Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [61]
‘That, M. le Colonel, is just the difficulty. There is only one way of dealing with it.’
‘And that is?’
‘We must lay our hands on the person responsible.’
‘If what you suspect is true, that isn’t going to be so easy.’
‘Ah! je le sais bien.’
‘Evidence! Getting evidence is going to be the devil.’
He frowned abstractedly.
‘Always difficult, these cases, where there’s no routine work. If we could get hold of the pistol—’
‘In all probability it is at the bottom of the sea. That is, if the murderer had any sense.’
‘Ah!’ said Colonel Weston. ‘But often they haven’t. You’d be surprised at the fool things people do. I’m not talking of murders—we don’t have many murders down in these parts, I’m glad to say—but in ordinary police court cases. The sheer damn foolishness of these people would surprise you.’
‘They are of a different mentality, though,’
‘Yes—perhaps. If Vyse is the chap, well, we’ll have our work cut out. He’s a cautious man and a sound lawyer. He’ll not give himself away. The woman—well, there would be more hope there. Ten to one she’ll try again. Women have no patience.’
He rose.
‘Inquest tomorrow morning. Coroner will work in with us and give away as little as possible. We want to keep things dark at present.’
He was turning towards the door when he suddenly came back.
‘Upon my soul, I’d forgotten the very thing that will interest you most, and that I want your opinion about.’
Sitting down again, he drew from his pocket a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and handed it to Poirot.
‘My police found this when they were searching the grounds. Nor far from where you were all watching the fireworks. It’s the only suggestive thing they did find.’
Poirot smoothed it out. The writing was large and straggling.
‘…must have money at once. If not you…what will happen. I’m warning you.’
Poirot frowned. He read and re-read it.
‘This is interesting,’ he said. ‘I may keep it?’
‘Certainly. There are no finger-prints on it. I’ll be glad if you can make anything of it.’
Colonel Weston got to his feet again.
‘I really must be off. Inquest tomorrow, as I said. By the way, you are not being called as witness—only Captain Hastings. Don’t want the newspaper people to get wise to your being on the job.’
‘I comprehend. What of the relations of the poor young lady?’
‘The father and mother are coming from Yorkshire today. They’ll arrive about half-past five. Poor souls. I’m heartily sorry for them. They are taking the body back with them the following day.’
He shook his head.
‘Unpleasant business. I’m not enjoying this, M. Poirot.’
‘Who could, M. le Colonel? It is, as you say, an unpleasant business.’
When he had gone, Poirot examined the scrap of paper once more.
‘An important clue?’ I asked.
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘How can one tell? There is a hint of blackmail about it! Someone of our party that night was being pressed for money in a very unpleasant way. Of course, it is possible that it was one of the strangers.’
He looked at the writing through a little magnifying glass.
‘Does this writing look at all familiar to you, Hastings?’
‘It reminds me a little of something—Ah! I have it—that note of Mrs Rice’s.’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot, slowly. ‘There are resemblances. Decidedly there are resemblances. It is curious. Yet I do not think that this is the writing of Madame Rice. Come in,’ he said, as a knock came at the door.
It was Commander Challenger.
‘Just looked in,’ he explained. ‘Wanted to know if you were any further forward.’
‘Parbleu,’ said Poirot. ‘At this moment I am feeling that I am considerably further back. I seem to progress en reculant.’
‘That’s bad. But I don’t really believe it, M. Poirot. I’ve been hearing all about you and what a wonderful chap you are. Never had a failure, they say.’
‘That is not true,’ said Poirot. ‘I had a bad failure in Belgium in 1893. You recollect, Hastings? I recounted it to you. The affair of the box of chocolates.’
‘I remember,’ I said.
And I smiled, for at the time that Poirot told me