‘Oh! well—we’re talking about human beings, not dogs.’
‘Is there so much difference?’
‘Well, it depends how you look at things. But you’re a caution, isn’t he, Captain Hastings? Always was. Looks much the same—hair a bit thinner on top but the face fungus fuller than ever.’
‘Eh?’ said Poirot. ‘What is that?’
‘He’s congratulating you on your moustaches,’ I said, soothingly.
‘They are luxuriant, yes,’ said Poirot, complacently caressing them.
Japp went off into a roar of laughter.
‘Well,’ he said, after a minute or two, ‘I’ve done your bit of business. Those finger-prints you sent me—’
‘Yes?’ said Poirot, eagerly.
‘Nothing doing. Whoever the gentleman may be—he hasn’t passed through our hands. On the other hand, I wired to Melbourne and nobody of that description or name is known there.’
‘Ah!’
‘So there may be something fishy after all. But he’s not one of the lads.’
‘As to the other business,’ went on Japp.
‘Yes?’
‘Lazarus and Son have a good reputation. Quite straight and honourable in their dealings. Sharp, of course—but that’s another matter. You’ve got to be sharp in business. But they’re all right. They’re in a bad way, though—financially, I mean.’
‘Oh!—is that so?’
‘Yes—the slump in pictures has hit them badly. And antique furniture too. All this modern continental stuff coming into fashion. They built new premises last year and—well—as I say, they’re not far from Queer Street.’
‘I am much obliged to you.’
‘Not at all. That sort of thing isn’t my line, as you know. But I made a point of finding out as you wanted to know. We can always get information.’
‘My good Japp, what should I do without you?’
‘Oh! that’s all right. Always glad to oblige an old friend. I let you in on some pretty good cases in the old days, didn’t I?’
This, I realized, was Japp’s way of acknowledging indebtedness to Poirot, who had solved many a case which had baffled the inspector.
‘They were the good days—yes.’
‘I wouldn’t mind having a chat with you now and again even in these days. Your methods may be old-fashioned but you’ve got your head screwed on the right way, M. Poirot.’
‘What about my other question. The Dr MacAllister?’
‘Oh, him! He’s a woman’s doctor. I don’t mean a gynaecologist. I mean one of these nerve doctors—tell you to sleep in purple walls and orange ceiling—talk to you about your libido, whatever that is—tell you to let it rip. He’s a bit of a quack, if you ask me—but he gets the women all right. They flock to him. Goes abroad a good deal—does some kind of medical work in Paris, I believe.’
‘Why Dr MacAllister?’ I asked, bewildered. I had never heard of the name. ‘Where does he come in?’
‘Dr MacAllister is the uncle of Commander Challenger,’ explained Poirot. ‘You remember he referred to an uncle who was a doctor?’
‘How thorough you are,’ I said. ‘Did you think he had operated on Sir Matthew?’
‘He’s not a surgeon,’ said Japp.
‘Mon ami,’ said Poirot, ‘I like to inquire into everything. Hercule Poirot is a good dog. The good dog follows the scent, and if, regrettably, there is no scent to follow, he noses around—seeking always something that is not very nice. So also, does Hercule Poirot. And often—Oh! so often—does he find it!’
‘It’s not a nice profession, ours,’ said Japp. ‘Stilton, did you say? I don’t mind if I do. No, it’s not a nice profession. And yours is worse than mine—not official, you see, and therefore a lot more worming yourself into places in underhand ways.’
‘I do not disguise myself, Japp. Never have I disguised myself.’
‘You couldn’t,’ said Japp. ‘You’re unique. Once seen, never forgotten.’
Poirot looked at him rather doubtfully.
‘Only my fun,’ said Japp. ‘Don’t mind me. Glass of port? Well, if you say so.’
The evening became thoroughly harmonious. We were soon in the middle of reminiscences. This case, that case, and the other. I must say that I, too, enjoyed talking over the past. Those had been good days. How old and experienced I felt now!
Poor old Poirot. He was perplexed by this case—I could see that. His powers were not what they were. I had the feeling that he was going to fail—that the murderer of Maggie Buckley would never be brought to book.
‘Courage, my friend,’ said Poirot, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘All is not lost. Do not pull the long face, I beg of you.’
‘That’s all right. I’m all right.’
‘And so am I. And so is Japp.’
‘We’re all all right,’ declared Japp, hilariously.
And on this pleasant note we parted.
The following morning we journeyed back to St Loo. On arrival at the hotel Poirot rang up the nursing home and asked to speak to Nick.
Suddenly I saw his face change—he almost dropped the instrument.
‘Comment? What is that? Say it again, I beg.’
He waited for a minute or two listening. Then he said:
‘Yes, yes, I will come at once.’
He turned a pale face to me.
‘Why did I go away, Hastings? Mon Dieu! Why did I go away?’
‘What has happened?’
‘Mademoiselle Nick is dangerously ill. Cocaine poisoning. They have got at her after all. Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Why did I go away?’
Chapter 17
A Box of Chocolates
All the way to the nursing home Poirot murmured and muttered to himself. He was full of self-reproach.
‘I should have known,’ he groaned. ‘I should have known! And yet, what could I do? I took every precaution. It is impossible—impossible. No one could get to her! Who has disobeyed my orders?’
At the nursing home we were shown into a little room downstairs, and after a few minutes Dr Graham came to us. He looked exhausted and white.
‘She’ll do,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right. The trouble was knowing how much she’d taken of the damned stuff.’
‘What was it?’
‘Cocaine.’
‘She will live?’
‘Yes, yes, she’ll live.’
‘But how did it happen? How did they get at her? Who has been allowed in?’ Poirot fairly danced with impotent excitement.
‘Nobody has been allowed in.’
‘Impossible.’
‘It’s true.’
‘But then—’
‘It was a box of chocolates.’
‘Ah! sacré. And I told her to eat nothing—nothing—that came from outside.’
‘I don’t know about that. It’s hard work keeping a girl from a box of chocolates. She only ate one, thank goodness.’
‘Was the cocaine in all the chocolates?’
‘No. The girl ate one. There were two others in the top layer. The rest were all right.’
‘How was it done?’
‘Quite clumsily. Chocolate cut in half—the cocaine mixed with the filling and the chocolate stuck together again. Amateurishly. What you might call a homemade job.’
Poirot groaned.
‘Ah! if I knew—if I knew. Can I see Mademoiselle?’
‘If you come back in an hour I think you can see her,’ said the doctor. ‘Pull yourself together, man. She isn’t going to die.’
For another hour we walked the streets of St Loo. I did my best to distract Poirot’s mind—pointing out to him that all was well, that, after all, no mischief had been done.
But he only shook his head, and repeated at intervals:
‘Iam afraid, Hastings, I am afraid…’
And the strange way he said it made me, too, feel afraid.
Once he caught me by the arm.
‘Listen, my friend. Iam all wrong. I have been al
l wrong from the beginning.’
‘You mean it isn’t the money—’
‘No, no, I am right about that. Oh, yes. But those two—it is too simple—too easy, that. There is another twist still. Yes, there is something!’
And then in an outburst of indignation:
‘Ah! cette petite! Did I not forbid her? Did I not say, “Do not touch anything from outside?” And she disobeys me—me, Hercule Poirot. Are not four escapes from death enough for her? Must she take a fifth chance? Ah, c’est inoui!’
At last we made our way back. After a brief wait we were conducted upstairs.
Nick was sitting up in bed. The pupils of her eyes were widely dilated. She looked feverish and her hands kept twitching violently.
‘At it again,’ she murmured.
Poirot experienced real emotion at the sight of her. He cleared his throat and took her hand in his.
‘Ah! Mademoiselle—Mademoiselle.’
‘I shouldn’t care,’ she said, defiantly, ‘if they had got me this time. I’m sick of it all—sick of it!’
‘Pauvre petite!’
‘Something in me doesn’t like to give them best!’
‘That is the spirit—le sport—you must be the good sport, Mademoiselle.’
‘Your old nursing home hasn’t been so safe after all,’ said Nick.
‘If you had obeyed orders, Mademoiselle—’
She looked faintly astonished.
‘But I have.’
‘Did I not impress upon you that you were to eat nothing that came from outside?’
‘No more I did.’
‘But these chocolates—’
‘Well, they were all right. You sent them.’
‘What is that you say, Mademoiselle?’
‘You sent them!’
‘Me? Never. Never anything of the kind.’
‘But you did. Your card was in the box.’
‘What?’
Nick made a spasmodic gesture towards the table by the bed. The nurse came forward.
‘You want the card that was in the box?’
‘Yes, please, nurse.’
There was a moment’s pause. The nurse returned to the room with it in her hand.
‘Here it is.’
I gasped. So did Poirot. For on the card, in flourishing handwriting, were written the same words that I had seen Poirot inscribe on the card that accompanied the basket of flowers.
‘With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.’
‘Sacré tonnerre!’
‘You see,’ said Nick, accusingly.
‘I did not write this!’ cried Poirot.
‘What?’
‘And yet,’ murmured Poirot, ‘and yet it is my handwriting.’
‘I know. It’s exactly the same as the card that came with the orange carnations. I never doubted that the chocolates came from you.’
Poirot shook his head.
‘How should you doubt? Oh! the devil! The clever, cruel devil! To think of that! Ah! but he has genius, this man, genius! “With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.” So simple. Yes, but one had to think of it. And I—I did not think. I omitted to foresee this move.’
Nick moved restlessly.
‘Do not agitate yourself, Mademoiselle. You are blameless—blameless. It is I that am to blame, miserable imbecile that I am! I should have foreseen this move. Yes, I should have foreseen it.’
His chin dropped on his breast. He looked the picture of misery.
‘I really think—’ said the nurse.
She had been hovering nearby, a disapproving expression on her face.
‘Eh? Yes, yes, I will go. Courage, Mademoiselle. This is the last mistake I will make. I am ashamed, desolated—I have been tricked, outwitted—as though I were a little schoolboy. But it shall not happen again. No. I promise you. Come, Hastings.’
Poirot’s first proceeding was to interview the matron. She was, naturally, terribly upset over the whole business.
‘It seems incredible to me, M. Poirot, absolutely incredible. That a thing like that should happen in my nursing home.’
Poirot was sympathetic and tactful. Having soothed her sufficiently, he began to inquire into the circumstance of the arrival of the fatal packet. Here, the matron declared, he would do best to interview the orderly who had been on duty at the time of its arrival.
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 à 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?’
Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery Page 17