Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [67]
‘How thorough you are,’ I said. ‘Did you think he had operated on Sir Matthew?’
‘He’s not a surgeon,’ said Japp.
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘I like to inquire into everything. Hercule Poirot is a good dog. The good dog follows the scent, and if, regrettably, there is no scent to follow, he noses around—seeking always something that is not very nice. So also, does Hercule Poirot. And often—Oh! so often—does he find it!’
‘It’s not a nice profession, ours,’ said Japp. ‘Stilton, did you say? I don’t mind if I do. No, it’s not a nice profession. And yours is worse than mine—not official, you see, and therefore a lot more worming yourself into places in underhand ways.’
‘I do not disguise myself, Japp. Never have I disguised myself.’
‘You couldn’t,’ said Japp. ‘You’re unique. Once seen, never forgotten.’
Poirot looked at him rather doubtfully.
‘Only my fun,’ said Japp. ‘Don’t mind me. Glass of port? Well, if you say so.’
The evening became thoroughly harmonious. We were soon in the middle of reminiscences. This case, that case, and the other. I must say that I, too, enjoyed talking over the past. Those had been good days. How old and experienced I felt now!
Poor old Poirot. He was perplexed by this case—I could see that. His powers were not what they were. I had the feeling that he was going to fail—that the murderer of Maggie Buckley would never be brought to book.
‘Courage, my friend,’ said Poirot, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘All is not lost. Do not pull the long face, I beg of you.’
‘That’s all right. I’m all right.’
‘And so am I. And so is Japp.’
‘We’re all all right,’ declared Japp, hilariously.
And on this pleasant note we parted.
The following morning we journeyed back to St Loo. On arrival at the hotel Poirot rang up the nursing home and asked to speak to Nick.
Suddenly I saw his face change—he almost dropped the instrument.
‘Comment? What is that? Say it again, I beg.’
He waited for a minute or two listening. Then he said:
‘Yes, yes, I will come at once.’
He turned a pale face to me.
‘Why did I go away, Hastings? Mon Dieu! Why did I go away?’
‘What has happened?’
‘Mademoiselle Nick is dangerously ill. Cocaine poisoning. They have got at her after all. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Why did I go away?’
Chapter 17
A Box of Chocolates
All the way to the nursing home Poirot murmured and muttered to himself. He was full of self-reproach.
‘I should have known,’ he groaned. ‘I should have known! And yet, what could I do? I took every precaution. It is impossible—impossible. No one could get to her! Who has disobeyed my orders?’
At the nursing home we were shown into a little room downstairs, and after a few minutes Dr Graham came to us. He looked exhausted and white.
‘She’ll do,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right. The trouble was knowing how much she’d taken of the damned stuff.’
‘What was it?’
‘Cocaine.’
‘She will live?’
‘Yes, yes, she’ll live.’
‘But how did it happen? How did they get at her? Who has been allowed in?’ Poirot fairly danced with impotent excitement.
‘Nobody has been allowed in.’
‘Impossible.’
‘It’s true.’
‘But then—’
‘It was a box of chocolates.’
‘Ah! sacré. And I told her to eat nothing—nothing—that came from outside.’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s hard work keeping a girl from a box of chocolates. She only ate one, thank goodness.’
‘Was the cocaine in all the chocolates?’
‘No. The girl ate one. There were two others in the top layer. The rest were all right.’
‘How was it done?’
‘Quite clumsily. Chocolate cut in half—the cocaine mixed with the filling and the chocolate stuck together again. Amateurishly. What you might call a homemade job.’
Poirot groaned.
‘Ah! if I knew—if I knew. Can I see Mademoiselle?’
‘If you come back in an hour I think you can see her,’ said the doctor. ‘Pull yourself together, man. She isn’t going to die.’
For another hour we walked the streets of St Loo. I did my best to distract Poirot’s mind—pointing out to him that