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‘Now we come to H.’
‘H. Commander Challenger.—Why did Mademoiselle Nick tell him she was engaged to someone else? What necessitated her having to tell him that? She told no one else. Had he proposed to her? What are his relations with his uncle?’
‘His uncle, Poirot?’
‘Yes, the doctor. That rather questionable character. Did any private news of Michael Seton’s death come through to the Admiralty before it was announced publicly?’
‘I don’t quite see what you’re driving at Poirot. Even if Challenger knew beforehand about Seton’s death, it does not seem to get us anywhere. It provides no earthly motive for killing the girl he loved.’
‘I quite agree. What you say is perfectly reasonable. But these are just things I should like to know. I am still the dog, you see, nosing about for the things that are not very nice!’
‘I. M. Vyse.—Why did he say what he did about his cousin’s fanatical devotion to End House? What possible motive could he have in saying that? Did he, or did he not, receive the will? Is he, in fact, an honest man—or is he not an honest man?
‘And now J.—Eh bien, J. is what I put down before—a giant question mark. Is there such a person, or is there not—
‘Mon Dieu! my friend, what have you?’
I had started from my chair with a sudden shriek. With a shaking hand I pointed at the window.
‘A face, Poirot!’ I cried. ‘A face pressed against the glass. A dreadful face! It’s gone now—but I saw it.’
Poirot strode to the window and pushed it open. He leant out.
‘There is no one there now,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘You are sure you did not imagine it, Hastings?’
‘Quite sure. It was a horrible face.’
‘There is a balcony, of course. Anyone could reach there quite easily if they wanted to hear what we were saying. When you say a dreadful face, Hastings, just what do you mean?’
‘A white, staring face, hardly human.’
‘Mon ami, that is the fever. A face, yes. An unpleasant face, yes. But a face hardly human—no. What you saw was the effect of a face pressed closely against the glass—that allied to the shock of seeing it there at all.’
‘It was a dreadful face,’ I said, obstinately.
‘It was not the face of—anyone you know?’
‘No, indeed.’
‘H’m—it might have been, though! I doubt if you would recognize it under these circumstances. I wonder now—yes, I very much wonder…’
He gathered up his papers thoughtfully.
‘One thing at least is to the good. If the owner of that face overheard our convesation we did not mention that Mademoiselle Nick was alive and well. Whatever else our visitor may have heard, that at least escaped him.’
‘But surely,’ I said, ‘the results of this—eh—brilliant manoeuvre of yours have been slightly disappointing up to date. Nick is dead and no startling developments have occurred!’
‘I did not expect them yet awhile. Twenty-four hours, I said. Mon ami, tomorrow, if I am not mistaken, certain things will arise. Otherwise—otherwise I am wrong from start to finish. There is the post, you see. I have hopes of tomorrow’s post.’
I awoke in the morning feeling weak but with the fever abated. I also felt hungry. Poirot and I had breakfast served in our sitting-room.
‘Well?’ I said, maliciously, as he sorted his letters. ‘Has the post done what you expected of it?’
Poirot, who had just opened two envelopes which patently contained bills, did not reply. I thought he looked rather cast down and not his usual cock-a-hoop self.
I opened my own mail. The first was a notice of a spiritualist meeting.
‘If all else fails, we must go to the spiritualists,’ I remarked. ‘I often wonder that more tests of this kind aren’t made. The spirit of the victim comes back and names the murderer. That would be a proof.’
‘It would hardly help us,’ said Poirot, absently. ‘I doubt if Maggie Buckley knew whose hand it was shot her down. Even if she could speak she would have nothing of value to tell us. Tiens! that is odd.’
‘What is?’
‘You talk of the dead speaking, and at that moment I open this letter.’
He tossed it across to me. It was from Mrs Buckley and ran as follows:
‘Langley Rectory.
‘Dear Monsieur Poirot,—On my return here I found a letter written by my poor child on her arrival at St Loo. There is nothing in it of interest to you, I’m afraid, but I thought perhaps you would care to see it.
‘Thanking you for your kindness,
‘Yours sincerely,
‘Jean Buckley.’
The enclosure brought a lump to my throat. It was so terribly commonplace and so completely untouched by any apprehension of tragedy:
‘Dear Mother,—I arrived safely. Quite a comfortable journey. Only two people in the carriage all the way to Exeter.
‘It is lovely weather here. Nick seems very well and gay—a little restless, perhaps, but I cannot see why she should have telegraphed for me in the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well.
‘No more now. We are going to have tea with some neighbours. They are Australians and have rented the lodge. Nick says they are kind but rather awful. Mrs Rice and Mr Lazarus are coming to stay. He is the art dealer. I will post this in the box by the gate, then it will catch the post. Will write to-morrow.
‘Your loving daughter,
‘Maggie.’
‘P.S.—Nick says there is a reason for her wire. She will tell me after tea. She is very queer and jumpy.’
‘The voice of the dead,’ said Poirot, quietly. ‘And it tells us—nothing.’
‘The box by the gate,’ I remarked idly. ‘That’s where Croft said he posted the will.’
‘Said so—yes. I wonder. How I wonder!’
‘There is nothing else of interest among your letters?’
‘Nothing. Hastings, I am very unhappy. I am in the dark. Still in the dark. I comprehend nothing.’
At that moment the telephone rang. Poirot went to it.
Immediately I saw a change come over his face. His manner was very restrained, nevertheless he could not disguise from my eyes his intense excitement.
His own contributions to the conversation were entirely non-committal so that I could not gather what it was all about.
Presently, however, with a ‘Très bien. Jevous remercie,’ he put back the receiver and came back to where I was sitting. His eyes were sparkling with excitement.
‘Mon ami,’ he said. ‘What did I tell you? Things have begun to happen.’
‘What was it?’
‘That was M. Charles Vyse on the telephone. He informs me that this morning, throught the post, he has received a will signed by his cousin, Miss Buckley, and dated the 25th February last.’
‘What? The will?’
‘Evidemment.’
‘It has turned up?’
‘Just at the right moment, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Do you think he is speaking the truth?’
‘Or do I think he has had the will all along? Is that what you would say? Well, it is all a little curious. But one thing is certain; I told you that, if Mademoiselle Nick were supposed to be dead, we should have developments—and sure enough here they are!’
‘Extraordinary,’I said. ‘You were right. I suppose this is the will making Frederica Rice residuary legatee?’
‘M. Vyse said nothing about the contents of the will. He was far too correct. But there seems very little reason to doubt that this is the same will. It is witnessed, he tells me, by Ellen Wilson and her husband.’
‘So we are back at the old problem,’ I said. ‘Frederica Rice.’
‘The enigma!’
‘Frederica Rice,’ I murmured, inconsequently. ‘It’s a pretty name.’
‘Prettier than what her friends call her. Freddie’—he made a face—‘ce n’est pas joli—for a young lady.’
‘There
aren’t many abbreviations of Frederica,’ I said. ‘It’s not like Margaret where you can have half a dozen—Maggie, Margot, Madge, Peggie—’
‘True. Well, Hastings, are you happier now? That things have begun to happen?’
