Peril at End House

‘Of course he can’t,’ I said warmly.

Poirot looked at me meditatively.

‘You have an extraordinary effect on me, Hastings. You have so strongly the flair in the wrong direction that I am almost tempted to go by it! You are that wholly admirable type of man, honest, credulous, honourable, who is invariably taken in by any scoundrel. You are the type of man who invests in doubtful oil fields, and non-existent gold mines. From hundreds like you, the swindler makes his daily bread. Ah, well—I shall study this Commander Challenger. You have awakened my doubts.’

‘My dear Poirot,’ I cried, angrily. ‘You are perfectly absurd. A man who has knocked about the world like I have—’

‘Never learns,’ said Poirot, sadly. ‘It is amazing—but there it is.’

‘Do you suppose I’d have made a success of my ranch out in the Argentine if I were the kind of credulous fool you make out?’

‘Do not enrage yourself, mon ami. You have made a great success of it—you and your wife.’

‘Bella,’ I said, ‘always goes by my judgement.’

‘She is as wise as she is charming,’ said Poirot. ‘Let us not quarrel my friend. See, there ahead of us, it says Mott’s Garage. That, I think, is the garage mentioned by Mademoiselle Buckley. A few inquiries will soon give us the truth of that little matter.’

We duly entered the place and Poirot introduced himself by explaining that he had been recommended there by Miss Buckley. He made some inquiries about hiring a car for some afternoon drives and from there slid easily into the topic of the damage sustained by Miss Buckley’s car not long ago.

Immediately the garage proprietor waxed voluble. Most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen. He proceeded to be technical. I, alas, am not mechanically minded. Poirot, I should imagine, is even less so. But certain facts did emerge unmistakably. The car had been tampered with. And the damage had been something quite easily done, occupying very little time.

‘So that is that,’ said Poirot, as we strolled away. ‘The little Nick was right, and the rich M. Lazarus was wrong. Hastings, my friend, all this is very interesting.’

‘What do we do now?’

‘We visit the post office and send off a telegram if it is not too late.’

‘A telegram?’ I said hopefully.

‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘A telegram.’

The post office was still open. Poirot wrote out his telegram and despatched it. He vouchsafed me no information as to its contents. Feeling that he wanted me to ask him, I carefully refrained from doing so.

‘It is annoying that tomorrow is Sunday,’ he remarked, as we strolled back to the hotel. ‘We cannot now call upon M. Vyse till Monday morning.’

‘You could get hold of him at his private address.’

‘Naturally. But that is just what I am anxious not to do. I would prefer, in the first place, to consult him professionally and to form my judgement of him from that aspect.’

‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that would be best.’

‘The answer to one simple little question, for instance, might make a great difference. If M. Charles Vyse was in his office at twelve-thirty this morning, then it was not he who fired that shot in the garden of the Majestic Hotel.’

‘Ought we not to examine the alibis of the three at the hotel?’

‘That is much more difficult. It would be easy enough for one of them to leave the others for a few minutes, a hasty egress from one of the innumerable windows—lounge, smoking-room, drawing-room, writing-room, quickly under cover to the spot where the girl must pass—the shot fired and a rapid retreat. But as yet, mon ami, we are not even sure that we have arrived at all the dramatis personae in the drama. There is the respectable Ellen—and her so far unseen husband. Both inmates of the house and possibly, for all we know, with a grudge against our little Mademoiselle. There are even the unknown Australians at the lodge. And there may be others, friends and intimates of Miss Buckley’s whom she has no reason for suspecting and consequently has not mentioned. I cannot help feeling, Hastings, that there is something behind this—something that has not yet come to light. I have a little idea that Miss Buckley knows more than she told us.’

‘You think she is keeping something back?’

‘Yes.’

‘Possibly with an idea of shielding whoever it is?’

Poirot shook his head with the utmost energy.

‘No, no. As far as that goes, she gave me the impression of being utterly frank. I am convinced that as regards these attempts on her life, she was telling all she knew. But there is something else—something that she believes has nothing to do with that at all. And I should like to know what that something is. For I—I say it in all modesty—am a great deal more intelligent than une petite comme ça. I, Hercule Poirot, might see a connection where she sees none. It might give me the clue I am seeking. For I announce to you, Hastings, quite frankly and humbly, that I am as you express it, all on the sea. Until I can get some glimmering of the reason behind all this, I am in the dark. There must be something—some factor in the case that I do not grasp. What is it? Je me demande ça sans cesse. Qu’est-ce que c’est?’

‘You will find out,’ I said, soothingly.

‘So long,’ he said sombrely, ‘as I do not find out too late.’

CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_0cda1c73-88dd-521f-87c4-7252d7fec6aa)

Mr and Mrs Croft (#ulink_0cda1c73-88dd-521f-87c4-7252d7fec6aa)

There was dancing that evening at the hotel. Nick Buckley dined there with her friends and waved a gay greeting to us.

She was dressed that evening in floating scarlet chiffon that dragged on the floor. Out of it rose her white neck and shoulders and her small impudent dark head.

‘An engaging young devil,’ I remarked.

‘A contrast to her friend—eh?’

Frederica Rice was in white. She danced with a languorous weary grace that was as far removed from Nick’s animation as anything could be.

‘She is very beautiful,’ said Poirot suddenly.

‘Who? Our Nick?’

‘No—the other. Is she evil? Is she good? Is she merely unhappy? One cannot tell. She is a mystery. She is, perhaps, nothing at all. But I tell you, my friend, she is an allumeuse.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked curiously.

He shook his head, smiling.

‘You will feel it sooner or later. Remember my words.’

Presently to my surprise, he rose. Nick was dancing with George Challenger. Frederica and Lazarus had just stopped and had sat down at their table. Then Lazarus got up and went away. Mrs Rice was alone. Poirot went straight to her table. I followed him.

His methods were direct and to the point.

‘You permit?’ He laid a hand on the back of a chair, then slid into it. ‘I am anxious to have a word with you while your friend is dancing.’

‘Yes?’ Her voice sounded cool, uninterested.

‘Madame, I do not know whether your friend has told you. If not, I will. Today her life has been attempted.’

Her great grey eyes widened in horror and surprise. The pupils, dilated black pupils, widened too.