Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [30]
‘You mean that we can rule out a stranger?’
‘That is what I mean, Hastings. It is no stray lunatic who is at the bottom of this. We must look nearer home than that.’
He turned to leave the room and I followed him. We neither of us spoke. We were both, I think, troubled in mind.
And then, at the bend of the staircase, we both stopped abruptly. A man was coming up.
He too stopped. His face was in shadow but his attitude was one of one completely taken aback. He was the first to speak, in a loud, rather bullying voice.
‘What the hell are you doing here, I’d like to know?’
‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Monsieur—Croft, I think?’
‘That’s my name, but what—’
‘Shall we go into the drawing-room to converse? It would be better, I think.’
The other gave way, turned abruptly and descended, we following close on his heels. In the drawing-room, with the door shut, Poirot made a little bow.
‘I will introduce myself. Hercule Poirot at your service.’
The other’s face cleared a little.
‘Oh!’ he said slowly. ‘You’re the detective chap. I’ve read about you.’
‘In the St Loo Herald?’
‘Eh? I’ve read about you way back in Australia. French, aren’t you?’
‘Belgian. It makes no matter. This is my friend, Captain Hastings.’
‘Glad to meet you. But look, what’s the big idea? What are you doing here? Anything—wrong?’
‘It depends what you call—wrong.’
The Australian nodded. He was a fine-looking man in spite of his bald head and advancing years. His physique was magnificent. He had a heavy, rather underhung face—a crude face, I called it to myself. The piercing blue of his eyes was the most noticeable thing about him.
‘See here,’ he said. ‘I came round to bring little Miss Buckley a handful of tomatoes and a cucumber. That man of hers is no good—bone idle—doesn’t grow a thing. Lazy hound. Mother and I—why, it makes us mad, and we feel it’s only neighbourly to do what we can! We’ve got a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. Neighbours should be matey, don’t you think? I came in, as usual, through the window and dumped the basket down. I was just going off again when I heard footsteps and men’s voices overhead. That struck me as odd. We don’t deal much in burglars round here—but after all it was possible. I thought I’d just make sure everything was all right. Then I met you two on the stairs coming down. It gave me a bit of a surprise. And now you tell me you’re a bonza detective. What’s it all about?’
‘It is very simple,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘Mademoiselle had a rather alarming experience the other night. A picture fell above her bed. She may have told you of it?’
‘She did. A mighty fine escape.’
‘To make all secure I promised to bring her some special chain—it will not do to repeat the occurrence, eh? She tells me she is going out this morning, but I may come and measure what amount of chain will be needed. Voilà—it is simple.’
He flung out his hands with a childlike simplicity and his most engaging smile.
Croft drew a deep breath.
‘So that’s all it is?’
‘Yes—you have had the scare for nothing. We are very law-abiding citizens, my friend and I.’
‘Didn’t I see you yesterday?’ said Croft, slowly. ‘Yesterday evening it was. You passed our little place.’
‘Ah! yes, you were working in the garden and were so polite as to say good-afternoon when we passed.’
‘That’s right. Well—well. And you’re the Monsieur Hercule Poirot I’ve heard so much about. Tell me, are you busy, Mr Poirot? Because if not, I wish you’d come back with me now—have a cup of morning tea, Australian fashion, and meet my old lady. She’s read all about you in the newspapers.’
‘You are too kind, M. Croft. We have nothing to do and shall be delighted.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You have the measurements correctly, Hastings?’ asked Poirot, turning to me.
I assured him that I had the measurements correctly and we accompanied our new friend.
Croft was a talker; we soon realized that. He told us of his home near Melbourne, of his early struggles,