Peril At End House Part 22

'That makes it all the more difficult to keep a secret. Keeping a secret is an art that requires many lies magnificently told, and a great apt.i.tude for playing the comedy and enjoying it. Could he dissemble, the Commander Challenger? If he is what you say he is, he certainly could not.'

'Then you won't tell him?'

'I certainly refuse to imperil my little idea for the sake of the sentiment. It is life and death we play with, mon cher. Anyway, the suffering, it is good for the character. Many of your famous clergymen have said so-even a Bishop if I am not mistaken.'

I made no further attempt to shake his decision. His mind, I could see, was made up.

'I shall not dress for dinner,' he murmured. 'I am too much the broken old man. That is my part, you understand. All my self-confidence has crashed-I am broken. I have failed. I shall eat hardly any dinner-the food untasted on the plate. That is the att.i.tude, I think. In my own apartment I will consume some brioches and some chocolate eclairs (so called) which I had the foresight to buy at a confectioners. Et vous?'

'Some more quinine, I think,' I said, sadly. 'Alas, my poor Hastings. But courage, all will be well to-morrow.' 'Very likely. These attacks often last only twenty-four hours.' I did not hear him return to the room. I must have been asleep.

When I awoke, he was sitting at the table writing. In front of him was a crumpled sheet of paper smoothed out. I recognized it for the paper on which he had written that list of people-A. to J.-which he had afterwards crumpled up and thrown away.

He nodded in answer to my unspoken thought.

'Yes, my friend. I have resurrected it. I am at work upon it from a different angle. I compile a list of questions concerning each person. The questions may have no bearing on the crime-they are just things that I do not know-things that remain unexplained, and for which I seek to supply the answer from my own brain.'

'How far have you got?'

'I have finished. You would like to hear? You are strong enough?' 'Yes, as a matter of fact, I am feeling a great deal better.'

'Ala bonne heure! Very well, I will read them to you. Some of them, no doubt, you will consider puerile.'

He cleared his throat.

'A. Ellen.-Why did she remain in the house and not go out to see fireworks? (Unusual, as Mademoiselle's evidence and surprise make clear.) What did she think or suspect might happen? Did she admit anyone (J. for instance) to the house? Is she speaking the truth about the secret panel? If there is such a thing why is she unable to remember where it is? (Mademoiselle seems very certain there is no such thing-and she would surely know.) If she invented it, why did she invent it? Had she read Michael Seton's love letters or was her surprise at Mademoiselle Nick's engagement genuine?'

'B. Her Husband.-Is he as stupid as he seems? Does he share Ellen's knowledge, whatever it is, or does he not? Is he, in any respect, a mental case?'

'C. The Child.-Is his delight in blood a natural instinct common to his age and development, or is it morbid, and is that morbidity inherited from either parent? Has he ever shot with a toy pistol?'

'D. Who is Mr Croft? -Where does he really come from? Did he post the will as he swears he did? What motive could he have in not posting it?'

'E. Mrs Croft. Same as above.-Who are Mr and Mrs Croft? Are they in hiding for some reason-and if so, what reason? Have they any connection with the Buckley family?'

'F. Mrs Rice.-Was she really aware of the engagement between Nick and Michael Seton? Did she merely guess it, or had she actually read the letters which pa.s.sed between them? (In that case she would know Mademoiselle was Seton's heir.) Did she know that she herself was Mademoiselle's residuary legatee? (This, I think, is likely. Mademoiselle would probably tell her so, adding perhaps that she would not get much out of it.) Is there any truth in Commander Challenger's suggestion that Lazarus was attracted by Mademoiselle Nick? (This might explain a certain lack of cordiality between the two friends which seems to have shown itself in the last few months.) Who is the 'boy friend' mentioned in her note as supplying the drug? Could this possibly be J.? Why did she turn faint one day in this room? Was it something that had been said-or was it something she saw? Is her account of the telephone message asking her to buy chocolates correct-or is it a deliberate lie? What did she mean by "I can understand the other-but not this"? If she is not herself guilty, what knowledge has she got that she is keeping to herself?'

'You perceive,' said Poirot, suddenly breaking off, 'that the questions concerning Madame Rice are almost innumerable. From beginning to end, she is an enigma. And that forces me to a conclusion. Either Madame Rice is guilty-or she knows-or shall we say, thinks she knows-who is guilty. But is she right? Does she know or does she merely suspect? And how is it possible to make her speak?'

He sighed.

'Well, I will go on with my list of questions.'

'G. Mr. Lazarus.-Curious-there are practically no questions to ask concerning him-except the crude one, "Did he subst.i.tute the poisoned sweets?" Otherwise I find only one totally irrelevant question. But I have put it down. "Why did M. Lazarus offer fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty?"'

'He wanted to do Nick a good turn,' I suggested.

'He would not do it that way. He is a dealer. He does not buy to sell at a loss. If he wished to be amiable he would lend her money as a private individual.'

'It can't have any bearing on the crime, anyway.'

'No, that is true-but all the same, I should like to know. I am a student of the psychology, you understand.'

'Now we come to H.'

'H. Commander Challenger.-Why did Mademoiselle Nick tell him she was engaged to someone else? What necessitated her having to tell him that? She told no one else. Had he proposed to her? What are his relations with his uncle?'

'His uncle, Poirot?'

'Yes, the doctor. That rather questionable character. Did any private news of Michael Seton's death come through to the Admiralty before it was announced publicly?'

'I don't quite see what you're driving at Poirot. Even if Challenger knew beforehand about Seton's death, it does not seem to get us anywhere. It provides no earthly motive for killing the girl he loved.'

'I quite agree. What you say is perfectly reasonable. But these are just things I should like to know. I am still the dog, you see, nosing about for the things that are not very nice!'

'I. M. Vyse.-Why did he say what he did about his cousin's fanatical devotion to End House? What possible motive could he have in saying that? Did he, or did he not, receive the will? Is he, in fact, an honest man-or is he not an honest man?'

'And now J. -Eh bien, J. is what I put down before-a giant question mark. Is there such a person, or is there not-'

'Mon Dieu! my friend, what have you?'

I had started from my chair with a sudden shriek. With a shaking hand I pointed at the window.

'A face, Poirot!' I cried. 'A face pressed against the gla.s.s. A dreadful face! It's gone now-but I saw it.'

Poirot strode to the window and pushed it open. He leant out.

'There is no one there now,' he said, thoughtfully. 'You are sure you did not imagine it, Hastings?'

'Quite sure. It was a horrible face.'

'There is a balcony, of course. Anyone could reach there quite easily if they wanted to hear what we were saying. When you say a dreadful face, Hastings, just what do you mean?'

'A white, staring face, hardly human.'

'Mon ami, that is the fever. A face, yes. An unpleasant face, yes. But a face hardly human-no. What you saw was the effect of a face pressed closely against the gla.s.s-that allied to the shock of seeing it there at all.'

'It was a dreadful face,' I said, obstinately. 'It was not the face of-anyone you know?' 'No, indeed.'

'H'm-it might have been, though! I doubt if you would recognize it under these circ.u.mstances. I wonder now-yes, I very much wonder...'

He gathered up his papers thoughtfully.

'One thing at least is to the good. If the owner of that face overheard our conversation we did not mention that Mademoiselle Nick was alive and well. Whatever else our visitor may have heard, that at least escaped him.'

'But surely,' I said, 'the results of this-eh-brilliant manoeuvre of yours have been slightly disappointing up to date. Nick is dead and no startling developments have occurred!'

'I did not expect them yet awhile. Twenty-four hours, I said. Mon ami, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, certain things will arise. Otherwise -otherwise I am wrong from start to finish. There is the post, you see. I have hopes of tomorrow's post.'

I awoke in the morning feeling weak but with the fever abated. I also felt hungry. Poirot and I had breakfast served in our sitting-room.

'Well?' I said, maliciously, as he sorted his letters. 'Has the post done what you expected of it?'

Poirot, who had just opened two envelopes which patently contained bills, did not reply. I thought he looked rather cast down and not his usual c.o.c.k-a-hoop self.

I opened my own mail. The first was a notice of a spiritualist meeting.

'If all else fails, we must go to the spiritualists,' I remarked. 'I often wonder that more tests of this kind aren't made. The spirit of the victim comes back and names the murderer. That would be a proof.'

'It would hardly help us,' said Poirot, absently. 'I doubt if Maggie Buckley knew whose hand it was shot her down. Even if she could speak she would have nothing of value to tell us. Tiens! that is odd.'

'What is?'

'You talk of the dead speaking, and at that moment I open this letter.' He tossed it across to me. It was from Mrs Buckley and ran as follows: 'Langley Rectory.'

'Dear Monsieur Poirot,-On my return here I found a letter written by my poor child on her arrival at St Loo. There is nothing in it of interest to you, I'm afraid, but I thought perhaps you would care to see it.

'Thanking you for your kindness, 'Yours sincerely, 'Jean Buckley.'

The enclosure brought a lump to my throat. It was so terribly commonplace and so completely untouched by any apprehension of tragedy: 'Dear Mother,-I arrived safely. Quite a comfortable journey. Only two people in the carriage all the way to Exeter.'

'It is lovely weather here. Nick seems very well and gay-a little restless, perhaps, but I cannot see why she should have telegraphed for me in the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well.'

'No more now. We are going to have tea with some neighbours. They are Australians and have rented the lodge. Nick says they are kind but rather awful. Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus are coming to stay. He is the art dealer. I will post this in the box by the gate, then it will catch the post. Will write to-morrow.'

'Your loving daughter, 'Maggie.'

'P.S.-Nick says there is a reason for her wire. She will tell me after tea. She is very queer and jumpy.'

'The voice of the dead,' said Poirot, quietly. 'And it tells us-nothing.'

'The box by the gate,' I remarked idly. 'That's where Croft said he posted the will.'

'Said so-yes. I wonder. How I wonder!'

'There is nothing else of interest among your letters?'

'Nothing. Hastings, I am very unhappy. I am in the dark. Still in the dark. I comprehend nothing.'

At that moment the telephone rang. Poirot went to it.

Immediately I saw a change come over his face. His manner was very restrained, nevertheless he could not disguise from my eyes his intense excitement.

His own contributions to the conversation were entirely non-committal so that I could not gather what it was all about.

Presently, however, with a Tres bien. Jevous remercie,' he put back the receiver and came back to where I was sitting. His eyes were sparkling with excitement.

'Mon ami,' he said. 'What did I tell you? Things have begun to happen.' 'What was it?'

'That was M. Charles Vyse on the telephone. He informs me that this morning, through the post, he has received a will signed by his cousin, Miss Buckley, and dated the 25th February last.'

'What? The will?'

'Evidemment.'

'It has turned up?'

'Just at the right moment, n'est-ce pas?'

'Do you think he is speaking the truth?'

'Or do I think he has had the will all along? Is that what you would say? Well, it is all a little curious. But one thing is certain; I told you that, if Mademoiselle Nick were supposed to be dead, we should have developments-and sure enough here they are!'

'Extraordinary,' I said. 'You were right. I suppose this is the will making Frederica Rice residuary legatee?'

'M. Vyse said nothing about the contents of the will. He was far too correct. But there seems very little reason to doubt that this is the same will. It is witnessed, he tells me, by Ellen Wilson and her husband.'

'So we are back at the old problem,' I said. 'Frederica Rice.'

'The enigma!'

'Frederica Rice,' I murmured, inconsequently. 'It's a pretty name.'

'Prettier than what her friends call her. Freddie'-he made a face-'ce n'est pas joli-for a young lady.'

'There aren't many abbreviations of Frederica,' I said. 'It's not like Margaret where you can have half a dozen-Maggie, Margot, Madge, Peggie-'

'True. Well, Hastings, are you happier now? That things have begun to happen?' 'Yes, of course. Tell me-did you expect this to happen?'

'No-not exactly. I had formulated nothing very precise to myself. All I had said was that given a certain result, the causes of that result must make themselves evident.'

'Yes,' I said, respectfully.

'What was it that I was going to say just as that telephone rang?' mused Poirot. 'Oh, yes, that letter from Mademoiselle Maggie. I wanted to look at it once again. I have an idea in the back of my mind that something in it struck me as rather curious.'

I picked it up from where I had tossed it, and handed it to him.

He read it over to himself. I moved about the room, looking out of the window and observing the yachts racing on the bay.

Suddenly an exclamation startled me. I turned round. Poirot was holding his head in his hands and rocking himself to and fro, apparently in an agony of woe.

'Oh!' he groaned. 'But I have been blind-blind.' 'What's the matter?'

'Complex, I have said? Complicated? Mais non. Of a simplicity extreme-extreme. And miserable one that I am, I saw nothing-nothing.'

'Good gracious, Poirot, what is this light that has suddenly burst upon you?'

'Wait-wait-do not speak! I must arrange my ideas. Rearrange them in the light of this discovery so stupendous.'