Cards on the Table (Hercule Poirot 15)

Pinker than ever, Rhoda followed her. Along a passage, round a corner, a door was opened. Nervously she entered into what seemed at first to her startled eyes to be an African forest!

Birds—masses of birds, parrots, macaws, birds unknown to ornithology, twined themselves in and out of what seemed to be a primeval forest. In the middle of this riot of bird and vegetable life, Rhoda perceived a battered kitchen table with a typewriter on it, masses of typescript littered all over the floor and Mrs. Oliver, her hair in wild confusion, rising from a somewhat rickety-looking chair.

“My dear, how nice to see you,” said Mrs. Oliver, holding out a carbon-stained hand and trying with her other hand to smooth her hair, a quite impossible proceeding.

A paper bag, touched by her elbow, fell from the desk, and apples rolled energetically all over the floor.

“Never mind, my dear, don’t bother, someone will pick them up sometime.”

Rather breathless, Rhoda rose from a stooping position with five apples in her grasp.

“Oh, thank you—no, I shouldn’t put them back in the bag. I think it’s got a hole in it. Put them on the mantelpiece. That’s right. Now, then, sit down and let’s talk.”

Rhoda accepted a second battered chair and focussed her eyes on her hostess.

“I say, I’m terribly sorry. Am I interrupting, or anything?” she asked breathlessly.

“Well, you are and you aren’t,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I am working, as you see. But that dreadful Finn of mine has got himself terribly tangled up. He did some awfully clever deduction with a dish of French beans, and now he’s just detected deadly poison in the sage and onion stuffing of the Michaelmas goose, and I’ve just remembered that French beans are over by Michaelmas.”

Thrilled by this peep into the inner world of creative detective fiction, Rhoda said breathlessly, “They might be tinned.”

“They might, of course,” said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. “But it would rather spoil the point. I’m always getting tangled up in horticulture and things like that. People write to me and say I’ve got the wrong flowers all out together. As though it mattered—and anyway, they are all out together in a London shop.”

“Of course it doesn’t matter,” said Rhoda loyally. “Oh, Mrs. Oliver, it must be marvellous to write.”

Mrs. Oliver rubbed her forehead with a carbonny finger and said:

“Why?”

“Oh,” said Rhoda, a little taken aback. “Because it must. It must be wonderful just to sit down and write off a whole book.”

“It doesn’t happen exactly like that,” said Mrs. Oliver. “One actually has to think, you know. And thinking is always a bore. And you have to plan things. And then one gets stuck every now and then, and you feel you’ll never get out of the mess—but you do! Writing’s not particularly enjoyable. It’s hard work like everything else.”

“It doesn’t seem like work,” said Rhoda.

“Not to you,” said Mrs. Oliver, “because you don’t have to do it! It feels very like work to me. Some days I can only keep going by repeating over and over to myself the amount of money I might get for my next serial rights. That spurs you on, you know. So does your bankbook when you see how much overdrawn you are.”

“I never imagined you actually typed your books yourself,” said Rhoda. “I thought you’d have a secretary.”

“I did have a secretary, and I used to try and dictate to her, but she was so competent that it used to depress me. I felt she knew so much more about English and grammar and full stops and semicolons than I did, that it gave me a kind of inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary, but, of course, that didn’t answer very well, either.”

“It must be so wonderful to be able to think of things,” said Rhoda.

“I can always think of things,” said Mrs. Oliver happily. “What is so tiring is writing them down. I always think I’ve finished, and then when I count up I find I’ve only written thirty thousand words instead of sixty thousand, and so then I have to throw in another murder and get the heroine kidnapped again. It’s all very boring.”

Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs. Oliver with the reverence felt by youth for celebrity—slightly tinged by disappointment.

“Do you like the wallpaper?” asked Mrs. Oliver waving an airy hand. “I’m frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel it’s a hot day, even when it’s freezing. I can’t do anything unless I feel very, very warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!”

“I think it’s all marvellous,” said Rhoda. “And it’s awfully nice of you to say I’m not interrupting you.”

“We’ll have some coffee and toast,” said Mrs. Oliver. “Very black coffee and very hot toast. I can always eat that anytime.”

She went to the door, opened it and shouted. Then she returned and said:

“What brings you to town—shopping?”

“Yes, I’ve been doing some shopping.”