Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [29]
Poirot was immediately all innocent surprise.
‘A thousandpardons, Madame. I was most maladroit. But I myself, having friends at Tavistock, fancied that you might have met them there…Buchanan—that is the name of my friends.’
Mrs Rice shook her head.
‘I don’t remember them. I don’t think I can have met them.’ Her tone now was quite cordial. ‘Don’t let us talk about boring people. Go on about Nick. Who shot at her? Why?’
‘I do not know who—as yet, said Poirot. ‘But I shall find out. Oh! yes, I shall find out. I am, you know, a detective. Hercule Poirot is my name.’
‘A very famous name.’
‘Madame is too kind.’
She said slowly:
‘What do you want me to do?’
I think she surprised us both there. We had not expected just that.
‘I will ask you, Madame, to watch over your friend.’
‘I will.’
‘That is all.’
He got up, made a quick bow, and we returned to our own table.
‘Poirot,’ I said, ‘aren’t you showing your hand very plainly?’
‘Mon ami, what else can I do? It lacks subtlety, perhaps, but it makes for safety. I can take no chances. At any rate one thing emerges plain to see.’
‘What is that?’
‘Mrs Rice was not at Tavistock. Where was she? Ah! but I will find out. Impossible to keep information from Hercule Poirot. See—the handsome Lazarus has returned. She is telling him. He looks over at us. He is clever, that one. Note the shape of his head. Ah! I wish I knew—’
‘What?’ I asked, as he came to a stop.
‘What I shall know on Monday,’ he returned, ambiguously.
I looked at him but said nothing. He sighed.
‘You have no longer the curiosity, my friend. In the old days—’
‘There are some pleasures,’ I said, coldly, ‘that it is good for you to do without.’
‘You mean—?’
‘The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.’
‘Ah c’est malin.’
‘Quite so.’
‘Ah, well, well,’ murmured Poirot. ‘The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.’
His eyes twinkled with their old glint.
Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.
‘Dancing on the edge of death,’ she said lightly.
‘It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?’
‘Yes. Rather fun.’
She was off again, with a wave of her hand.
‘I wish she hadn’t said that,’ I said, slowly.
‘Dancing on the edge of death. I don’t like it.’
‘I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage—voilàce qu’il nous faut!’
The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-past eleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.
‘Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.’
‘Clear for what?’
‘You shall see.’
We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.
When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, ‘End House. Private.’ There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.
In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened the door and went out into the hall. From there he mounted the stairs, I at his heels. He went straight to Nick’s bedroom—sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded to me with a twinkle.
‘You see, my friend, how easy it is. No one has seen us come. No one will see us go. We could do any little affair we had to do in perfect safety. We could, for instance, fray through a picture wire so that it would be bound to snap before many hours had passed. And supposing that by chance anyone did happen