Agatha Christie - Peril at End House

The man in question, whose name was Hood, was a stupid but honest-looking young fellow of about twenty-two. He looked nervous and frightened. Poirot put him at his ease, however.

'No blame can be attached to you,' he said kindly. 'But I want you to tell me exactly when and how this parcel arrived.'

The orderly looked puzzled.

'It's difficult to say, sir,' he said, slowly. 'Lots of people come and inquire and leave things for the different patients.'

'The nurse says this came last night,' I said. 'About six o'clock.'

The lad's face brightened.

'I do remember, now, sir. A gentleman brought it.'

'A thin-faced gentleman-fair-haired?'

'He was fair-haired-but I don't know about thin-faced.'

'Would Charles Vyse bring it himself?' I murmured to Poirot.

I had forgotten that the lad would know a local name.

'It wasn't Mr Vyse,' he said. 'I know him. It was a bigger gentleman-handsome-looking-came in a big car.'

'Lazarus,' I exclaimed.

Poirot shot me a warning glance and I regretted my precipitance.

'He came in a large car and he left this parcel. It was addressed to Miss Buckley?'

'Yes, sir.'

'And what did you do with it?'

'I didn't touch it, sir. Nurse took it up.'

'Quite so, but you touched it when you took it from the gentleman, n'est ce pas?’

‘Oh! that, yes, of course, sir. I took it from him and put it on the table.’

‘Which table? Show me, if you please.'

The orderly led us into the hall. The front door was open. Close to it, in the hall, was a long marble-topped table on which lay letters and parcels.

'Everything that comes is put on here, sir. Then the nurses take things up to the patients.'

'Do you remember what time this parcel was left?'

'Must have been about five-thirty, or a little after. I know the post had just been, and that's usually at about half-past five. It was a pretty busy afternoon, a lot of people leaving flowers and coming to see patients.'

'Thank you. Now, I think, we will see the nurse who took up the parcel.'

This proved to be one of the probationers, a fluffy little person all agog with excitement. She remembered taking the parcel up at six o'clock when she came on duty.

'Six o'clock,' murmured Poirot. 'Then it must have been twenty minutes or so that the parcel was lying on the table downstairs.'

'Pardon?'

'Nothing, Mademoiselle. Continue. You took the parcel to Miss Buckley?'

'Yes, there were several things for her. There was this box and some flowers also-sweet peas-from a Mr and Mrs Croft, I think. I took them up at the same time. And there was a parcel that had come by post-and curiously enough that was a box of Fuller's chocolates also.'

'Comment? A second box?'

'Yes, rather a coincidence. Miss Buckley opened them both. She said: "Oh! what a shame. I'm not allowed to eat them." Then she opened the lids to look inside and see if they were both just the same, and your card was in one and she said, "Take the other impure box away, nurse. I might have got them mixed up." Oh! dear, whoever would have thought of such a thing? Seems like an Edgar Wallace, doesn't it?'

Poirot cut short this flood of speech.

'Two boxes, you say? From whom was the other box?'

'There was no name inside.'

'And which was the one that came-that had the appearance of coming-from me? The one by post or the other?'

'I declare now-I can't remember. Shall I go up and ask Miss Buckley?'

'If you would be so amiable.'

She ran up the stairs.

'Two boxes,' murmured Poirot. 'There is confusion for you.'

The nurse returned breathless.

'Miss Buckley isn't sure. She unwrapped them both before she looked inside. But she thinks it wasn't the box that came by post.'

'Eh?' said Poirot, a little confused.

'The box from you was the one that didn't come by post. At least she thinks so, but she isn't quite sure.'

'Diable!' said Poirot, as we walked away. 'Is no one ever quite sure? In detective books-yes. But life-real life-is always full of muddle. Am I sure, myself, about anything at all? No, no-a thousand times, no.'

'Lazarus,' I said.

'Yes, that is a surprise, is it not?'

'Shall you say anything to him about it?'

'Assuredly. I shall be interested to see how he takes it. By the way, we might as well exaggerate the serious condition of Mademoiselle. It will do no harm to let it be assumed that she is at death's door. You comprehend? The solemn face-yes, admirable. You resemble closely an undertaker. C'est tout a fait bien.'

We were lucky in finding Lazarus. He was bending over the bonnet of his car outside the hotel.

Poirot went straight up to him.

'Yesterday evening, Monsieur Lazarus, you left a box of chocolates for Mademoiselle,' he began without preamble.

Lazarus looked rather surprised.

'Yes?'

'That was very amiable of you.'

'As a matter of fact they were from Freddie, from Mrs Rice. She asked me to get them.'

'Oh! I see.'

'I took them round in the car.'

'I comprehend.'

He was silent for a minute or two and then said: 'Madame Rice, where is she?'

'I think she's in the lounge.'

We found Frederica having tea. She looked up at us with an anxious face.

'What is this I hear about Nick being taken ill?'

'It is a most mysterious affair, Madame. Tell me, did you send her a box of chocolates yesterday?'

'Yes. At least she asked me to get them for her.'

'She asked you to get them for her?'

'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.'