Curtain hp-39

by Agatha Christie

  Her hand crept up to her mouth. Her eyes, wide and scared, looked into mine.

  "You're mad," she said. "You must be mad. Who told you that?"

  "Never mind," I said. "It's true. Someday I'll prove it to you."

  III

  Near the house I ran into Boyd Carrington.

  "This is my last evening," he told me. "I move out tomorrow."

  "To Knatton?"

  "Yes."

  "That's very exciting for you."

  "Is it? I suppose it is." He gave a sigh. "Anyway, Hastings, I don't mind telling you, I shall be glad to leave here."

  "The food is certainly pretty bad and the service isn't good."

  "I don't mean that. After all, it's cheap, and you can't expect much from these paying guest places. No, Hastings, I mean more than discomfort. I don't like this house – there's some malign influence about it. Things happen here."

  "They certainly do."

  "I don't know what it is. Perhaps a house that has once had a murder in it is never quite the same afterwards… But I don't like it. First there was that accident to Mrs Luttrell – a damned unlucky thing to happen. And then there was poor little Barbara."

  He paused.

  "The most unlikely person in the world to have committed suicide, I should have said."

  I hesitated.

  "Well, I don't know that I'd go as far as that -"

  He interrupted me.

  "Well, I would. Hang it all, I was with her most of the day before. She was in good spirits – enjoyed our outing. The only thing she was worrying about was whether John wasn't getting too much wrapped up in his experiments and might overdo things or try some of his messes upon himself. Do you know what I think, Hastings?"

  "No."

  "That husband of hers is the one who's responsible for her death. Nagged at her, I expect. She was always happy enough when she was with me. He let her see that she handicapped his precious career (I'd give him a career!) and it broke her up. Damned callous, that fellow, hasn't turned a hair. Told me as cool as anything he was off to Africa now. Really, you know, Hastings, I shouldn't be surprised if he'd actually murdered her."

  "You don't mean that," I said sharply.

  "No – no, I don't really. Though, mind you, mainly because I can see that if he murdered her, he wouldn't do it that way. I mean he was known to be working on this stuff – physostigmine – so it stands to reason if he'd done her in, he wouldn't have used that. But all the same, Hastings, I'm not the only one to think that Franklin 's a suspicious character. I had the tip from someone who ought to know."

  "Who was that?" I asked sharply.

  Boyd Carrington lowered his voice.

  "Nurse Craven."

  "What?" I was intensely surprised.

  "Hush. Don't shout. Yes, Nurse Craven put the idea into my head. She's a smart girl, you know, got her wits about her. She doesn't like Franklin – hasn't liked him all along."

  I wondered. I should have said that it was her own patient whom Nurse Craven had disliked. It occurred to me suddenly that Nurse Craven must know a good deal about the Franklin menage.

  "She's staying here tonight," said Boyd Carrington.

  "What?" I was rather startled. Nurse Craven had left immediately after the funeral.

  "Just for a night between cases," explained Boyd Carrington.

  "I see."

  I was vaguely disquieted by Nurse Craven's return, yet I could hardly have said why, Was there, I wondered, any reason for her coming back? She didn't like Franklin, Boyd Carrington had said…

  Reassuring myself, I said with sudden vehemence:

  "She's no right to hint things about Franklin. After all, it was her evidence that helped to establish suicide. That, and Poirot's seeing Mrs Franklin coming out of the studio with a bottle in her hand."

  Boyd Carrington snapped:

  "What's a bottle? Women are always carrying bottles – scent bottles, hair lotion, nail polish. That wench of yours was running about with a bottle in her hand that evening – it doesn't mean she was thinking of suicide, does it? Nonsense!"

  He broke off as Allerton came up to us. Most appropriately, in melodramatic fashion, there was a low rumble of thunder in the distance. I reflected, as I had reflected before, that Allerton was certainly cast for the part of the villain.

  But he had been away from the house on the night of Barbara Franklin's death. And besides, what possible motive could he have had?

  But then, I reflected, X never had a motive. That was the strength of his position. It was that, and that only, that was holding us up. And yet, at any minute, that tiny flash of illumination might come.

  IV

  I think that here and now I should like to place on record that I had never, all through, considered for one moment that Poirot might fail. In the conflict between Poirot and X, I had never contemplated the possibility that X might come out victor. In spite of Poirot's feebleness and ill health, I had faith in him as potentially the stronger of the two. I was used, you see, to Poirot's succeeding.

  It was Poirot himself who first put a doubt into my head.

  I went in to see him on my way down to dinner. I forget now exactly what led to it, but he suddenly used the phrase "if anything happens to me."

  I protested immediately and loudly. Nothing would happen – nothing could happen.

  "Eh bien, then you have not listened carefully to what Dr Franklin told you."

  " Franklin doesn't know. You're good for many a long year yet, Poirot."

  "It is possible, my friend, though extremely unlikely. But I speak now in the particular and not the general sense. Though I may die very soon, it may still be not soon enough to suit our friend X."

  "What?" My face showed my shocked reaction.

  Poirot nodded.

  "But yes, Hastings. X is, after all, intelligent. In fact, most intelligent. And X cannot fail to perceive that my elimination, even if it were only to precede natural decease by a few days, might be of inestimable advantage."

  "But then – but then – what would happen?"

  I was bewildered.

  "When the colonel falls, mon ami, the second in command takes over. You will continue."

  "How can I? I'm entirely in the dark."

  "I have arranged for that. If anything happens to me, my friend, you will find here -" he patted the locked dispatch case by his side – "all the clues you need. I have arranged, you see, for every eventuality."

  "There is really no need to be clever. Just tell me now everything there is to know."

  "No, my friend. The fact that you do not know what I know is a valuable asset."

  "You have left me a clearly written account of things?"

  "Certainly not. X might get hold of it."

  "Then what have you left?"

  "Indications in kind. They will mean nothing to X – be assured of that – but they will lead you to the discovery of the truth."

  "I'm not so sure of that. Why must you have such a tortuous mind, Poirot? You always like making everything difficult. You always have!"

  "And it is now with me a passion? Is that what you would say? Perhaps. But rest assured, my indications will lead you to the truth." He paused. Then he said: "And perhaps, then, you would wish that they had not led you so far. You would say instead: 'Ring down the curtain.'"

  Something in his voice started again that vague unformulated dread that I had once or twice felt spasms of already. It was as though somewhere, just out of sight, was a fact that I did not want to see – that I could not bear to acknowledge. Something that already, deep down, I knew…

  I shook the feeling off and went down to dinner.

  Chapter 17

  I

  Dinner was a reasonably cheerful meal. Mrs Luttrell was down again and in her best vein of artificial Irish gaiety. Franklin was more animated and cheerful than I had yet seen him. Nurse Craven I saw for the first time in mufti instead of her nurse's uniform. She was certainly a very attractive young
woman now that she had cast off her professional reserve.

  After dinner Mrs Luttrell suggested bridge, but in the end some round games were started. About half-past nine Norton declared his intention of going up to see Poirot.

  "Good idea." said Boyd Carrington. "Sorry he's been under the weather lately. I'll come up too."

  I had to act quickly.

  "Look here." I said. "do you mind – it really tires him too much to talk to more than one person at a time."

  Norton took the cue and said quickly:

  "I promised to lend him a book on birds."

  Boyd Carrington said:

  "All right. You coming back again, Hastings?"

  "Yes."

  I went up with Norton. Poirot was waiting. After a word or two I came down again. We began playing rummy.

  Boyd Carrington, I think, resented the carefree atmosphere of Styles tonight. He thought, perhaps, that it was too soon after the tragedy for everyone to forget. He was absent-minded, forgot frequently what he was doing, and at last excused himself from further play.

  He went to the window and opened it. The sound of thunder could be heard in the distance. There was a storm about, although it had not yet reached us. He closed the window again and came back. He stood for a minute or two watching us play. Then he went out of the room.

  I went up to bed at a quarter to eleven. I did not go in to Poirot. He might be asleep. Moreover I felt a reluctance to think any more about Styles and its problems. I wanted to sleep – to sleep and forget.

  I was just dropping off when a sound wakened me. I thought it might have been a tap on my door. I called "Come in," but as there was no response, I switched the light on and, getting up, looked out into the corridor.

  I saw Norton just coming from the bathroom and going into his own room. He wore a checked dressing gown of particularly hideous colouring and his hair was sticking up on end as usual. He went into his room and shut the door, and immediately afterwards I heard him turn the key in the lock.

  Overhead there was a low rumbling of thunder. The storm was coming nearer.

  I went back to bed with a slightly uneasy feeling induced by the sound of that turning key.

  It suggested, very faintly, sinister possibilities. Did Norton usually lock his door at night? I wondered. Had Poirot warned him to do so? I remembered with sudden uneasiness how Poirot's door key had mysteriously disappeared.

  I lay in bed and my uneasiness grew while the storm overhead added to my feeling of nerviness. I got up at last and locked my own door. Then I went back to bed and slept.

  II

  I went in to Poirot before going down to breakfast.

  He was in bed and I was struck again by how ill he looked. Deep lines of weariness and fatigue were on his face.

  "How are you, old boy?"

  He smiled patiently at me.

  "I exist, my friend. I still exist."

  "Not in pain?"

  "No – just tired," he sighed, "very tired."

  I nodded.

  "What about last night? Did Norton tell you what he saw that day?"

  "He told me, yes."

  "What was it?"

  Poirot looked at me long and thoughtfully before he replied:

  "I am not sure, Hastings, that I had better tell you. You might misunderstand."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Norton," said Poirot, "tells me he saw two people -"

  "Judith and Allerton," I cried. "I thought so at the time."

  "Eh bien, non. Not Judith and Allerton. Did I not tell you you would misunderstand? You are a man of one idea!"

  "Sorry," I said, a little abashed. "Tell me."

  "I will tell you tomorrow. I have much on which I wish to reflect."

  "Does it – does it help with the case?"

  Poirot nodded. He closed his eyes, leaning back in his pillows.

  "The case is ended. Yes, it is ended. There are only some loose ends to be tied. Go down to breakfast, my friend. And as you go, send Curtiss to me."

  I did so and went downstairs. I wanted to see Norton. I was deeply curious to know what it was that he had told Poirot.

  Subconsciously I was still not happy. The lack of elation in Poirot's manner struck me disagreeably. Why this persistent secrecy? Why that deep inexplicable sadness? What was the truth of all this?

  Norton was not at breakfast.

  I strolled out into the garden afterwards. The air was fresh and cool after the storm. I noticed that it had rained heavily. Boyd Carrington was on the lawn. I felt pleased to see him and wished that I could take him into my confidence. I had wanted to all along. I was very tempted to do so now. Poirot was really unfit to carry on by himself.

  This morning Boyd Carrington looked so vital, so sure of himself, that I felt a wave of warmth and reassurance.

  "You're up late this morning," he said.

  I nodded.

  "I slept late."

  "Bit of a thunderstorm last night. Hear it?"

  I remembered now that I had been conscious of the rolling of thunder through my sleep.

  "I felt a bit under the weather last night," said Boyd Carrington. "I feel a lot better today." He stretched his arms out and yawned.

  "Where's Norton?" I asked.

  "Don't think he's up yet. Lazy devil."

  With common accord we raised our eyes. Where we were standing, the windows of Norton's room were just above us. I started. For alone in the façade of windows, Norton's were still shuttered.

  I said: "That's odd. Do you think they've forgotten to call him?"

  "Funny. Hope he's not ill. Let's go up and see."

  We went up together. The housemaid, a rather stupid-looking girl, was in the passage. In answer to a question she replied that Mr Norton hadn't answered when she knocked. She'd knocked once or twice but he hadn't seemed to hear. His door was locked,

  A nasty foreboding swept over me. I rapped loudly on the door, calling as I did so:

  "Norton – Norton. Wake up!"

  And again with growing uneasiness:

  "Wake up…"

  III

  When it was apparent that there was going to be no answer, we went and found Colonel Luttrell. He listened to us with a vague alarm showing in his faded blue eyes. He pulled uncertainly at his moustache.

  Mrs Luttrell, always the one for prompt decisions, made no bones about it.

  "You'll have to get that door open somehow. There's nothing else for it."

  For the second time in my life, I saw a door broken open at Styles. Behind that door was what bad been behind a locked door on the first occasion. Death by violence.

  Norton was lying on his bed in his dressing gown. The key of the door was in the pocket. In his hand was a small pistol, a mere toy, but capable of doing its work. There was a small hole in the exact centre of his forehead.

  For a moment or two I could not think of what I was reminded. Something, surely very old…

  I was too tired to remember.

  IV

  As I came into Poirot's room, be saw my face.

  He said quickly:

  "What has happened? Norton?"

  "Dead!"

  "How? When?"

  Briefly I told him.

  I ended wearily:

  "They say it's suicide. What else can they say? The door was locked. The windows were shuttered. The key was in his pocket Why! I actually saw him go in and heard him lock the door."

  "You saw him, Hastings?"

  "Yes, last night."

  I explained:

  "You're sure it was Norton?"

  "Of course. I'd know that awful old dressing gown anywhere."

  For a moment Poirot became his old self.

  "Ah! But it is a man you are identifying, not a dressing gown. Ma foi! Anyone can wear a dressing gown."

  "It's true," I said slowly, "that I didn't see his face. But it was his hair, all right, and that slight limp -"

  "Anyone could limp, mon Dieu!"

 
; I looked at him, startled.

  "Do you mean to suggest, Poirot, that it wasn't Norton that I saw?"

  "I am not suggesting anything of the kind. I am merely annoyed by the unscientific reasons you give for saying it was Norton. No, no, I do not for one minute suggest that it was not Norton. It would be difficult for it to be anyone else, for every man here is tall – very much taller than he was – and enfin, you cannot disguise height – that, no. Norton was only five foot five, I should say. Tout de même, it is like a conjuring trick, is it not? He goes into his room, locks the door, puts the key in his pocket, and is found shot with the pistol in his hand and the key still in his pocket."

  "Then you don't believe," I said, "that he shot himself?"

  Slowly Poirot shook his head.

  "No," he said. "Norton did not shoot himself. He was deliberately killed."

  V

  I went downstairs in a maze. The thing was so inexplicable I may be forgiven, I hope, for not seeing the next inevitable step. I was dazed. My mind was not working properly.

  And yet it was so logical. Norton had been killed – why? To prevent, or so I believed, his telling what he had seen.

  But he had confided that knowledge to one other person.

  So that person, too, was in danger…

  And was not only in danger, but was helpless.

  I should have known.

  I should have foreseen…

  " Cher ami!" Poirot had said to me as I left the room.

  They were the last words I was ever to hear him say. For when Curtiss came to attend to his master, he found that master dead…

  Chapter 18

  I

  I don't want to write about it at all.

  I want, you see, to think about it as little as possible. Hercule Poirot was dead – and with him died a good part of Arthur Hastings.

  I will give you the bare facts without embroidery. It is all I can bear to do.

  He died, they said, of natural causes. That is to say, he died of a heart attack. It was the way, so Franklin said, that he had expected him to go. Doubtless the shock of Norton's death brought one on. By some oversight, it seems, the amyl nitrite ampoules were not by his bed.