Curtain hp-39

by Agatha Christie

  Luttrell said slowly:

  "Some men are like that. Everything they turn their hand to succeeds. They can't go wrong. Some people – have all the luck."

  Norton gave a quick shake of the head.

  "No, no, sir. Not luck," He quoted with meaning. "Not in our stars, dear Brutus – but in ourselves."

  Luttrell said: "Perhaps you're right."

  I said quickly:

  "At any rate he's lucky to have inherited Knatton. What a place! But he certainly ought to marry. He'll be lonely there by himself."

  Norton laughed. "Marry and settle down? And suppose his wife bullies him -"

  It was the purest bad luck. The sort of remark that anyone could make. But it was unfortunate in the circumstances, and Norton realized it just at the moment that the words came out. He tried to catch them back, hesitated, stammered, and stopped awkwardly. It made the whole thing worse.

  Both he and I began to speak at once. I made some idiotic remark about the evening light. Norton said something about having some bridge after dinner.

  Colonel Luttrell took no notice of either of us. He said in a queer, inexpressive voice:

  "No, Boyd Carrington won't get bullied by his wife. He's not the sort of man who lets himself get bullied. He's all right. He's a man!"

  It was very awkward. Norton began babbling about bridge again. In the middle of it a large wood pigeon came flapping over our heads and settled on the branch of a tree not far away.

  Colonel Luttrell picked up his gun.

  "There's one of the blighters," he said.

  But before he could take aim the bird had flown off again through the trees where it was impossible to get a shot at it.

  At the same moment, however, the Colonel's attention was diverted by a movement on the far slope.

  "Damme, there's a rabbit nibbling the bark of those young fruit trees. Thought I'd wired the place."

  He raised the rifle and fired, and as I saw -

  There came a scream in a woman's voice. It died in a kind of horrible gurgle.

  The rifle fell from the Colonel's hand, his body sagged – he caught his lip.

  "My God – it's Daisy."

  I was already running across the lawn. Norton came behind me. I reached the spot and knelt down. It was Mrs Luttrell. She had been kneeling, tying a stake against one of the small fruit trees. The grass was long there so that I realized how it was that the Colonel had not seen her clearly and had only distinguished movement in the grass. The light, too, was confusing. She had been shot through the shoulder and the blood was gushing out.

  I bent to examine the wound and looked up at Norton. He was leaning against a tree and was looking green and as though he were going to be sick. He said apologetically:

  "I can't stand blood."

  I said sharply:

  "Get hold of Franklin – at once. Or the nurse."

  He nodded and ran off.

  It was Nurse Craven who appeared first upon the scene. She was there in an incredibly short time and at once set about in a businesslike way to stop the bleeding. Franklin arrived at a run soon afterwards. Between them they got Mrs Luttrell into the house and to bed. Franklin dressed and bandaged the wound and sent for her own doctor and Nurse Craven stayed with her.

  I ran across Franklin just as he left the telephone.

  "How is she?"

  "Oh! She'll pull through all right. It missed any vital spot luckily. How did it happen?"

  I told him. He said:

  "I see. Where's the old boy? He'll be feeling knocked out. I shouldn't wonder. Probably needs attention more than she does. I shouldn't say his heart is any too good."

  We found Colonel Luttrell in the smoking room. He was a blue colour round the mouth and looked completely dazed. He said brokenly:

  "Daisy? Is she – how is she?"

  Franklin said quickly:

  "She'll be all right, sir. You needn't worry."

  "I – thought – rabbit – nibbling the bark – don't know how I came to make such a mistake. Light in my eyes."

  "These things happen," said Franklin drily. "I've seen one or two of them in my time. Look here, sir, you'd better let me give you a pick-me-up. You're not feeling too good."

  "I'm all right. Can I – can I go to her?"

  "Not just now. Nurse Craven is with her. But you don't need to worry. She's all right. Dr Oliver will be here presently and he'll tell you the same."

  I left the two of them together and went out into the evening sunshine. Judith and Allerton were coming along the path towards me. His head was bent to hers and they were both laughing.

  Coming on top of the tragedy that had just happened, it made me feel very angry. I called sharply to Judith and she looked up surprised. In a few words I told them what had occurred.

  "What an extraordinary thing to happen," was my daughter's comment.

  She did not seem nearly as perturbed as she should have done, I thought.

  Allerton's manner was outrageous. He seemed to take the whole thing as a good joke.

  "Serves the old harridan damn well right," he observed. "Think the old boy did it on purpose."

  "Certainly not," I said sharply. "It was an accident."

  "Yes, but I know these accidents. Damned convenient sometimes. My word, if the old boy shot her deliberately, I take off my hat to him."

  "It was nothing of the kind," I said angrily.

  "Don't be too sure. I've known two men who shot their wives. Cleaning his revolver one was. The other fired point-blank at her as a joke, he said. Didn't know the thing was loaded. Got away with it, both of them. Damned good release, I should say myself."

  "Colonel Luttrell," I said coldly, "isn't that type of man."

  "Well, you couldn't say it wouldn't be a blessed release, could you?" demanded Allerton pertinently. "They hadn't just had a row or anything, had they?"

  I turned away angrily, at the same time trying to hide a certain perturbation. Allerton had come a little too near the mark. For the first time a doubt crept into my mind.

  It was not bettered by meeting Boyd Carrington. He had been for a stroll down towards the lake, he explained. When I told him the news, he said at once:

  "You don't think he meant to shoot her, do you, Hastings?"

  "My dear man."

  "Sorry, sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was only, for the moment, one wondered… She – she gave him a bit of provocation, you know."

  We were both silent for a moment as we remembered the scene we had so unwillingly overheard.

  I went upstairs feeling unhappy and worried and rapped on Poirot's door.

  He had already heard through Curtiss of what had occurred, but he was eager for full details. Since my arrival at Styles I had got into the way of reporting most of my daily encounters and conversations in full detail. In this way I felt that the dear old fellow felt less cut off. It gave him the illusion of actually participating in everything that went on. I have always had a good and accurate memory and found it a simple matter to repeat conversations verbatim.

  Poirot listened very attentively. I was hoping that he would be able definitely to pooh-pooh the dreadful suggestion that had by now taken uneasy control of my mind, but before he had a chance of telling me what he thought, there came a light tap on the door.

  It was Nurse Craven. She apologized for disturbing us.

  "I'm so sorry, but I thought Doctor was here. The old lady is conscious now and she's worrying about her husband. She'd like to see him. Do you know where he is, Captain Hastings? I don't want to leave my patient."

  I volunteered to go and look for him. Poirot nodded approval and Nurse Craven thanked me warmly.

  I found Colonel Luttrell in a little morning room that was seldom used. He was standing by the window looking out.

  He turned sharply as I came in. His eyes asked a question. He looked, I thought, afraid.

  "Your wife is conscious, Colonel Luttrell, and is asking for you."

  "Oh." The colou
r surged up in his cheeks and I realized then how very white he had been before. He said slowly, fumblingly, like an old, old man:

  "She – she – is asking for me? I'll – I'll come – at once."

  He was so unsteady as he began shuffling towards the door that I came and helped him. He leaned on me heavily as we went up the stairs. His breathing was coming with difficulty. The shock, as Franklin had prophesied, was severe.

  We came to the door of the sickroom. I tapped and Nurse Craven's brisk, efficient voice called "Come in."

  Still supporting the old man, I went with him into the room. There was a screen round the bed. We came round the corner of it.

  Mrs Luttrell was looking very ill – white and frail, her eyes closed. She opened them as we came round the corner of the screen.

  She said in a small breathless voice:

  "George – George -"

  "Daisy – my dear…"

  One of her arms was bandaged and supported. The other, the free one, moved unsteadily towards him. He took a step forward and clasped her frail little hand in his. He said again:

  "Daisy…" And then, gruffly, "Thank God, you're all right."

  And looking up at him, seeing his eyes slightly misty, and the deep love and anxiety in them, I felt bitterly ashamed of all our ghoulish imaginings.

  I crept quietly out of the room. Camouflaged accident indeed! There was no disguising that heartfelt note of thankfulness. I felt immeasurably relieved.

  The sound of the gong startled me as I went along the passage. I had completely forgotten the passage of time. The accident had upset everything. Only the cook had gone on as usual and produced dinner at the usual time.

  Most of us had not changed and Colonel Luttrell did not appear. But Mrs Franklin, looking quite attractive in a pale pink evening dress, was downstairs for once and seemed in good health and spirits. Franklin, I thought, was moody and absorbed.

  After dinner, to my annoyance, Allerton and Judith disappeared into the garden together. I sat around a while, listening to Franklin and Norton discussing tropical diseases. Norton was a sympathetic and interested listener, even if he knew little of the subject under discussion.

  Mrs Franklin and Boyd Carrington were talking at the other end of the room. He was showing her some patterns of curtains or cretonnes.

  Elizabeth Cole had a book and seemed deeply absorbed in it. I fancied that she was slightly embarrassed and ill at ease with me. Perhaps not unnaturally so after her confidences of the afternoon. I was sorry about it, all the same, and hoped she did not regret all she had told me. I should have liked to have made it clear to her that I should respect her confidence and not repeat it. However, she gave me no chance.

  After a while I went up to Poirot.

  I found Colonel Luttrell sitting in the circle of light thrown by the one small electric lamp that was turned on.

  He was talking and Poirot was listening. I think the Colonel was speaking to himself rather than to his listener.

  "I remember so well – yes, it was at a hunt ball. She wore white stuff, called tulle, I think it was. Floated all round her. Such a pretty girl – bowled me over then and there. I said to myself, 'That's the girl I'm going to marry.' And by Jove, I brought it off. Awfully pretty way she had with her – saucy, you know, plenty of back chat. Always gave as good as she got, bless her."

  He chuckled.

  I saw the scene in my mind's eye. I could imagine Daisy Luttrell with a young saucy face and that smart tongue – so charming then, so apt to turn shrewish with the years.

  But it was as that young girl, his first real love, that Colonel Luttrell was thinking of her tonight. His Daisy.

  And again I felt ashamed of what we had said such a few hours previously.

  Of course, when Colonel Luttrell had at last taken himself off to bed, I blurted out the whole thing to Poirot.

  He listened very quietly. I could make nothing of the expression on his face.

  "So that is what you thought, Hastings – that the shot was fired on purpose?"

  "Yes. I feel ashamed now -"

  Poirot waved aside my present feelings.

  "Did the thought occur to you of your own accord, or did someone else suggest it to you?"

  "Allerton said something of the kind," I said resentfully. "He would, of course."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Boyd Carrington suggested it."

  "Ah! Boyd Carrington."

  "And after all, he's a man of the world and has experience of these things."

  "Oh, quite so, quite so. He did not see the thing happen, though?"

  "No, he'd gone for a walk. Bit of exercise before changing for dinner."

  "I see."

  I said uneasily:

  "I don't think I really believed that theory, It was only -"

  Poirot interrupted me.

  "You need not be so remorseful about your suspicions, Hastings. It was an idea quite likely to occur to anyone given the circumstances. Oh yes, it was all quite natural."

  There was something in Poirot's manner I did not quite understand. A reserve. His eyes were watching me with a curious expression.

  I said slowly:

  "Perhaps. But seeing now how devoted he really is to her -"

  Poirot nodded.

  "Exactly. That is often the case, remember. Underneath the quarrels, the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everyday life, a real and true affection can exist."

  I agreed. I remembered the gentle, affectionate look in little Mrs Luttrell's eyes as she looked up at her husband stooping over her bed. No more vinegar, no impatience, no ill temper.

  Married life, I mused, as I went to bed, was a curious thing.

  That something in Poirot's manner still worried me. That curious watchful look – as though he were waiting for me to see – what?

  I was just getting into bed when it came to me. Hit me bang between the eyes.

  If Mrs Luttrell had been killed, it would have been a case like those other cases. Colonel Luttrell would, apparently, have killed his wife. It would have been accounted an accident, yet at the same time nobody would have been sure that it was an accident, or whether it had been done on purpose. Insufficient evidence to show it as murder, but quite enough evidence for murder to be suspected.

  But that meant – that meant -

  What did it mean?

  It meant – if anything at all was to make sense – that it was not Colonel Luttrell who shot Mrs Luttrell, but X.

  And that was clearly impossible. I had seen the whole thing. It was Colonel Luttrell who had fired the shot. No other shot had been fired.

  Unless – But surely that would be impossible. No, perhaps not impossible – merely highly improbable. But possible, yes… Supposing that someone else had waited his moment and, at the exact instant when Colonel Luttrell had fired (at a rabbit), this other person had fired at Mrs Luttrell. Then only the one shot would have been heard. Or, even with a slight discrepancy, it would have been put down as an echo. (Now I come to think of it, there had been an echo, surely.)

  But no, that was absurd. There were ways of deciding exactly what weapon a bullet had been fired from. The marks on the bullet must agree with the rifling of the barrel.

  But that, I remembered, was only when the police were anxious to establish what weapon had fired the shot. There would have been no enquiry in this business. For Colonel Luttrell would have been quite as certain as everyone else that it was he who had fired the fatal shot. That fact would have been admitted, accepted without question, there would have been no question of tests. The only doubt would have been whether the shot was fired accidentally or with criminal intent – a question that could never be resolved.

  And therefore the case fell into line exactly with those other cases – with the case of the labourer Riggs, who didn't remember but supposed he must have done it; with Maggie Litchfield, who went out of her mind and gave herself up – for a crime she had not committed.

  Yes, this
case fell into line with the rest and I knew now the meaning of Poirot's manner. He was waiting for me to appreciate the fact.

  Chapter 10

  I

  I opened the subject with Poirot the following morning. His face lighted up and he wagged his head appreciatively.

  "Excellent, Hastings. I wondered if you would see the similarity. I did not want to prompt you, you understand."

  "Then I am right. This is another X case?"

  "Undeniably."

  "But why, Poirot? What is the motive?"

  Poirot shook his head.

  "Don't you know? Haven't you any idea?"

  Poirot said slowly:

  "I have an idea, yes."

  "You've got the connection between all these different cases?"

  "I think so."

  "Well, then."

  I could hardly restrain my impatience.

  "No, Hastings."

  "But I've got to know."

  "It is much better that you should not."

  "Why?"

  "You must take it from me that it is so."

  "You are incorrigible," I said. "Twisted up with arthritis. Sitting here helpless. And still trying to play a 'lone hand.'"

  "Do not figure to yourself that I am playing a lone hand. Not at all. You are, on the contrary, very much in the picture, Hastings. You are my eyes and my ears. I only refuse to give you information that might be dangerous."

  "To me?"

  "To the murderer."

  "You want him," I said slowly, "not to suspect that you are on his track? That is it, I suppose. Or else you think that I cannot take care of myself."

  "You should at least know one thing, Hastings. A man who has killed once will kill again – and again and again and again."

  "At any rate," I said grimly, "there hasn't been another murder this time. One bullet at least has gone wide."

  "Yes, that was very fortunate – very fortunate indeed. As I told you, these things are difficult to foresee."

  He sighed. His face took on a worried expression.

  I went away quietly, realizing sadly how unfit Poirot was now for any sustained effort. His brain was still keen, but he was a sick and tired man.

  Poirot had warned me not to try to penetrate the personality of X. In my own mind I still clung to my belief that I had penetrated that personality. There was only one person at Styles who struck me as definitely evil. By a simple question, however, I could make sure of one thing. The test would be a negative one, but would nevertheless have a certain value.