Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [47]
‘I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?’
‘I will take you up with me now,’ I said. ‘We shall find him in the sitting-room.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I hope,’ I said, as we left the dining-room together, ‘that you didn’t sleep too badly?’
‘It was a shock,’ she said, in a meditative voice. ‘But, of course, I didn’t know the poor girl. It’s not as though it had been Nick.’
‘I suppose you’d never met this girl before?’
‘Once—at Scarborough. She came over to lunch with Nick.’
‘It will be a terrible blow to her father and mother,’ I said.
‘Dreadful.’
But she said it very impersonally. She was, I fancied, an egoist. Nothing was very real to her that did not concern herself.
Poirot had finished his breakfast and was sitting reading the morning paper. He rose and greeted Frederica with all his customary Gallic politeness.
‘Madame,’ he said. ‘Enchanté!’
He drew forward a chair.
She thanked him with a very faint smile and sat down. Her two hands rested on the arms of the chair. She sat there very upright, looking straight in front of her. She did not rush into speech. There was something a little frightening about her stillness and aloofness.
‘M. Poirot,’ she said at last. ‘I suppose there is no doubt that this—sad business last night was all part and parcel of the same thing? I mean—that the intended victim was really Nick?’
‘I should say, Madame, that there was no doubt at all.’
Frederica frowned a little.
‘Nick bears a charmed life,’ she said.
There was some curious undercurrent in her voice that I could not understand.
‘Luck, they say, goes in cycles,’ remarked Poirot.
‘Perhaps. It is certainly useless to fight against it.’
Now there was only weariness in her tone. After a moment or two, she went on.
‘I must beg your pardon, M. Poirot. Nick’s pardon, too. Up till last night I did not believe. I never dreamed that the danger was—serious.’
‘Is that so, Madame?’
‘I see now that everything will have to be gone into—carefully. And I imagine that Nick’s immediate circle of friends will not be immune from suspicion. Ridiculous, of couse, but there it is. Am I right, M. Poirot?’
‘You are very intelligent, Madame.’
‘You asked me some questions about Tavistock the other day, M. Poirot. As you will find out sooner or later, I might as well tell you the truth now. I was not at Tavistock.’
‘No, Madame?’
‘I motored down to this part of the world with Mr Lazarus early last weeek. We did not wish to arouse more comment than necessary. We stayed at a little place called Shellacombe.’
‘That is, I think, about seven miles from here, Madame?’
‘About that—yes.’
Still that quiet far-away weariness.
‘May I be impertinent, Madame?’
‘Is there such a thing—in these days?’
‘Perhaps you are right, Madame. How long have you and M. Lazarus been friends?’
‘I met him six months ago.’
‘And you—care for him, Madame?’
Frederica shrugged her shoulders.
‘He is—rich.’
‘Oh! làlà,’ cried Poirot. ‘That is an ugly thing to say.’
She seemed faintly amused.
‘Isn’t it better to say it myself—than to have you say it for me?’
‘Well—there is always that, of course. May I repeat, Madame, that you are very intelligent.’
‘You will give me a diploma soon,’ said Frederica, and rose.
‘There is nothing more you wish to tell me, Madame?’
‘I do not think so—no. I am going to take some flowers round to Nick and see how she is.’
‘Ah, that is very aimable of you. Thank you, Madame, for your frankness.’
She glanced at him sharply, seemed about to speak, then thought better of it and went out of the room, smiling faintly at me as I held the door open for her.
‘She is intelligent,’ said Poirot. ‘Yes, but so is Hercule Poirot!’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That it is all very well and very pretty to force the richness of M. Lazarus down my throat—’
‘I must say that rather disgusted me.’
‘Mon cher, always you have the right reaction in the wrong place. It is not, for the moment, a question of good taste or otherwise.