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‘Comment ça va, mon ami? How I commiserate you. But it is as well, perhaps. The farce, you do not play it as well as I do. I come this moment from ordering a wreath—a wreath immense—stupendous. Lilies, my friend—large quantities of lilies. “With heartfelt regret. From Hercule Poirot.” Ah! what a comedy.’
He departed again.
‘I come from a most poignant conversation with Madame Rice,’ was his next piece of information. ‘Very well dressed in black, that one. Her poor friend—what a tragedy! I groan sympathetically. Nick, she says, was so joyous, so full of life. Impossible to think of her as dead. I agree. “It is,” I say, “the irony of death that it takes one like that. The old and useless are left.”
Oh! làlà! I groan again.’
‘How you are enjoying this,’ I murmured feebly.
‘Du tout. It is part of my plan, that is all. To play the comedy successfully, you must put the heart into it. Well, then, the conventional expressions of regret over, Madame comes to matters nearer home. All night she has lain awake wondering about those sweets. It is impossible—impossible. “Madame,” I say, “it is not impossible. You can see the analyst’s report.” Then she says, and her voice is far from steady, “It was—cocaine, you say?” I assent. And she says, “Oh, my God. I don’t understand.”’
‘Perhaps that’s true.’
‘She understands well enough that she is in danger. She is intelligent. I told you that before. Yes, she is in danger, and she knows it.’
‘And yet it seems to me that for the first time you don’t believe her guilty.’
Poirot frowned. The excitement of his manner abated.
‘It is profound what you say there, Hastings. No—it seems to me that—somehow—the facts no longer fit. These crimes—so far what has marked them most—the subtlety, is it not? And here is no subtlety at all—only the crudity, pure and simple. No, it does not fit.’
He sat down at the table.
‘Voilà—let us examine the facts. There are three possibilities. There are the sweets bought by Madame and delivered by M. Lazarus. And in that case the guilt rests with one or the other or both. And the telephone call, supposedly from Mademoiselle Nick, that is an invention pure and simple. That is the straightforward—the obvious solution.
‘Solution 2: The other box of sweets—that which came by post. Anyone may have sent those. Any of the suspects on our list from A. to J. (You remember? A very wide field.) But, if that were the guilty box, what is the point of the telephone call? Why complicate matters with a second box?’
I shook my head feebly. With a temperature of 102, any complication seemed to me quite unnecessary and absurd.
‘Solution 3: A poisoned box was substituted for the innocent box bought by Madame. In that case the telephone call is ingenious and understandable. Madame is to be what you call the kitten’s paw. She is to pull the roasting chestnuts out of the fire. So Solution 3 is the most logical—but, alas, it is also the most difficult. How be sure of substituting a box at the right moment? The orderly might take the box straight upstairs—a hundred and one possibilities might prevent the substitution being effected. No, it does not seem sense.’
‘Unless it were Lazarus,’ I said.
Poirot looked at me.
‘You have the fever, my friend. It mounts, does it not?’
I nodded.
‘Curious how a few degrees of heat should stimulate the intellect. You have uttered there an observation of profound simplicity. So simple, was it, that I had failed to consider it. But it would suppose a very curious state of affairs. M. Lazarus, the dear friend of Madame, doing his best to get her hanged. It opens up possibilities of a very curious nature. But complex—very complex.’
I closed my eyes. I was glad I had been brilliant, but I did not want to think of anything complex. I wanted to go to sleep.
Poirot, I think, went on talking, but I did not listen. His voice was vaguely soothing…
It was late afternoon when I saw him next.
‘My little plan, it has made the fortune of flower shops,’ he announced. ‘Everybody orders wreaths. M. Croft, M. Vyse, Commander Challenger—’
The last name awoke a chord of compunction in my mind.
‘Look here, Poirot,’ I said. ‘You must let him in on this. Poor fellow, he will be distracted with grief. It isn’t fair.’
‘You have always the tenderness for him, Hastings.’
‘I like him. He’s a thoroughly decent chap. You’ve got to take him into the secret.’
Poirot shok his head.
‘No, mon ami. I do not make the exceptions.’
‘But you don’t suspect him to have anything to do with it?’
‘I do not make the exceptions.’
‘Think how he must be suffering.’
‘On the contrary, I prefer to think of what a joyful surprise I prepare for him. To think the loved one dead—and find her alive! It is a sensation unique—stupendous.’
‘What a pig-headed old devil you are. He’d keep the secret all right.’
‘I am not so sure.’
‘He’s the soul of honour. I’m certain of it.’
‘That makes it all the more difficult to keep a secret. Keeping a secret is an art that requires many lies magnificently told, and a great aptitude for playing the comedy and enjoying it. Could he dissemble, the Commander Challenger? If he is what you say he is, he certainly could not.’
‘Then you won’t tell him?’
‘I certainly refuse to imperil my little idea for the sake of the sentiment. It is life and death we play with, mon cher. Anyway, the suffering, it is good for the character. Many of your famous clergymen have said so—even a Bishop if I am not mistaken.’
I made no further attempt to shake his decision. His mind, I could see, was made up.
‘I shall not dress for dinner,’ he murmured. ‘I am too much the broken old man. That is my part, you understand. All my self-confidence has crashed—I am broken. I have failed. I shall eat hardly any dinner—the food untasted on the plate. That is the attitude, I think. In my own apartment I will consume some brioches and some chocolate éclairs (so called) which I had the foresight to buy at a confectioners. Et vous?’
‘Some more quinine, I think,’ I said, sadly.
‘Alas, my poor Hastings. But courage, all will be well to-morrow.’
‘Very likely. These attacks often last only twenty-four hours.’
I did not hear him return to the room. I must have been asleep.
When I awoke, he was sitting at the table writing. In front of him was a crumpled sheet of paper smoothed out. I recognized it for the paper on which he had written that list of people—A. to J.—which he had afterwards crumpled up and thrown away.
He nodded in answer to my unspoken thought.
‘Yes, my friend. I have resurrected it. I am at work upon it from a different angle. I compile a list of questions concerning each person. The questions may have no bearing on the crime—they are just things that I do not know—things that remain unexplained, and for which I seek to supply the answer from my own brain.’
‘How far have you got?’
‘I have finished. You would like to hear? You are strong enough?’
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, I am feeling a great deal better.’
‘Ala bonne heure! Very well, I will read them to you. Some of them, no doubt, you will consider puerile.’
He cleared his throat.
‘A. Ellen.—Why did she remain in the house and not go out to see fireworks? (Unusual, as Mademoiselle’s evidence and surprise make clear.) What did she think or suspect might happen? Did she admit anyone (J. for instance) to the house? Is she speaking the truth about the secret panel? If there is such a thing why is she unable to remember where it is? (Mademoiselle seems very certain there is no such thing—and she would surely know.) If she invented it, why did she invent it? Had she read Michael Seton’s love letters or was her surprise at Mademoiselle Nick’s engagement genuine?
‘B. Her Husband.—Is he as stupid as he seems? Does he share Ellen’s knowledge, whatever it is, or does he not? Is he, in any respect, a mental case?
‘C. The Child.—Is his delight in blood a natural instinct common to his age and development, or is it morbid, and is that morbidity inherited from either parent? Has he ever shot with a toy pistol?
‘D. Who is Mr Croft?—Where does he really come from? Did he post the will as he swears he did? What motive could he have in not posting it?
‘E. Mrs Croft. Same as above.—Who are Mr and Mrs Croft? Are they in hiding for some reason—and if so, what reason? Have they any connection with the Buckley family?
‘F. Mrs Rice.—Was she reall
y aware of the engagement between Nick and Michael Seton? Did she merely guess it, or had she actually read the letters which passed between them? (In that case she would know Mademoiselle was Seton’s heir.) Did she know that she herself was Mademoiselle’s residuary legatee? (This, I think, is likely. Mademoiselle would probably tell her so, adding perhaps that she would not get much out of it.) Is there any truth in Commander Challenger’s suggestion that Lazarus was attracted by Mademoiselle Nick? (This might explain a certain lack of cordiality between the two friends which seems to have shown itself in the last few months.) Who is the ‘boy friend’ mentioned in her note as supplying the drug? Could this possibly be J.? Why did she turn faint one day in this room? Was it something that had been said—or was it something she saw? Is her account of the telephone message asking her to buy chocolates correct—or is it a deliberate lie? What did she mean by “I can understand the other—but not this”? If she is not herself guilty, what knowledge has she got that she is keeping to herself?’
‘You perceive,’ said Poirot, suddenly breaking off, ‘that the questions concerning Madame Rice are almost innumerable. From beginning to end, she is an enigma. And that forces me to a conclusion. Either Madame Rice is guilty—or she knows—or shall we say, thinks she knows—who is guilty. But is she right? Does she know or does she merely suspect? And how is it possible to make her speak?’
He sighed.
‘Well, I will go on with my list of questions.
‘G. Mr. Lazarus.—Curious—there are practically no questions to ask concerning him—except the crude one, “Did he substitute the poisoned sweets?” Otherwise I find only one totally irrelevant question. But I have put it down. “Why did M. Lazarus offer fifty pounds for a picture that was only worth twenty?”’
‘He wanted to do Nick a good turn,’ I suggested.
‘He would not do it that way. He is a dealer. He does not buy to sell at a loss. If he wished to be amiable he would lend her money as a private individual.’
‘It can’t have any bearing on the crime, anyway.’
‘No, that is true—but all the same, I should like to know. I am a student of the psychology, you understand.
