Curtain - Agatha Christie [63]
Subconsciously I was still not happy. The lack of elation in Poirot’s manner struck me disagreeably. Why this persistent secrecy? Why that deep inexplicable sadness? What was the truth of all this?
Norton was not at breakfast.
I strolled out into the garden afterwards. The air was fresh and cool after the storm. I noticed that it had rained heavily. Boyd Carrington was on the lawn. I felt pleased to see him and wished that I could take him into my confidence. I had wanted to all along. I was very tempted to do so now. Poirot was really unfit to carry on by himself.
This morning Boyd Carrington looked so vital, so sure of himself, that I felt a wave of warmth and reassurance.
‘You’re late up this morning,’ he said.
I nodded. ‘I slept late.’
‘Bit of a thunderstorm last night. Hear it?’
I remembered now that I had been conscious of the rolling of thunder through my sleep.
‘I felt a bit under the weather last night,’ said Boyd Carrington. ‘I feel a lot better today.’ He stretched his arms out and yawned.
‘Where’s Norton?’ I asked.
‘Don’t think he’s up yet. Lazy devil.’
With common accord we raised our eyes. Where we were standing the windows of Norton’s room were just above us. I started. For alone in the façade of windows Norton’s were still shuttered.
I said: ‘That’s odd. Do you think they’ve forgotten to call him?’
‘Funny. Hope he’s not ill. Let’s go up and see.’
We went up together. The housemaid, a rather stupid-looking girl, was in the passage. In answer to a question she replied that Mr Norton hadn’t answered when she knocked. She’d knocked once or twice but he hadn’t seemed to hear. His door was locked.
A nasty foreboding swept over me. I rapped loudly on the door, calling as I did so: ‘Norton – Norton. Wake up!’
And again with growing uneasiness: ‘Wake up . . .’
III
When it was apparent that there was going to be no answer we went and found Colonel Luttrell. He listened to us with a vague alarm showing in his faded blue eyes. He pulled uncertainly at his moustache.
Mrs Luttrell, always the one for prompt decisions, made no bones about it.
‘You’ll have to get that door open somehow. There’s nothing else for it.’
For the second time in my life, I saw a door broken open at Styles. Behind that door was what had been behind a locked door on the first occasion. Death by violence.
Norton was lying on his bed in his dressing-gown. The key of the door was in the pocket. In his hand was a small pistol, a mere toy, but capable of doing its work. There was a small hole in the exact centre of his forehead.
For a moment or two I could not think of what I was reminded. Something, surely very old . . .
I was too tired to remember.
As I came into Poirot’s room he saw my face.
He said quickly: ‘What has happened? Norton?’
‘Dead!’
‘How? When?’
Briefly I told him.
I ended wearily: ‘They say it’s suicide. What else can they say? The door was locked. The windows were shuttered. The key was in his pocket. Why! I actually saw him go in and heard him lock the door.’
‘You saw him, Hastings?’
‘Yes, last night.’
I explained.
‘You’re sure it was Norton?’
‘Of course. I’d know that awful old dressing-gown anywhere.’
For a moment Poirot became his old self.
‘Ah, but it is a man you are identifying, not a dressing-gown. Ma foi! Anyone can wear a dressing-gown.’
‘It’s true,’ I said slowly, ‘that I didn’t see his face. But it was his hair all right, and that slight limp –’
‘Anyone could limp, mon Dieu!’
I looked at him, startled. ‘Do you mean to suggest, Poirot, that it wasn’t Norton that I saw?’
‘I am not suggesting anything of the kind. I am merely annoyed by the unscientific reasons you give for saying it was Norton. No, no, I do not for one minute suggest that it was not Norton. It would be difficult for it to be anyone else, for every man here is tall – very much taller than he was – and enfin
you cannot disguise height – that, no. Norton was only five foot five, I should say. Tout de même, it is like a conjuring trick,