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‘You’re not afraid that they may let her in after all? Nick may insist.’
‘Nobody will be let in, my dear Hastings, but you and me. And for that matter, the sooner we make our way there, the better.’
The sitting-room door flew open and George Challenger barged in. His tanned face was alive with indignation.
‘Look here, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘What’s the meaning of this? I rang up that damned nursing home where Nick is. Asked how she was and what time I could come round and see her. And they say the doctor won’t allow any visitors. I want to know the meaning of that. To put it plainly, is this your work? Or is Nick really ill from shock?’
‘I assure you, Monsieur, that I do not lay down rules for nursing homes. I would not dare. Why not ring up the good doctor—what was his name now?—Ah, yes, Graham.’
‘I have. He says she’s going on as well as could be expected—usual stuff. But I know all the tricks—my uncle’s a doctor. Harley Street. Nerve specialist. Psychoanalysis—all the rest of it. Putting relations and friends off with soothing words. I’ve heard about it all. I don’t believe Nick isn’t up to seeing any one. I believe you’re at the bottom of this, M. Poirot.’
Poirot smiled at him in a very kindly fashion. Indeed, I have always observed that Poirot has a kindly feeling for a lover.
‘Now listen to me, mon ami,’ he said. ‘If one guest is admitted, others cannot be kept out. You comprehend? It must be all or none. We want Mademoiselle’s safety, you and I, do we not? Exactly. Then, you understand—it must be none.’
‘I get you,’ said Challenger, slowly. ‘But then—’
‘Chut! We will say no more. We will forget even what we have said. The prudence, the extreme prudence, is what is needed at present.’
‘I can hold my tongue,’ said the sailor quietly.
He turned away to the door, pausing as he went out to say:
‘No embargo on flowers, is there? So long as they are not white ones.’
Poirot smiled.
‘And now,’ he said, as the door shut behind the impetuous Challenger, ‘whilst M. Challenger and Madame and perhaps M. Lazarus all encounter each other in the flower shop, you and I will drive quietly to our destination.’
‘And ask for the answer to the three questions?’ I said.
‘Yes. We will ask. Though, as a matter of fact, I know the answer.’
‘What?’ I exclaimed.
‘Yes.’
‘But when did you find out?’
‘Whilst I was eating my breakfast, Hastings. It stared me in the face.’
‘Tell me.’
‘No, I will leave you to hear it from Mademoiselle.’
Then, as if to distract my mind, he pushed an open letter across to me.
It was a report by the expert Poirot had sent to examine the picture of old Nicholas Buckley. It stated definitely that the picture was worth at most twenty pounds.
‘So that is one matter cleared up,’ said Poirot.
‘No mouse in that mousehole,’ I said, remembering a metaphor of Poirot’s on one past occasion.
‘Ah! you remember that? No, as you say, no mouse in that mousehole. Twenty pounds and M. Lazarus offered fifty. What an error of judgement for a seemingly astute young man. But there, there, we must start on our errand.’
The nursing home was set high on a hill overlooking the bay. A white-coated orderly received us. We were put into a little room downstairs and presently a brisk-looking nurse came to us.
One glance at Poirot seemed to be enough. She had clearly received her instructions from Dr Graham together with a minute description of the little detective. She even concealed a smile.
‘Miss Buckley has passed a very fair night,’ she said. ‘Come up, will you?’
In a pleasant room with the sun streaming into it, we found Nick. In the narrow iron bed, she looked like a tired child. Her face was white and her eyes were suspiciously red, and she seemed listless and weary.
‘It’s good of you to come,’ she said in a flat voice.
Poirot took her hand in both of his.
‘Courage, Mademoiselle. There is always something to live for.’
The words startled her. She looked up in his face.
‘Oh!’ she said. ‘Oh!’
‘Will you not tell me now, Mademoiselle, what it was that has been worrying you lately? Or shall I guess? And may I offer you, Mademoiselle, my very deepest sympathy.’
Her face flushed.
‘So you know. Oh, well, it doesn’t matter who knows now. Now that it’s all over. Now that I shall never see him again.’
Her voice broke.
‘Courage, Mademoiselle.’
‘I haven’t got any courage left. I’ve used up every bit in these last weeks. Hoping and hoping and—just lately—hoping against hope.’
I stared. I could not understand one word.
‘Regard the poor Hastings,’ said Poirot. ‘He does not know what we are talking about.’
Her unhappy eyes met mine.
‘Michael Seton, the airman,’ she said. ‘I was engaged to him—and he’s dead.’
Chapter 11
The Motive
I was dumbfounded.
I turned on Poirot.
‘Is this what you meant?’
‘Yes, mon ami. This morning—I knew.’
‘How did you know? How did you guess? You said it stared you in the face at breakfast.’
‘So it did, my friend. From the front page of the newspaper. I remembered the conversation at dinner last night—and I saw everything.’
He turned to Nick again.
‘You heard the news last night?’
‘Yes. On the wireless. I made an excuse about the telephone. I wanted to hear the news alone—in case…’ She swallowed hard. ‘And I heard it…’
‘I know, I know.’ He took her hand in both of his.
‘It was—pretty ghastly. And all the people arriving. I don’t know how I got through it. It all felt like a dream. I could see myself from outside—behaving just as usual. It was queer somehow.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand.’
‘And then, when I went to fetch Freddie’s wrap—I broke down for a minute. I pulled myself together quite quickly. But Maggie kept calling up about her coat. And then at last she took my shawl and went, and I put on some powder and some rouge and followed her out. And there she was—dead…’
‘Yes, yes, it must have been a terrible shock.’
‘You don’t understand. I was angry! I wished it had been me! I wanted to be dead—and there I was—alive and perhaps to live for years! And Michael dead—drowned far away in the Pacific.’
‘Pauvre enfant.’
‘I don?
?t want to be alive. I don’t want to live, I tell you!’ she cried, rebelliously.
‘I know—I know. To all of us, Mademoiselle, there comes a time when death is preferable to life. But it passes—sorrow passes and grief. You cannot believe that now, I know. It is useless for an old man like me to talk. Idle words—that is what you think—idle words.’
‘You think I’ll forget—and marry someone else? Never!’
She looked rather lovely as she sat up in bed, her two hands clenched and her cheeks burning.
Poirot said gently:
‘No, no. I am not thinking anything of the kind. You are very lucky, Mademoiselle. You have been loved by a brave man—a hero. How did you come to meet him?’
‘It was at Le Touquet—last September. Nearly a year ago.’
‘And you became engaged—when?’
‘Just after Christmas. But it had to be a secret.’
‘Why was that?’
‘Michael’s uncle—old Sir Matthew Seton. He loved birds and hated women.’
‘Ah! ce n’est pas raisonnable!’
‘Well—I don’t mean quite that. He was a complete crank. Thought women ruined a man’s life. And Michael was absolutely dependent on him. He was frightfully proud of Michael and it was he who financed the building of the Albatross and the expenses of the round-the-world flight. It was the dearest dream of his life as well as of Michael’s. If Michael had pulled it off—well, then he could have asked his uncle anything. And even if old Sir Matthew had still cut up rough, well, it wouldn’t have really mattered. Michael would have been made—a kind of world hero. His uncle would have come round in the end.’
‘Yes, yes, I see.’
‘But Michael said it would be fatal if anything leaked out. We must keep it a dead secret. And I did. I never told anyone—not even Freddie.’
Poirot groaned.
‘If only you had told me, Mademoiselle.’
Nick stared at him.
‘But what difference would it have made? It couldn’t have anything to do with these mysterious attacks on me? No, I’d promised Michael—and I kept my word. But it was awful—the anxiety, wondering and getting in a state the whole time. And everyone saying one was so nervy. And being unable to explain.’
