Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [70]
We were lucky in finding Lazarus. He was bending over the bonnet of his car outside the hotel.
Poirot went straight up to him.
‘Yesterday evening, Monsieur Lazarus, you left a box of chocolates for Mademoiselle,’ he began without preamble.
Lazarus looked rather surprised.
‘Yes?’
‘That was very amiable of you.’
‘As a matter of fact they were from Freddie, from Mrs Rice. She asked me to get them.’
‘Oh! I see.’
‘I took them round in the car.’
‘I comprehend.’
He was silent for a minute or two and then said:
‘Madame Rice, where is she?’
‘I think she’s in the lounge.’
We found Frederica having tea. She looked up at us with an anxious face.
‘What is this I hear about Nick being taken ill?’
‘It is a most mysterious affair, Madame. Tell me, did you send her a box of chocolates yesterday?’
‘Yes. At least she asked me to get them for her.’
‘She asked you to get them for her?’
‘Yes.’
‘But she was not allowed to see anyone. How did you see her?’
‘I didn’t. She telephoned.’
‘Ah! And she said—what?’
‘Would I get her a two-pound box of Fuller’s chocolates.’
‘How did her voice sound—weak?’
‘No—not at all. Quite strong. But different somehow. I didn’t realize it was she speaking at first.’
‘Until she told you who she was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure, Madame, that it was your friend?’
Frederica looked startled.
‘I—I—why, of course it was. Who else could it have been?’
‘That is an interesting question, Madame.’
‘You don’t mean—’
‘Could you swear, Madame, that it was your friend’s voice—apart from what she said?’
‘No,’ said Frederica, slowly, ‘I couldn’t. Her voice was certainly different. I thought it was the phone—or perhaps being ill…’
‘If she had not told you who she was, you would not have recognized it?’
‘No, no, I don’t think I should. Who was it, M. Poirot? Who was it?’
‘That is what I mean to know, Madame.’
The graveness of his face seemed to awaken her suspicions.
‘Is Nick—has anything happened?’ she asked, breathlessly.
Poirot nodded.
‘She is ill—dangerously ill. Those chocolates, Madame—were poisoned.’
‘The chocolates I sent her? But that’s impossible—impossible!’
‘Not impossible, Madame, since Mademoiselle is at death’s door.’
‘Oh, my God.’ She hid her face in her hands, then raised it white and quivering. ‘I don’t understand—I don’t understand. The other, yes, but not this. They couldn’t be poisoned. Nobody ever touched them but me and Jim. You’re making some dreadful mistake, M. Poirot.’
‘It is not I that make a mistake—even though my name was in the box.’
She stared at him blankly.
‘If Mademoiselle Nick dies—’ he said, and made a threatening gesture with his hand.
She gave a low cry.
He turned away, and taking me by the arm, went up to the sitting-room.
He flung his hat on the table.
‘I understand nothing—but nothing! I am in the dark. I am a little child. Who stands to gain by Mademoiselle’s death? Madame Rice. Who buys the chocolates and admits it and tells a story of being rung up on the telephone that cannot hold water for a minute? Madame Rice. It is too simple—too stupid. And she is not stupid—no.’
‘Well, then—’
‘But she takes cocaine, Hastings. I am certain she takes cocaine. There is no mistaking it. And there was cocaine in those chocolates. And what did she mean when she said, “The other, yes, but not this.” It needs explaining, that! And the sleek M. Lazarus—what is he doing in all this? What does she know, Madame Rice? She knows something. But I cannot make her speak. She is not of those you can frighten into speech. But she knows something, Hastings. Is her tale of the telephone true, or did she invent it? If it is true whose voice was it?
‘I tell you, Hastings. This is all very black—very black.’
‘Always darkest before dawn,’ I said reassuringly.
He shook his head.