utheir own accomplishment in the sport.

  lHair got wet, water got spilt, towels were

  ssent for to mop it up. In the end it was

  odecided that a galvanised bucket was prefeerable

  to the more meretricious charms of

  aa plastic pail which overturned rather too

  eeasily.

  Mrs. Oliver, setting down a bowl of

  11

  apples which she had carried in to

  replenish the store required for tomorrow, once more helped herself to one.

  "I read in the paper that you were fond

  of eating apples," the accusing voice of Arm or Susan--she was not quite sure

  which--spoke to her."

  "It's my besetting sin," said Mrs.

  Oliver.

  "It would be more fun if it was

  melons," objected one of the boys.

  "They're so juicy. Think of the mess it

  would make," he said, surveying the

  carpet with pleasurable anticipation.

  Mrs. Oliver, feeling a little guilty at the

  public arraignment of greediness, left the

  room in search of a particular apartment, the geography of which is usually fairly

  easily identified. She went up the staircase

  and, turning the corner on the half

  landing, cannoned into a pair, a girl and a

  boy, clasped in each other's arms and

  leaning against the door which Mrs. Oliver

  felt fairly certain was the door to the room

  to which she herself was anxious to gain

  access. The couple paid no attention to

  her. They sighed and they snuggled. Mrs.

  Oliver wondered how old they were. The

  12

  boy was fifteen, perhaps, the girl little

  more than twelve, although the development

  of her chest seemed certainly on the

  mature side.

  Apple Trees was a house of fair size. It

  had, she thought, several agreeable nooks