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‘Well, that’s true enough. So you still carry on business?’
‘When I find a case that interests me.’
‘Sure you’re not down here on work?’ inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. ‘Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.’
‘You mustn’t ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Or he won’t come again. We’re simple people, Mr Poirot, and you’re giving us a great treat coming here today—you and your friend. You really don’t know the pleasure you’re giving us.’
She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.
‘That was a bad business about that picture,’ said Mr Croft.
‘That poor little girl might have been killed,’ said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. ‘She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I’ve heard. But that’s the way in these stuck English places. They don’t like life and gaiety in a girl. I don’t wonder she doesn’t spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than—than—well, I don’t know what.’
‘Don’t gossip, Milly,’ said her husband.
‘Aha!’ said Poirot. ‘The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?’
‘He’s silly about her,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘But she won’t marry a country lawyer. And I don’t blame her. He’s a poor stick, anyway. I’d like her to marry that nice sailor—what’s his name, Challenger. Many a smart marriage might be worse than that. He’s older than she is, but what of that? Steadying—that’s what she needs. Flying about all over the place, the Continent even, all alone or with that queer-looking Mrs Rice. She’s a sweet girl, Mr Poirot—I know that well enough. But I’m worried about her. She’s looked none too happy lately. She’s had what I call a haunted kind of look. And that worries me! I’ve got my reasons for being interested in that girl, haven’t I, Bert?’
Mr Croft got up from his chair rather suddenly.
‘No need to go into that, Milly,’ he said. ‘I wonder, Mr Poirot, if you’d care to see some snapshots of Australia?’
The rest of our visit passed uneventfully. Ten minutes later we took our leave.
‘Nice people,’ I said. ‘So simple and unassuming. Typical Australians.’
‘You liked them?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘They were very pleasant—very friendly.’
‘Well, what is it, then? There’s something, I can see.’
‘They were, perhaps, just a shade too “typical”,’ said Poirot, thoughtfully. ‘That cry of Cooee—that insistence on showing us snapshots—was it not playing a part just a little too thoroughly?’
‘What a suspicious old devil you are!’
‘You are right, mon ami. I am suspicious of everyone—of everything. I am afraid, Hastings—afraid.’
Chapter 6
A Call Upon Mr Vyse
Poirot clung firmly to the Continental breakfast. To see me consuming eggs and bacon upset and distressed him—so he always said. Consequently he breakfasted in bed upon coffee and rolls and I was free to start the day with the traditional Englishman’s breakfast of bacon and eggs and marmalade.
I looked into his room on Monday morning as I went downstairs. He was sitting up in bed arrayed in a very marvellous dressing-gown.
‘Bonjour, Hastings. I was just about to ring. This note that I have written, will you be so good as to get it taken over to End House and delivered to Mademoiselle at once.’
I held out my hand for it. Poirot looked at me and sighed.
‘If only—if only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache—a thing of beauty such as mine.’
Repressing a shudder at the thought, I took the note firmly from Poirot’s hand and left the room.
I had rejoined him in our sitting-room when word was sent up to say Miss Buckley had called. Poirot gave the order for her to be shown up.
She came in gaily enough, but I fancied that the circles under her eyes were darker than usual. In her hand she held a telegram which she handed to Poirot.
‘There,’ she said. ‘I hope that will please you!’
Poirot read it aloud.
‘Arrive 5.30 today. Maggie.’
‘My nurse and guardian!’ said Nick. ‘But you’re wrong, you know. Maggie’s got no kind of brains. Good works is about all she’s fit for. That and never seeing the point of jokes. Freddie would be ten times better at spotting hidden assassins. And Jim Lazarus would be better still. I never feel one has got to the bottom of Jim.’
‘And the Commander Challenger?’
‘Oh! George! He’d never see anything till it was under his nose. But he’d let them have it when he did see. Very useful when it came to a show-down, George would be.’
She tossed off her hat and went on:
‘I gave orders for the man you wrote about to be let in. It sounds mysterious. Is he installing a dictaphone or something like that?’
Poirot shook his head.
‘No, no, nothing scientific. A very simple little matter of opinion, Mademoiselle. Something I wanted to know.’
‘Oh, well,’ said Nick. ‘It’s all great fun, isn’t it?’
‘Is it, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot, gently.
She stood for a minute with her back to us, looking out of the window. Then she turned. All the brave defiance had gone out of her face. It was childishly twisted awry, as she struggled to keep back the tears.
‘No,’ she said. ‘It—it isn’t, really. I’m afraid—I’m afraid. Hideously afraid. And I always thought I was brave.’
‘So you are, mon enfant, so you are. Both Hastings and I, we have both admired your courage.’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I put in warmly.
‘No,’ said Nick, shaking her head. ‘I’m not brave. It’s—it’s the waiting. Wondering the whole time if anything more’s going to happen. And how it’ll happen! And expecting it to happen.’
‘Yes, yes—it is the strain.’
‘Last night I pulled my bed out into the middle of the room. And fastened my window and bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by the road. I couldn’t—I simply couldn’t come through the garden. It’s as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It’s this thing coming on top of everything else.’
‘What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?’
There was a momentary pause before she replied.
‘I don’t mean anything particular. What the newspapers call “the strain of modern life”, I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes—all that sort of thing. It’s just that I’ve got into a ridiculous—sort of—of state.’
She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.
‘You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.’
‘There isn’t—there really isn’t.’
‘There is something you have not told me.’
‘I’ve told you every single smallest thing.’
She spoke sincerely and earnestly.
‘About these accidents—about the attacks upon you, yes.’
‘Well—then?’
‘But you have not told me everything that is in your heart—in your life…’
She said slowly:
‘Can anyone do that…?’
‘Ah! then,’ said Poirot, with triumph. ‘You admit it!’
She shook her head. He watched her keenly.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, shrewdly. ‘It is not your secret?’
I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.
‘Really and truly, M. Poirot, I’ve told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It’s having no suspicions that’s driving me mad! Because I’m not a fool. I can see that if those “accidents” weren’t accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand—somebody who—knows me. And that’s what is so awful. Because I haven’t the least idea—not the very least—who that somebody might be.’
