Peril at End House - Agatha Christie [71]
‘Then the other box—that came by post. Can we rule that out? No, we cannot, because Mademoiselle is not sure. It is an annoyance, that!’
He groaned.
I was about to speak when he stopped me.
‘No, no. Not another proverb. I cannot bear it. If you would be the good friend—the good helpful friend—’
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly.
‘Go out, I beg of you, and buy me some playing cards.’
I stared.
‘Very well,’ I said coldly.
I could not but suspect that he was making a deliberate excuse to get rid of me.
Here, however, I misjudged him. That night, when I came into the sitting-room about ten o’clock, I found Poirot carefully building card houses—and I remembered!
It was an old trick of his—soothing his nerves. He smiled at me.
‘Yes—you remember. One needs the precision. One card on another—so—in exactly the right place and that supports the weight of the card on top and so on, up and up. Go to bed, Hastings. Leave me here, with my house of cards. I clear the mind.’
It was about five in the morning when I was shaken awake.
Poirot was standing by my bedside. He looked pleased and happy.
‘It was very just what you said, mon ami. Oh! it was very just. More, it was spirituel!’
I blinked at him, being imperfectly awake.
‘Always darkest before dawn—that is what you said. It has been very dark—and now it is dawn.’
I looked at the window. He was perfectly right.
‘No, no, Hastings. In the head! The mind! The little grey cells!’
He paused and then said quietly:
‘You see, Hastings, Mademoiselle is dead.’
‘What?’ I cried, suddenly wide awake.
‘Hush—hush. It is as I say. Not really—bien entendu—but it can be arranged. Yes, for twenty-four hours it can be arranged. I arrange it with the doctor, with the nurses.
‘You comprehend, Hastings? The murderer has been successful. Four times he has tried and failed. The fifth time he has succeeded.
‘And now, we shall see what happens next…
‘It will be very interesting.’
Chapter 18
The Face at the Window
The events of the next day are completely hazy in my memory. I was unfortunate enough to awake with fever on me. I have been liable to these bouts of fever at inconvenient times ever since I once contracted malaria.
In consequence, the events of that day take on in my memory the semblance of a nightmare—with Poirot coming and going as a kind of fantastic clown, making a periodic appearance in a circus.
He was, I fancy, enjoying himself to the the full. His poise of baffled despair was admirable. How he achieved the end he had in view and which he had disclosed to me in the early hours of the morning, I cannot say. But achieve it he did.
It cannot have been easy. The amount of deception and subterfuge involved must have been colossal. The English character is averse to lying on a wholesale scale and that, no less, was what Poirot’s plan required. He had, first, to get Dr Graham converted to the scheme. With Dr Graham on his side, he had to persuade the Matron and some members of the staff of the nursing home to conform to the plan. There again, the difficulties must have been immense. It was probably Dr Graham’s influence that turned the scale.
Then there was the Chief Constable and the police. Here, Poirot would be up against officialdom. Nevertheless he wrung at last an unwilling consent out of Colonel Weston. The Colonel made it clear that it was in no way his responsibility. Poirot and Poirot alone was responsible for the spreading abroad of these lying reports. Poirot agreed. He would have agreed to anything so long as he was permitted to carry out his plan.
I spent most of the day dozing in a large armchair with a rug over my knees. Every two or three hours or so, Poirot would burst in and report progress.
‘Comment ça va, mon ami? How I commiserate you. But it is as well, perhaps. The farce, you do not play it as well as I do. I come this moment from ordering a wreath—a wreath immense—stupendous. Lilies, my friend—large quantities of lilies. “With heartfelt regret. From Hercule Poirot.” Ah! what a comedy.’
He departed again.
‘I come from a most poignant conversation