Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [48]
‘Oh!’ I said.
‘Précisément! “Oh!”’
‘Why didn’t you stop her going to the nursing home?’
‘Why should I show my hand? Is it Hercule Poirot who prevents Mademoiselle Nick from seeing her friends? Quelle idée! It is the doctors and the nurses. Those tiresome nurses! So full of rules and regulations and “doctor’s’ orders”.’
‘You’re not afraid that they may let her in after all? Nick may insist.’
‘Nobody will be let in, my dear Hastings, but you and me. And for that matter, the sooner we make our way there, the better.’
The sitting-room door flew open and George Challenger barged in. His tanned face was alive with indignation.
‘Look here, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘What’s the meaning of this? I rang up that damned nursing home where Nick is. Asked how she was and what time I could come round and see her. And they say the doctor won’t allow any visitors. I want to know the meaning of that. To put it plainly, is this your work? Or is Nick really ill from shock?’
‘I assure you, Monsieur, that I do not lay down rules for nursing homes. I would not dare. Why not ring up the good doctor—what was his name now?—Ah, yes, Graham.’
‘I have. He says she’s going on as well as could be expected—usual stuff. But I know all the tricks—my uncle’s a doctor. Harley Street. Nerve specialist. Psychoanalysis—all the rest of it. Putting relations and friends off with soothing words. I’ve heard about it all. I don’t believe Nick isn’t up to seeing any one. I believe you’re at the bottom of this, M. Poirot.’
Poirot smiled at him in a very kindly fashion. Indeed, I have always observed that Poirot has a kindly feeling for a lover.
‘Now listen to me, mon ami,’ he said. ‘If one guest is admitted, others cannot be kept out. You comprehend? It must be all or none. We want Mademoiselle’s safety, you and I, do we not? Exactly. Then, you understand—it must be none.’
‘I get you,’ said Challenger, slowly. ‘But then—’
‘Chut! We will say no more. We will forget even what we have said. The prudence, the extreme prudence, is what is needed at present.’
‘I can hold my tongue,’ said the sailor quietly.
He turned away to the door, pausing as he went out to say:
‘No embargo on flowers, is there? So long as they are not white ones.’
Poirot smiled.
‘And now,’ he said, as the door shut behind the impetuous Challenger, ‘whilst M. Challenger and Madame and perhaps M. Lazarus all encounter each other in the flower shop, you and I will drive quietly to our destination.’
‘And ask for the answer to the three questions?’ I said.
‘Yes. We will ask. Though, as a matter of fact, I know the answer.’
‘What?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes.’
‘But when did you find out?’
‘Whilst I was eating my breakfast, Hastings. It stared me in the face.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No, I will leave you to hear it from Mademoiselle.’
Then, as if to distract my mind, he pushed an open letter across to me.
It was a report by the expert Poirot had sent to examine the picture of old Nicholas Buckley. It stated definitely that the picture was worth at most twenty pounds.
‘So that is one matter cleared up,’ said Poirot.
‘No mouse in that mousehole,’ I said, remembering a metaphor of Poirot’s on one past occasion.
‘Ah! you remember that? No, as you say, no mouse in that mousehole. Twenty pounds and M. Lazarus offered fifty. What an error of judgement for a seemingly astute young man. But there, there, we must start on our errand.’
The nursing home was set high on a hill overlooking the bay. A white-coated orderly received us. We were put into a little room downstairs and presently a brisk-looking nurse came to us.
One glance at Poirot seemed to be enough. She had clearly received her instructions from Dr Graham together with a minute description of the little detective. She even concealed a smile.
‘Miss Buckley has passed a very fair night,’ she said. ‘Come up, will you?’
In a pleasant room with the sun streaming into it, we found