Taken at the Flood - Agatha Christie [80]
‘Rowley — ’
She had risen, was retreating a step at a time. She was terrified. This man was not a man any longer, he was a brute beast.
‘I’ve killed two people,’ said Rowley Cloade. ‘Do you think I shall stick at killing a third?’
‘Rowley — ’
He was upon her now, his hands round her throat…
‘I can’t bear any more, Lynn — ’
The hands tightened round her neck, the room whirled, blackness, spinning blackness, suffocation — everything going dark…
And then, suddenly a cough. A prim, slightly artificial cough.
Rowley paused, his hands relaxed, fell to his sides. Lynn, released, sank in a crumpled heap on the floor.
Just inside the door, Hercule Poirot stood apologetically coughing.
‘I hope,’ he said, ‘that I do not intrude? I knocked. Yes, indeed, I knocked, but no one answered…I suppose you were busy?’
For a moment the air was tense, electric. Rowley stared. It looked for a moment as though he might fling himself on Hercule Poirot, but finally he turned away. He said in a flat empty voice:
‘You turned up — just in the nick of time.’
Chapter 16
Into an atmosphere quivering with danger Hercule Poirot brought his own atmosphere of deliberate anticlimax.
‘The kettle, it is boiling?’ he inquired.
Rowley said heavily — stupidly — ‘Yes, it’s boiling.’
‘Then you will, perhaps, make some coffee? Or some tea if it is easier.’
Like an automaton Rowley obeyed.
Hercule Poirot took a large clean handkerchief from his pocket; he soaked it in cold water, wrung it out and came to Lynn.
‘There, Mademoiselle, if you fasten that round your throat — so. Yes, I have the safety-pin. There, that will at once ease the pain.’
Croaking hoarsely, Lynn thanked him. The kitchen of Long Willows, Poirot fussing about — it all had for her the quality of a nightmare. She felt horribly ill, and her throat was paining her badly. She staggered to her feet and Poirot guided her gently to a chair and put her into it.
‘There,’ he said, and over his shoulder:
‘The coffee?’ he demanded.
‘It’s ready,’ said Rowley.
He brought it. Poirot poured out a cup and took it to Lynn.
‘Look here,’ said Rowley, ‘I don’t think you understand. I tried to strangle Lynn.’
‘Tscha, tscha,’ said Poirot in a vexed voice. He seemed to be deploring a lapse of bad taste on Rowley’s part.
‘Two deaths I’ve got on my conscience,’ said Rowley. ‘Hers would have been the third — if you hadn’t arrived.’
‘Let us drink up our coffee,’ said Poirot, ‘and not talk of deaths. It is not agreeable for Mademoiselle Lynn.’
‘My God!’ said Rowley. He stared at Poirot.
Lynn sipped her coffee with difficulty. It was hot and strong. Presently she felt her throat less painful, and the stimulant began to act.
‘There, that is better, yes?’ said Poirot.
She nodded.
‘Now we can talk,’ said Poirot. ‘When I say that, I mean, really, that I shall talk.’
‘How much do you know?’ said Rowley heavily. ‘Do you know that I killed Charles Trenton?’
‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘I have known that for some time.’
The door burst open. It was David Hunter.
‘Lynn,’ he cried. ‘You never told me — ’
He stopped, puzzled, his eyes going from one to the other.
‘What’s the matter with your throat?’
‘Another cup,’ said Poirot. Rowley took one from the dresser. Poirot received it, filled it with coffee and handed it to David. Once more, Poirot dominated the situation.
‘Sit down,’ he said to David. ‘We will sit here and drink coffee, and you shall all three listen to Hercule Poirot while he gives you a lecture on crime.’
He looked round on them and nodded his head.
Lynn thought:
‘This is some fantastic nightmare. It isn’t real!’
They were all, it seemed, under the sway of this absurd little man with the big moustaches. They sat there, obediently — Rowley the killer; she, his victim; David, the man who loved her — all holding cups of coffee, listening to this little man who in some strange way dominated them all.
‘What causes crime?’ Hercule Poirot demanded rhetorically. ‘It is a question, that. What stimulus is needed? What inbred predisposition does there have to be? Is every one capable of