Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [42]
‘Three?’ I interjected.
‘Yes. He was taking no chances this time. We found three bullets in the body.’
‘That was risky, wasn’t it?’
‘Less risky in all probability than one shot would have been. A Mauser pistol does not make a great deal of noise. It would resemble more or less the popping of the fireworks and blend in very well with the noise of them.’
‘Did you find the pistol?’ I asked.
‘No. And there, Hastings, lies to my mind the indisputable proof that no stranger is responsible for this. We agree, do we not, that Miss Buckley’s own pistol was taken in the first place for one reason only—to give her death the appearance of suicide.’
‘Yes.’
‘That is the only possible reason, is it not? But now, you observe, there is no pretence of suicide. The murderer knows that we should not any longer be deceived by it. He knows, in fact, what we know!’
I reflected, admitting to myself the logic of Poirot’s deduction.
‘What did he do with the pistol do you think?’
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
‘For that, it is difficult to say. But the sea was exceedingly handy. A good toss of the arm, and the pistol sinks, never to be recovered. We cannot, of course, be absolutely sure—but that is what I should have done.’
His matter-of-fact tone made me shiver a little.
‘Do you think—do you think he realized that he’d killed the wrong person?’
‘I am quite sure he did not,’ said Poirot, grimly. ‘Yes, that must have been an unpleasant little surprise for him when he learnt the truth. To keep his face and betray nothing—it cannot have been easy.’
At that moment I bethought me of the strange attitude of the maid, Ellen. I gave Poirot an account of her peculiar demeanour. He seemed very interested.
‘She betrayed surprise, did she, that it was Maggie who was dead?’
‘Great surprise.’
‘That is curious. And yet, the fact of a tragedy was clearly not a surprise to her. Yes, there is something there that must be looked into. Who is she, this Ellen? So quiet, so respectable in the English manner? Could it be she who—?’ He broke off.
‘If you’re going to include the accidents,’ I said, ‘surely it would take a man to have rolled that heavy boulder down the cliff.’
‘Not necessarily. It is very largely a question of leverage. Oh, yes, it could be done.’
He continued his slow pacing up and down the room.
‘Anyone who was at End House last night comes under suspicion. But those guests—no, I do not think it was one of them. For the most part, I should say, they were mere acquaintances. There was no intimacy between them and the young mistress of the house.’
‘Charles Vyse was there,’ I remarked.
‘Yes, we must not forget him. He is, logically, our strongest suspect.’ He made a gesture of despair and threw himself into a chair opposite mine. ‘Voilà—it is always that we come back to! Motive! We must find the motive if we are to understand this crime. And it is there, Hastings, that I am continually baffled. Who can possibly have a motive for doing away with Mademoiselle Nick? I have let myself go to the most absurd suppositions. I, Hercule Poirot, have descended to the most ignominious flights of fancy. I have adopted the mentality of the cheap thriller. The grandfather—the “Old Nick”—he who is supposed to have gambled his money away. Did he really do so, I have asked myself? Did he, on the contrary, hide it away? Is it hidden somewhere in End House? Buried somewhere in the grounds? With that end in view (I am ashamed to say it) I inquired of Mademoiselle Nick whether there had ever been any offers to buy the house.’
‘Do you know, Poirot,’ I said, ‘I call that rather a bright idea. There may be something in it.’
Poirot groaned.
‘You would say that! It would appeal, I knew, to your romantic but slightly mediocre mind. Buried treasure—yes, you would enjoy that idea.’
‘Well—I don’t see why not—’
‘Because, my friend,