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This was so exactly what I was feeling that I was somewhat disconcerted to have it put into words. Poirot gave a little chuckle, then leaning forward he laid a finger against the side of his nose.

‘But no—I am not so completely imbecile as you think! We will return the hat—but assuredly—but later! We will return it to End House and thus we shall have the opportunity of seeing the charming Miss Nick again.’

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘I believe you have fallen in love.’

‘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 being 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

End House

‘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