Agatha Christie - Peril at End House

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.

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.'

'You don't think-' I hesitated, then went on. 'You don't think that the police are right? That this is the work of a madman, some wandering lunatic with homicidal mania?'

'I am more than ever convinced that such is not the case.'

'You really think that-'

I stopped. Poirot took up my sentence, speaking very gravely.

'That the murderer is someone in Mademoiselle's own circle? Yes, mon ami, I do.'

'But surely last night must almost rule out that possibility. We were all together and-'

He interrupted.

'Could you swear, Hastings, that any particular person had never left our little company there on the edge of the cliff? Is there any one person there whom you could swear you had seen all the time?'

'No,' I said slowly, struck by his words. 'I don't think I could. It was dark. We all moved about, more or less. On different occasions I noticed Mrs Rice, Lazarus, you, Croft, Vyse-but all the time-no.'

Poirot nodded his head.

'Exactly. It would be a matter of a very few minutes. The two girls go to the house. The murderer slips away unnoticed, hides behind that sycamore tree in the middle of the lawn. Nick Buckley, or so he thinks, comes out of the window, passes within a foot of him, he fires three shots in rapid succession-'

'Three?' I interjected.

'Yes. He was taking no chances this time. We found three bullets in the body.’

‘That was risky, wasn't it?'

'Less risky in all probability than one shot would have been. A Mauser pistol does not make a great deal of noise. It would resemble more or less the popping of the fireworks and blend in very well with the noise of them.'

'Did you find the pistol?' I asked.

'No. And there, Hastings, lies to my mind the indisputable proof that no stranger is responsible for this. We agree, do we not, that Miss Buckley's own pistol was taken in the first place for one reason only-to give her death the appearance of suicide.'

'Yes.'

'That is the only possible reason, is it not? But now, you observe, there is no pretence of suicide. The murderer knows that we should not any longer be deceived by it. He knows, in fact, what we know!'

I reflected, admitting to myself the logic of Poirot's deduction. 'What did he do with the pistol do you think?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

'For that, it is difficult to say. But the sea was exceedingly handy. A good toss of the arm, and the pistol sinks, never to be recovered. We cannot, of course, be absolutely sure-but that is what I should have done.'

His matter-of-fact tone made me shiver a little.

'Do you think-do you think he realized that he'd killed the wrong person?'

'I am quite sure he did not,' said Poirot, grimly. 'Yes, that must have been an unpleasant little surprise for him when he learnt the truth. To keep his face and betray nothing-it cannot have been easy.'

At that moment I bethought me of the strange attitude of the maid, Ellen. I gave Poirot an account of her peculiar demeanour. He seemed very interested.

'She betrayed surprise, did she, that it was Maggie who was dead?’

‘Great surprise.'

'That is curious. And yet, the fact of a tragedy was clearly not a surprise to her. Yes, there is something there that must be looked into. Who is she, this Ellen? So quiet, so respectable in the English manner? Could it be she who-?' He broke off.

'If you're going to include the accidents,' I said, 'surely it would take a man to have rolled that heavy boulder down the cliff.'