The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [61]
“No, M. Poirot. I am not going to live to be an old man.”
Then he drew back with a sudden shudder.
“My God! Look!” He stared over Poirot’s shoulder. “There—standing by you . . . it’s a skeleton—its bones are shaking. It’s calling to me—beckoning—”
His eyes, the pupils widely dilated, stared into the sunshine. He leaned suddenly sideways as though collapsing.
Then, turning to Poirot, he said in an almost childlike voice:
“You didn’t see—anything?”
Slowly, Hercule Poirot shook his head.
Hugh Chandler said hoarsely:
“I don’t mind this so much—seeing things. It’s the blood I’m frightened of. The blood in my room—on my clothes . . . We had a parrot. One morning it was there in my room with its throat cut—and I was lying on the bed with the razor in my hand wet with its blood!”
He leant closer to Poirot.
“Even just lately things have been killed,” he whispered. “All around—in the village—out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs—a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes—sometimes—the door’s open in the morning. I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don’t know where I’ve hidden it. I don’t know. It isn’t I who do these things—it’s someone else who comes into me—who takes possession of me—who turns me from a man into a raving monster who wants blood and who can’t drink water. . . .”
Suddenly he buried his face in his hands.
After a minute or two, Poirot asked:
“I still do not understand why you have not seen a doctor?”
Hugh Chandler shook his head. He said:
“Don’t you really understand? Physically I’m strong. I’m as strong as a bull. I might live for years—years—shut up between four walls! That I can’t face! It would be better to go out altogether . . . There are ways, you know. An accident, cleaning a gun . . . that sort of thing. Diana will understand . . . I’d rather take my own way out!”
He looked defiantly at Poirot, but Poirot did not respond to the challenge. Instead he asked mildly:
“What do you eat and drink?”
Hugh Chandler flung his head back. He roared with laughter.
“Nightmares after indigestion? Is that your idea?”
Poirot merely repeated gently:
“What do you eat and drink?”
“Just what everybody else eats and drinks.”
“No special medicine? Cachets? Pills?”
“Good Lord, no. Do you really think patent pills would cure my trouble?” He quoted derisively: “ ‘Canst thou then minister to a mind diseased?’ ”
Hercule Poirot said drily:
“I am trying to. Does anyone in this house suffer with eye trouble?”
Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said:
“Father’s eyes give him a good deal of trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly often.”
“Ah!” Poirot meditated for a moment or two. Then he said:
“Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has spent much of his life in India?”
“Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He’s very keen on India—talks about it a lot—native traditions—and all that.”
Poirot murmured “Ah!” again.
Then he remarked:
“I see that you have cut your chin.”
Hugh put his hand up.
“Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled me one day when I was shaving. I’m a bit nervy these days, you know. And I’ve had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck. Makes shaving difficult.”
Poirot said:
“You should use a soothing cream.”
“Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one.”
He gave a sudden laugh.
“We’re talking like a woman’s beauty parlour. Lotions, soothing creams, patent pills, eye trouble. What does it all amount to? What are you getting at, M. Poirot?”
Poirot said quietly:
“I am trying to do the best I can for Diana Maberly.”
Hugh’s mood changed. His face sobered. He laid a hand on Poirot’s arm.
“Yes, do what you can for her. Tell her she’s got to forget. Tell her that it’s no good hoping . . . Tell her some of the things I’ve told you . . . Tell her—oh, tell her for God’s sake to keep away from me! That’s the only thing she can do for me now. Keep away—and try to forget!”
V
“Have you courage, Mademoiselle? Great courage? You will need it.”
Diana cried sharply:
“Then it’s true. It’s true? He is mad?”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I am not an alienist, Mademoiselle. It is not I who can