Peril at End House

‘She is a pretty girl—eh?’

‘Well—you saw for yourself. Why ask me?’

‘Because, alas! I cannot judge. To me, nowadays, anything young is beautiful. Jeunesse—jeunesse… It is the tragedy of my years. But you—I appeal to you! Your judgement is not up-to-date, naturally, having lived in the Argentine so long. You admire the figure of five years ago, but you are at any rate more modern than I am. She is pretty—yes? She has the appeal to the sexes?’

‘One sex is sufficient, Poirot. The answer, I should say, is very much in the affirmative. Why are you so interested in the lady?’

‘Am I interested?’

‘Well—look at what you’ve just been saying.’

‘You are under a misapprehension, mon ami. I may be interested in the lady—yes—but I am much more interested in her hat.’

I stared at him, but he appeared perfectly serious.

He nodded his head at me.

‘Yes, Hastings, this very hat.’ He held it towards me. ‘You see the reason for my interest?’

‘It’s a nice hat,’ I said, bewildered. ‘But quite an ordinary hat. Lots of girls have hats like it.’

‘Not like this one.’

I looked at it more closely.

‘You see, Hastings?’

‘A perfectly plain fawn felt. Good style—’

‘I did not ask you to describe the hat. It is plain that you do not see. Almost incredible, my poor Hastings, how you hardly ever do see! It amazes me every time anew! But regard, my dear old imbecile—it is not necessary to employ the grey cells—the eyes will do. Regard—regard—’

And then at last I saw to what he had been trying to draw my attention. The slowly turning hat was revolving on his finger, and that finger was stuck neatly through a hole in the brim of the hat. When he saw that I had realized his meaning, he drew his finger out and held the hat towards me. It was a small neat hole, quite round, and I could not imagine its purpose, if purpose it had.

‘Did you observe the way Mademoiselle Nick flinched when a bee flew past? The bee in the bonnet—the hole in the hat.’

‘But a bee couldn’t make a hole like that.’

‘Exactly, Hastings! What acumen! It could not. But a bullet could, mon cher!’

‘A bullet?’

‘Mai oui! A bullet like this.’

He held out his hand with a small object in the palm of it.

‘A spent bullet, mon ami. It was that which hit the terrace just now when we were talking. A spent bullet!’

‘You mean—’

‘I mean that one inch of a difference and that hole would not be through the hat but through the head. Now do you see why I am interested, Hastings? You were right, my friend, when you told me not to use the word “impossible”. Yes—one is human! Ah! but he made a grave mistake, that would-be murderer, when he shot at his victim within a dozen yards of Hercule Poirot! For him, it is indeed la mauvaise chance. But you see now why we must make our entry into End House and get into touch with Mademoiselle? Three near escapes from death in three days. That is what she said. We must act quickly, Hastings. The peril is very close at hand.’

CHAPTER 2 (#u103a12f1-b330-5e08-9a43-f39a6c8349fd)

End House (#u103a12f1-b330-5e08-9a43-f39a6c8349fd)

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘I have been thinking.’

‘An admirable exercise, my friend. Continue it.’

We were sitting facing each other at lunch at a small table in the window.

‘This shot must have been fired quite close to us. And yet we did not hear it.’

‘And you think that in the peaceful stillness, with the rippling waves the only sound, we should have done so?’

‘Well, it’s odd.’

‘No, it is not odd. Some sounds—you get used to them so soon that you hardly notice they are there. All this morning, my friend, speedboats have been making trips in the bay. You complained at first—soon, you did not even notice. But, ma foi, you could fire a machine gun almost and not notice it when one of those boats is on the sea.’

‘Yes, that’s true.’

‘Ah! voilà,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle and her friends. They are to lunch here, it seems. And therefore I must return the hat. But no matter. The affair is sufficiently serious to warrant a visit all on its own.’

He leaped up nimbly from his seat, hurried across the room, and presented the hat with a bow just as Miss Buckley and her companions were seating themselves at table.

They were a party of four, Nick Buckley, Commander Challenger, another man and another girl. From where we sat we had a very imperfect view of them. From time to time the naval man’s laugh boomed out. He seemed a simple, likeable soul, and I had already taken a fancy to him.

My friend was silent and distrait during our meal. He crumbled his bread, made strange little ejaculations to himself and straightened everything on the table. I tried to talk, but meeting with no encouragement soon gave it up.

He continued to sit on at the table long after he had finished his cheese. As soon as the other party had left the room, however, he too rose to his feet. They were just settling themselves at a table in the lounge when Poirot marched up to them in his most military fashion, and addressed Nick directly.

‘Mademoiselle, may I crave one little word with you.’

The girl frowned. I realized her feelings clearly enough. She was afraid that this queer little foreigner was going to be a nuisance. I could not but sympathize with her, knowing how it must appear in her eyes. Rather unwillingly, she moved a few steps aside.

Almost immediately I saw an expression of surprise pass over her face at the low hurried words Poirot was uttering.

In the meantime, I was feeling rather awkward and ill at ease. Challenger with ready tact came to my rescue, offering me a cigarette and making some commonplace observation. We had taken each other’s measure and were inclined to be sympathetic to each other. I fancied that I was more his own kind than the man with whom he had been lunching. I now had the opportunity of observing the latter. A tall, fair, rather exquisite young man, with a rather fleshy nose and over-emphasized good looks. He had a supercilious manner and a tired drawl. There was a sleekness about him that I especially disliked.

Then I looked at the woman. She was sitting straight opposite me in a big chair and had just thrown off her hat. She was an unusual type—a weary Madonna describes it best. She had fair, almost colourless hair, parted in the middle and drawn straight down over her ears to a knot in the neck. Her face was dead white and emaciated—yet curiously attractive. Her eyes were very light grey with large pupils. She had a curious look of detachment. She was staring at me. Suddenly she spoke.

‘Sit down—till your friend has finished with Nick.’

She had an affected voice, languid and artificial—yet which had a curious attraction—a kind of resonant lingering beauty. She impressed me, I think, as the most tired person I had ever met. Tired in mind, not in body, as though she had found everything in the world to be empty and valueless.

‘Miss Buckley very kindly helped my friend when he twisted his ankle this morning,’ I explained as I accepted her offer.

‘So Nick said.’ Her eyes considered me, still detachedly. ‘Nothing wrong with his ankle now, is there?’