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‘Yes.’
‘But she was not allowed to see anyone. How did you see her?’
‘I didn’t. She telephoned.’
‘Ah! And she said—what?’
‘Would I get her a two-pound box of Fuller’s chocolates.’
‘How did her voice sound—weak?’
‘No—not at all. Quite strong. But different somehow. I didn’t realize it was she speaking at first.’
‘Until she told you who she was?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure, Madame, that it was your friend?’
Frederica looked startled.
‘I—I—why, of course it was. Who else could it have been?’
‘That is an interesting question, Madame.’
‘You don’t mean—’
‘Could you swear, Madame, that it was your friend’s voice—apart from what she said?’
‘No,’ said Frederica, slowly, ‘I couldn’t. Her voice was certainly different. I thought it was the phone—or perhaps being ill…’
‘If she had not told you who she was, you would not have recognized it?’
‘No, no, I don’t think I should. Who was it, M. Poirot? Who was it?’
‘That is what I mean to know, Madame.’
The graveness of his face seemed to awaken her suspicions.
‘Is Nick—has anything happened?’ she asked, breathlessly.
Poirot nodded.
‘She is ill—dangerously ill. Those chocolates, Madame—were poisoned.’
‘The chocolates I sent her? But that’s impossible—impossible!’
‘Not impossible, Madame, since Mademoiselle is at death’s door.’
‘Oh, my God.’ She hid her face in her hands, then raised it white and quivering. ‘I don’t understand—I don’t understand. The other, yes, but not this. They couldn’t be poisoned. Nobody ever touched them but me and Jim. You’re making some dreadful mistake, M. Poirot.’
‘It is not I that make a mistake—even though my name was in the box.’
She stared at him blankly.
‘If Mademoiselle Nick dies—’ he said, and made a threatening gesture with his hand.
She gave a low cry.
He turned away, and taking me by the arm, went up to the sitting-room.
He flung his hat on the table.
‘I understand nothing—but nothing! I am in the dark. I am a little child. Who stands to gain by Mademoiselle’s death? Madame Rice. Who buys the chocolates and admits it and tells a story of being rung up on the telephone that cannot hold water for a minute? Madame Rice. It is too simple—too stupid. And she is not stupid—no.’
‘Well, then—’
‘But she takes cocaine, Hastings. I am certain she takes cocaine. There is no mistaking it. And there was cocaine in those chocolates. And what did she mean when she said, “The other, yes, but not this.” It needs explaining, that! And the sleek M. Lazarus—what is he doing in all this? What does she know, Madame Rice? She knows something. But I cannot make her speak. She is not of those you can frighten into speech. But she knows something, Hastings. Is her tale of the telephone true, or did she invent it? If it is true whose voice was it?
‘I tell you, Hastings. This is all very black—very black.’
‘Always darkest before dawn,’ I said reassuringly.
He shook his head.
‘Then the other box—that came by post. Can we rule that out? No, we cannot, because Mademoiselle is not sure. It is an annoyance, that!’
He groaned.
I was about to speak when he stopped me.
‘No, no. Not another proverb. I cannot bear it. If you would be the good friend—the good helpful friend—’
‘Yes,’ I said eagerly.
‘Go out, I beg of you, and buy me some playing cards.’
I stared.
‘Very well,’ I said coldly.
I could not but suspect that he was making a deliberate excuse to get rid of me.
Here, however, I misjudged him. That night, when I came into the sitting-room about ten o’clock, I found Poirot carefully building card houses—and I remembered!
It was an old trick of his—soothing his nerves. He smiled at me.
‘Yes—you remember. One needs the precision. One card on another—so—in exactly the right place and that supports the weight of the card on top and so on, up and up. Go to bed, Hastings. Leave me here, with my house of cards. I clear the mind.’
It was about five in the morning when I was shaken awake.
Poirot was standing by my bedside. He looked pleased and happy.
‘It was very just what you said, mon ami. Oh! it was very just. More, it was spirituel!’
I blinked at him, being imperfectly awake.
‘Always darkest before dawn—that is what you said. It has been very dark—and now it is dawn.’
I looked at the window. He was perfectly right.
‘No, no, Hastings. In the head! The mind! The little grey cells!’
He paused and then said quietly:
‘You see, Hastings, Mademoiselle is dead.’
‘What?’ I cried, suddenly wide awake.
‘Hush—hush. It is as I say. Not really—bien entendu—but it can be arranged. Yes, for twenty-four hours it can be arranged. I arrange it with the doctor, with the nurses.
‘You comprehend, Hastings? The murderer has been successful. Four times he has tried and failed. The fifth time he has succeeded.
‘And now, we shall see what happens next…
‘It will be very interesting.’
Chapter 18
The Face at the Window
The events of the next day are completely hazy in my memory. I was unfortunate enough to awake with fever on me. I have been liable to these bouts of fever at inconvenient times ever since I once contracted malaria.
In consequence, the events of that day take on in my memory the semblance of a nightmare—with Poirot coming and going as a kind of fantastic clown, making a periodic appearance in a circus.
He was, I fancy, enjoying himself to the the full. His poise of baffled despair was admirable. How he achieved the end he had in view and which he had disclosed to me in the early hours of the morning, I cannot say. But achieve it he did.
It cannot have been easy. The amount of deception and subterfuge involved must have been colossal. The English character is averse to lying on a wholesale scale and that, no less, was what Poirot’s plan required. He had, first, to get Dr Graham converted to the scheme. With Dr Graham on his side, he had to persuade the Matron and some members of the staff of the nursing home to conform to the plan. There again, the difficulties must have been immense. It was probably Dr Graham’s influence that turned the scale.
Then there was the Chief Constable and the police. Here, Poirot would be up against officialdom. Nevertheless he wrung at last an unwilling consent out of Colonel Weston. The Colonel made it clear that it was in no way his responsibility. Poirot and Poirot alone was responsible for the spreading abroad of these lying reports. Poirot agreed. He would have agreed to anything so long as he was permitted to carry out his plan.
I spent most of the day dozing in a large armchair with a rug over my knees. Every two or three hours or so, Poirot would burst in and report progress.
