Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [55]
‘We will arrange these papers,’ said Poirot, sternly, ‘with order and method.’
He was as good as his word. Half an hour later, he sat back with a pleased expression on his face. Everything was neatly sorted, docketed and filed.
‘C’est bien, ça. One thing is at least to the good. We have had to go through everything so thoroughly that there is no possibility of our having missed anything.’
‘No, indeed. Not that there’s been much to find.’
‘Except possibly this.’
He tossed across a letter. It was written in large sprawling handwriting, almost indecipherable.
‘Darling,—Party was too too marvellous. Feel rather a worm today. You were wise not to touch that stuff—don’t ever start, darling. It’s too damned hard to give up. I’m writing the boy friend to hurry up the supply. What Hell life is!
‘Yours,
‘Freddie.’
‘Dated last February,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘She takes drugs, of course, I knew that as soon as I looked at her.’
‘Really? I never suspected such a thing.’
‘It is fairly obvious. You have only to look at her eyes. And then there are her extraordinary variations of mood. Sometimes she is all on edge, strung up—sometimes she is lifeless—inert.’
‘Drug-taking affects the moral sense, does it not?’
‘Inevitably. But I do not think Madame Rice is a real addict. She is at the beginning—not the end.’
‘And Nick?’
‘There are no signs of it. She may have attended a dope party now and then for fun, but she is no taker of drugs.’
‘I’m glad of that.’
I remembered suddenly what Nick had said about Frederica: that she was not always herself. Poirot nodded and tapped the letter he held.
‘This is what she was referring to, undoubtedly. Well, we have drawn the blank, as you say, here. Let us go up to Mademoiselle’s room.’
There was a desk in Nick’s room also, but comparatively little was kept in it. Here again, there was no sign of a will. We found the registration book of her car and a perfectly good dividend warrant of a month back. Otherwise there was nothing of importance.
Poirot sighed in an exasperated fashion.
‘The young girls—they are not properly trained nowadays. The order, the method, it is left out of their bringing up. She is charming, Mademoiselle Nick, but she is a feather-head. Decidedly, she is a feather-head.’
He was now going through the contents of a chest of drawers.
‘Surely, Poirot,’ I said, with some embarrassment, ‘those are underclothes.’
He paused in surprise.
‘And why not, my friend?’
‘Don’t you think—I mean—we can hardly—’
He broke into a roar of laughter.
‘Decidedly, my poor Hastings, you belong to the Victorian era. Mademoiselle Nick would tell you so if she were here. In all probability she would say that you had the mind like the sink! Young ladies are not ashamed of their underclothes nowadays. The cami-sole, the camiknicker, it is no longer a shameful secret. Every day, on the beach, all these garments will be discarded within a few feet of you. And why not?’
‘I don’t see any need for what you are doing.’
‘Ecoutez, my friend. Clearly, she does not lock up her treasures, Mademoiselle Nick. If she wished to hide anything from sight—where would she hide it? Underneath the stockings and the petticoats. Ah! what have we here?’
He held up a packet of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon.
‘The love letters of M. Michael Seton, if I mistake not.’
Quite calmly he untied the ribbon and began to open out the letters.
‘Poirot,’ I cried, scandalized. ‘You really can’t do that. It isn’t playing the game.’
‘I am not playing a game, mon ami.’ His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. ‘I am hunting down a murderer.’
‘Yes, but private letters—’
‘May have nothing to tell me—on the other hand, they may. I must take every chance, my friend. Come, you might as well read them with me. Two pairs of eyes are no worse than one pair. Console yourself with the thought that the staunch Ellen probably knows them by heart.’
I