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‘Yes—at least it was odd their happening so close together.’
She gave a brief account of the various circumstances.
‘Just so. Now how came it that your cousin was wearing your shawl tonight?’
‘We came in to fetch her coat—it was rather cold watching the fireworks. I flung off the shawl on the sofa here. Then I went upstairs and put on the coat I’m wearing now—a light nutria one. I also got a wrap for my friend Mrs Rice out of her room. There it is on the floor by the window. Then Maggie called out that she couldn’t find her coat. I said it must be downstairs. She went down and called up she still couldn’t find it. I said it must have been left in the car—it was a tweed coat she was looking for—she hasn’t got an evening furry one—and I said I’d bring her down something of mine. But she said it didn’t matter—she’d take my shawl if I didn’t want it. And I said of course but would that be enough? And she said Oh, yes, because she really didn’t feel it particularly cold after Yorkshire. She just wanted something. And I said all right, I’d be out in a minute. And when I did—did come out—’
She stopped, her voice breaking…
‘Now, don’t distress yourself, Miss Buckley. Just tell me this. Did you hear a shot—or two shots?’
Nick shook her head.
‘No—only just the fireworks popping and the squibs going off.’
‘That’s just it,’ said the inspector. ‘You’d never notice a shot with all that going on. It’s no good asking you, I suppose, if you’ve any clue to who it is making these attacks upon you?’
‘I haven’t the least idea,’ said Nick. ‘I can’t imagine.’
‘And you wouldn’t be likely to,’ said the inspector. ‘Some homicidal maniac—that’s what it looks like to me. Nasty business. Well, I won’t need to ask you any more questions to-night, miss. I’m more sorry about this than I can say.’
Dr Graham stepped forward.
‘I’m going to suggest, Miss Buckley, that you don’t stay here. I’ve been talking it over with M. Poirot. I know of an excellent nursing home. You’ve had a shock, you know. What you need is complete rest—’
Nick was not looking at him. Her eyes had gone to Poirot.
‘Is it—because of the shock?’ she asked.
He came forward.
‘I want you to feel safe, mon enfant. And I want to feel, too, that you are safe. There will be a nurse there—a nice practical unimaginative nurse. She will be near you all night. When you wake up and cry out—she will be there, close at hand. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ said Nick, ‘I understand. But you don’t. I’m not afraid any longer. I don’t care one way or another. If anyone wants to murder me, they can.’
‘Hush, hush,’ I said. ‘You’re over-strung.’
‘You don’t know. None of you know!’
‘I really think M. Poirot’s plan is a good one,’ the doctor broke in soothingly. ‘I will take you in my car. And we will give you a little something to ensure a good night’s rest. Now what do you say?’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Nick. ‘Anything you like. It doesn’t matter.’
Poirot laid his hand on hers.
‘I know, Mademoiselle. I know what you must feel. I stand before you ashamed and stricken to the heart. I, who promised protection, have not been able to protect. I have failed. I am a miserable. But believe me, Mademoiselle, my heart is in agony because of that failure. If you know what I am suffering you would forgive, I am sure.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Nick, still in the same dull voice. ‘You mustn’t blame yourself. I’m sure you did the best you could. Nobody could have helped it—or done more, I’m sure. Please don’t be unhappy.’
‘You are very generous, Mademoiselle.’
‘No, I—’
There was an interruption. The door flew open and George Challenger rushed into the room.
‘What’s all this?’ he cried. ‘I’ve just arrived. To find a policeman at the gate and a rumour that somebody’s dead. What is it all about? For God’s sake, tell me. Is it—is it—Nick?’
The anguish in his tone was dreadful to hear. I suddenly realized that Poirot and the doctor between them completely blotted out Nick from his sight.
Before anyone had time to answer, he repeated his question.
‘Tell me—it can’t be true—Nick isn’t dead?’
‘No, mon ami,’ said Poirot, gently. ‘She is alive.’
And he drew back so that Challenger could see the little figure on the sofa.
For a moment or two Challenger stared at her incredulously. Then, staggering a little, like a drunken man, he muttered:
‘Nick—Nick.’
And suddenly dropping on his knees beside the sofa and hiding his head in his hands, he cried in a muffled voice:
‘Nick—my darling—I thought that you were dead.’
Nick tried to sit up.
‘It’s all right, George. Don’t be an idiot. I’m quite safe.’
He raised his head and looked round wildly.
‘But somebody’s dead? The policeman said so.’
‘Yes,’ said Nick. ‘Maggie. Poor old Maggie. Oh!—’
A spasm twisted her face. The doctor and Poirot came forward. Graham helped her to her feet. He and Poirot, one on each side, helped her from the room.
‘The sooner you get to your bed the better,’ remarked the doctor. ‘I’ll take you along at once in my car. I’ve asked Mrs Rice to pack a few things ready for you to take.’
They disappeared through the door. Challenger caught my arm.
‘I don’t understand. Where are they taking her?’
I explained.
‘Oh! I see. Now, then, Hastings, for God’s sake give me the hang of this thing. What a ghastly tragedy! That poor girl.’
‘Come and have a drink,’ I said. ‘You’re all to pieces.’
‘I don’t mind if I do.’
We adjourned to the dining-room.
‘You see,’ he explained, as he put away a stiff whisky and soda, ‘I thought it was Nick.’
There was very little doubt as to the feelings of Commander George Challenger. A more transparent lover never lived.
Chapter 9
A. to J.
I doubt if I shall ever forget the night that followed. Poirot was a prey to such an agony of self-reproach that I was really alarmed. Ceaselessly he strode up and down the room heaping anathemas on his own head and deaf to my well-meant remonstrances.
‘What it is to have too good an opinion of oneself. I am punished—yes, I am punished. I, Hercule Poirot. I was too sure of myself.’
‘No, no,’ I interpolated.
‘But who would imagine—who could imagine—such unparalleled audacity? I had taken, as I thought, all possible precautions. I had warned the murderer—’
‘Warned the murderer?’
‘Mais oui. I had drawn attention to myself. I had let him see that I suspected—someone. I had made it, or so I thought, too dangerous for him to dare to repeat his attempts at murder. I had drawn a cordon round Mademoiselle. And he slips through it! Boldly—under our very eyes almost, he slips through it! In spite of us all—of everyone being on the alert, he achieves his object.’
‘Only he doesn’t,’ I reminded him.
‘That is the chance only! From my point of view, it is the same. A human life has been taken, Hastings—whose life is non-essential.’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I didn’t mean that.’
‘But on the other hand, what you say is true. And that makes
it worse—ten times worse. For the murderer is still as far as ever from achieving his object. Do you understand, my friend? The position is changed—for the worse. It may mean that not one life—but two—will be sacrificed.’
‘Not while you’re about,’ I said stoutly.
He stopped and wrung my hand.
‘Merci, mon ami! Merci! You still have confidence in the old one—you still have the faith. You put new courage into me. Hercule Poirot will not fail again. No second life shall be taken. I will rectify my error—for, see you, there must have been an error! Somewhere there has been a lack of order and method in my usually so well arranged ideas. I will start again. Yes, I will start at the beginning. And this time—I will not fail.’
‘You really think then,’ I said, ‘that Nick Buckley’s life is still in danger?’
‘My friend, for what other reason did I send her to this nursing home?’
‘Then it wasn’t the shock—’
‘The shock! Pah! One can recover from shock as well in one’s own home as in a nursing home—better, for that matter. It is not amusing there, the floors of green linoleum, the conversation of the nurses—the meals on trays, the ceaseless washing. No, no, it is for safety and safety only. I take the doctor into my confidence. He agrees. He will make all arrangements. No one, mon ami, not even her dearest friend, will be admitted to see Miss Buckley. You and I are the only ones permitted. Pour les autres—eh bien! “Doctor’s orders,” they will be told. A phrase very convenient and one not to be gainsayed.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Only—’
‘Only what, Hastings?’
‘That can’t go on for ever.’
‘A very true observation. But it gives us a little breathing space. And you realize, do you not, that the character of our operations has changed.’
‘In what way?’
‘Our original task was to ensure the safety of Mademoiselle. Our task now is a much simpler one—a task with which we are well acquainted. It is neither more nor less than the hunting down of a murderer.’
‘You call that simpler?’
‘Certainly it is simpler. The murderer has, as I said the other day, signed his name to the crime. He has come out into the open.’
