‘Oh!’ Pilar’s eyes shone. ‘Oh! can we blow one up? Lydia would not mind. I do love balloons.’
Stephen said: ‘Baby! Here, which will you have?’
Pilar said: ‘I will have a red one.’
They selected their balloons and blew, their cheeks distended. Pilar stopped blowing to laugh, and her balloon went down again.
She said:
‘You look so funny—blowing—with your cheeks puffed out.’
Her laugh rang out. Then she fell to, blowing industriously. They tied up their balloons carefully and began to play with them, patting them upwards, sending them to and fro.
Pilar said:
‘Out in the hall there would be more room.’
They were sending the balloons to each other, and laughing, when Poirot came along the hall. He regarded them indulgently.
‘So you play les jeux d’enfants? It is pretty, that!’
Pilar said breathlessly:
‘Mine is the red one. It is bigger than his. Much bigger. If we took it outside it would go right up in the sky.’
‘Let’s send them up and wish,’ said Stephen.
‘Oh, yes, that is a good idea.’
Pilar ran to the garden door, Stephen followed. Poirot came behind, still looking indulgent.
‘I will wish for a great deal of money,’ announced Pilar.
She stood on tiptoe, holding the string of the balloon. It tugged gently as a puff of wind came. Pilar let go and it floated along, taken by the breeze.
Stephen laughed.
‘You mustn’t tell your wish.’
‘No? Why not?’
‘Because it doesn’t come true. Now, I’m going to wish.’
He released his balloon. But he was not so lucky. It floated sideways, caught on a holly bush and expired with a bang.
Pilar ran to it.
She announced tragically:
‘It is gone…’
Then, as she stirred the little limp wisp of rubber with her toe, she said:
‘So that was what I picked up in Grandfather’s room. He, too, had had a balloon, only his was a pink one.’
Poirot gave a sharp exclamation. Pilar turned inquiringly.
Poirot said: