'Charles Vyse was there,' I remarked.
'Yes, we must not forget him. He is, logically, our strongest suspect.' He made a gesture of despair and threw himself into a chair opposite mine. 'Voila-it is always that we come back to! Motive! We must find the motive if we are to understand this crime. And it is there, Hastings, that I am continually baffled. Who can possibly have a motive for doing away with Mademoiselle Nick? I have let myself go to the most absurd suppositions. I, Hercule Poirot, have descended to the most ignominious flights of fancy. I have adopted the mentality of the cheap thriller. The grandfather-the "Old Nick"-he who is supposed to have gambled his money away. Did he really do so, I have asked myself? Did he, on the contrary, hide it away? Is it hidden somewhere in End House? Buried somewhere in the grounds? With that end in view (I am ashamed to say it) I inquired of Mademoiselle Nick whether there had ever been any offers to buy the house.'
'Do you know, Poirot,' I said, 'I call that rather a bright idea. There may be something in it.'
Poirot groaned.
'You would say that! It would appeal, I knew, to your romantic but slightly mediocre mind. Buried treasure-yes, you would enjoy that idea.'
'Well-I don't see why not-'
'Because, my friend, the more prosaic explanation is nearly always more probable. Then Mademoiselle's father-I have played with even more degrading ideas concerning him. He was a traveller. Supposing, I say to myself, that he has stolen a jewel-the eye of a God. Jealous priests are on his tracks. Yes, I, Hercule Poirot, have descended to depths such as these.'
'I have had other ideas concerning this father,' he went on. 'Ideas at once more dignified and more probable. Did he, in the course of his wanderings, contract a second marriage? Is there a nearer heir than M. Charles Vyse? But again, that leads nowhere, for we are up against the same difficulty-that there is really nothing of value to inherit.'
'I have neglected no possibility. Even that chance reference of Mademoiselle Nick's to the offer made her by M. Lazarus. You remember? The offer to purchase her grandfather's portrait. I telegraphed on Saturday for an expert to come down and examine that picture. He was the man about whom I wrote to Mademoiselle this morning. Supposing, for instance, it were worth several thousand pounds?'
'You surely don't think a rich man like young Lazarus-?'
'Is he rich? Appearances are not everything. Even an old-established firm with palatial showrooms and every appearance of prosperity may rest on a rotten basis. And what does one do then? Does one run about crying out that times are hard? No, one buys a new and luxurious car. One spends a little more money than usual. One lives a little more ostentatiously. For credit, see you, is everything! But sometimes a monumental business has crashed-for no more than a few thousand pounds-of ready money.'
'Oh! I know,' he continued, forestalling my protests. 'It is far-fetched-but it is not so bad as revengeful priests or buried treasure. It bears, at any rate, some relationship to things as they happen. And we can neglect nothing-nothing that might bring us nearer the truth.'
With careful fingers he straightened the objects on the table in front of him. When he spoke, his voice was grave and, for the first time, calm.
'Motive!' he said. 'Let us come back to that, and regard this problem calmly and methodically. To begin with, how many kinds of motive are there for murder? What are the motives which lead one human being to take another human being's life?'
'We exclude for the moment homicidal mania. Because I am absolutely convinced that the solution of our problem does not lie there. We also exclude killing done on the spur of the moment under the impulse of an ungovernable temper. This is cold-blooded deliberate murder. What are the motives that actuate such a murder as that?'
'There is, first, Gain. Who stood to gain by Mademoiselle Buckley's death? Directly or indirectly? Well, we can put down Charles Vyse. He inherits a property that, from the financial point of view, is probably not worth inheriting. He might, perhaps, pay off the mortgage, build small villas on the land and eventually make a small profit. It is possible. The place might be worth something to him if he had any deeply cherished love of it-if, it were, for instance, a family place. That is, undoubtedly, an instinct very deeply implanted in some human beings, and it has, in cases I have known, actually led to crime. But I cannot see any such motive in M. Vyse's case.'
'The only other person who would benefit at all by Mademoiselle Buckley's death is her friend, Madame Rice. But the amount would clearly be a very small one. Nobody else, as far as I can see, gains by Mademoiselle Buckley's death.'
'What is another motive? Hate-or love that has turned to hate. The crime passionnel. Well, there again we have the word of the observant Madame Croft that both Charles Vyse and Commander Challenger are in love with the young lady.'
'I think we can say that we have observed the latter phenomenon for ourselves,' I remarked, with a smile.
'Yes-he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve, the honest sailor. For the other, we rely on the word of Madame Croft. Now, if Charles Vyse felt that he were supplanted, would he be so powerfully affected that he would kill his cousin rather than let her become the wife of another man?'
'It sounds very melodramatic,' I said, doubtfully.
'It sounds, you would say, un-English. I agree. But even the English have emotions. And a type such as Charles Vyse, is the most likely to have them. He is a repressed young man. One who does not show his feelings easily. Such often have the most violent feelings. I would never suspect the Commander Challenger of murder for emotional reasons. No, no, he is not the type. But with Charles Vyse-yes, it is possible. But it does not entirely satisfy me.'
'Another motive for crime-Jealousy. I separate it from the last, because jealousy may not, necessarily, be a sexual emotion. There is envy-envy of possession-of supremacy. Such a jealousy as drove the Iago of your great Shakespeare to one of the cleverest crimes (speaking from the professional point of view) that has ever been committed.'
'Why was it so clever?' I asked, momentarily diverted.
'Parbleu-because he got others to execute it. Imagine a criminal nowadays on whom one was unable to put the handcuffs because he had never done anything himself. But this is not the subject we were discussing. Can jealousy, of any kind, be responsible for this crime? Who has reason to envy Mademoiselle? Another woman? There is only Madame Rice, and as far as we can see, there was no rivalry between the two women. But again, that is only "as far as we can see". There may be something there.'
'Lastly-Fear. Does Mademoiselle Nick, by any chance, hold somebody's secret in her power? Does she know something which, if it were known, might ruin another life? If so, I think we can say very definitely, that she herself is unaware of it. But that might be, you know. That might be. And if so, it makes it very difficult. Because, whilst she holds the clue in her hands, she holds it unconsciously and will be quite unable to tell us what it is.'
'You really think that is possible?'
'It is a hypothesis. I am driven to it by the difficulty of finding a reasonable theory elsewhere. When you have eliminated other possibilities you turn to the one that is left and say-since the other is not-this must be so…'
He was silent a long time.
At last, rousing himself from his absorption, he drew a sheet of paper towards him and began to write.
'What are you writing?' I asked, curiously.
'Mon ami, I am composing a list. It is a list of people surrounding Mademoiselle Buckley. Within that list, if my theory is correct, there must be the name of the murderer.'
He continued to write for perhaps twenty minutes-then shoved the sheets of paper across to me.
'Voila, mon ami. See what you make of it.' The following is a reproduction of the paper:
A. Ellen.
B. Her gardener husband.
C. Their child.
D. Mr Croft.
E. Mrs Croft.
F. Mrs Rice.
G. Mr Lazarus.
H. Commander
Challenger.
I. Mr Charles Vyse.
J.
Remarks:
Ellen.-Suspicious circumstances. Her attitude and words on hearing of the crime. Best opportunity of anyone to have staged accidents and to have known of pistol, but unlikely to have tampered with car, and general mentality of crime seems above her level.
Motive.-None-unless hate arising out of some incident unknown.
Note.-Further inquiries as to her antecedents and general relations with N. B.
Her Husband.-Same as above. More likely to have tampered with car.
Note.-Should be interviewed.
Child.-Can be ruled out.
Note.-Should be interviewed. Might give valuable information.
Mr Croft.-Only suspicious circumstance the fact that we met him mounting the stair to bedroom floor. Had ready explanation which may be true. But it may not!
Nothing known of antecedents. Motive.-None.
Mrs Croft.-Suspicious circumstances.-None.
Motive.-None.
Mrs Rice.-Suspicious circumstances. Full opportunity. Asked N. B. to fetch wrap. Has deliberately tried to create impression that N. B. is a liar and her account of 'accidents' not to be relied on. Was not at Tavistock when accidents occurred. Where was she?
Motive.-Gain? Very slight. Jealousy? Possible, but nothing known. Fear? Also possible, but nothing known.
Note.-Converse with N. B. on subject. See if any light is thrown upon matter. Possibly something to do with F. R.'s marriage.
Mr Lazarus.-Suspicious circumstances. General opportunity. Offer to buy picture. Said brakes of car were quite all right (according to F. R.). May have been in neighbourhood prior to Friday.
Motive.-None-unless profit on picture. Fear?-unlikely.
Note.-Find out where J. L. was before arriving at St Loo. Find out financial position of Aaron Lazarus Son.
Commander Challenger.-Suspicious circumstances. None. Was in neighbourhood all last week, so opportunity for 'accidents' good. Arrived half an hour after murder.
Motive.-None.
Mr Vyse.-Suspicious circumstances. Was absent from office at time when shot was fired in garden of hotel. Opportunity good. Statement about selling of End House open to doubt. Of a repressed temperament. Would probably know about pistol.
Motive.-Gain? (slight) Love or Hate? Possible with one of his temperament. Fear? Unlikely.
Note.-Find out who held mortgage. Find out position of Vyse's firm.
?-There could be a J., e.g. an outsider. But with a link in the form of one of the foregoing. If so, probably connected with A. D. and E. or F. The existence of J. would explain (1) Ellen's lack of surprise at crime and her pleasurable satisfaction. (But that might be due to natural pleasurable excitement of her class over deaths.) (2) The reason for Croft and his wife coming to live in lodge. (3) Might supply motive for F. R.'s fear of secret being revealed or for jealousy.
Poirot watched me as I read.
'It is very English, is it not?' he remarked, with pride. 'I am more English when I write than when I speak.'
'It's an excellent piece of work,' I said, warmly. 'It sets all the possibilities out most clearly.'
'Yes,' he said, thoughtfully, as he took it back from me. 'And one name leaps to the eye, my friend. Charles Vyse. He has the best opportunities. We have given him the choice of two motives. Ma foi – if that was a list of racehorses, he would start favourite, n'est-ce pas?'
'He is certainly the most likely suspect.'
'You have a tendency, Hastings, to prefer the least likely. That, no doubt, is from reading too many detective stories. In real life, nine times out of ten, it is the most likely and the most obvious person who commits the crime.'
'But you don't really think that is so this time?'
'There is only one thing that is against it. The boldness of the crime! That has stood out from the first. Because of that, as I say, the motive cannot be obvious.'
'Yes, that is what you said at first.’
‘And that is what I say again.'
With a sudden brusque gesture he crumpled the sheets of paper and threw them on the floor.
'No,' he said, as I uttered an exclamation of protest. 'That list has been in vain. Still, it has cleared my mind. Order and method! That is the first stage. To arrange the facts with neatness and precision. The next stage-'
'Yes.'
'The next stage is that of the psychology. The correct employment of the little grey cells! I advise you, Hastings, to go to bed.'
'No,' I said. 'Not unless you do. I'm not going to leave you.'
'Most faithful of dogs! But see you, Hastings, you cannot assist me to think. That is all I am going to do-think.'
I still shook my head.
'You might want to discuss some point with me.'
'Well-well-you are a loyal friend. Take at least, I beg of you, the easy-chair.'
That proposal I did accept. Presently the room began to swim and dip. The last thing I remember was seeing Poirot carefully retrieving the crumpled sheets of paper from the floor and putting them away tidily in the waste-paper basket.
Then I must have fallen asleep.
Chapter 10 – Nick's Secret
It was daylight when I awoke.
Poirot was still sitting where he had been the night before. His attitude was the same, but in his face was a difference. His eyes were shining with that queer catlike green light that I knew so well.
I struggled to an upright position, feeling very stiff and uncomfortable. Sleeping in a chair is a proceeding not to be recommended at my time of life. Yet one thing at least resulted from it-I awoke not in that pleasant state of lazy somnolence but with a mind and brain as active as when I fell asleep.
'Poirot,' I cried. 'You have thought of something.'
He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.
'Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress-she never wears black? Why did she say last night, "I have nothing to live for-now"?'
I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.
'Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.'
'Well-as to the first-she said she had been worried lately.'
'Precisely. What has she been worried about?'
'And the black dress-well, everybody wants a change sometimes.'
'For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.'
'And the last-well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.'
'No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin's death, to reproach herself for it-yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness-as of a thing no longer dear to her. Never before had she displayed that attitude. She had been defiant-yes-she had snapped the fingers, yes-and then, when that broke down, she was afraid. Afraid, mark you, because life was sweet and she did not wish to die. But weary of life-no! That never! Even before dinner that was not so. We have there, Hastings, a psychological change. And that is interesting. What was it caused her point of view to change?'
'The shock of her cousin's death.'
'I wonder. It was the shock that loosed her tongue. But suppose the change was before that. Is there anything else could account for it?'
'I don't know of anything.'
'Think, Hastings. Use your little grey cells.'
'Really-'
'What was the last moment we had the opportunity of observing her?'
'Well, actually, I suppose, at dinner.'
'Exactly. After that, we only saw her receiving guests, making them welcome-purely a formal attitude. What happened at the end of dinner, Hastings?'
'She went to telephone,' I said, slowly.
'A la bonne heure. You have got there at last. She went to telephone. And she was abse
nt a long time. Twenty minutes at least. That is a long time for a telephone call. Who spoke to her over the telephone? What did they say? Did she really telephone? We have to find out, Hastings, what happened in that twenty minutes. For there, or so I fully believe, we shall find the clue we seek.'
'You really think so?'
'Mais oui, mais oui! All along, Hastings, I have told you that Mademoiselle has been keeping something back. She doesn't think it has any connection with the murder-but I, Hercule Poirot, know better! It must have a connection. For, all along, I have been conscious that there is a factor lacking. If there were not a factor lacking-why then, the whole thing would be plain to me! And as it is not plain to me-eh bien-then the missing factor is the keystone of the mystery! I know I am right, Hastings. I must know the answer to those three questions. And, then-and then-I shall begin to see…'
'Well,' I said, stretching my stiffened limbs, 'I think a bath and a shave are indicated.'
By the time I had had a bath and changed into day clothing I felt better. The stiffness and weariness of a night passed in uncomfortable conditions passed off. I arrived at the breakfast table feeling that one drink of hot coffee would restore me to my normal self.
I glanced at the paper, but there was little news in it beyond the fact that Michael Seton's death was now definitely confirmed. The intrepid airman had perished. I wondered whether, tomorrow, new headlines would have sprung into being: 'GIRL MURDERED DURING FIREWORK PARTY. MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY.' Something like that.
I had just finished breakfast when Frederica Rice came up to my table. She was wearing a plain little frock of black marocain with a little soft pleated white collar. Her fairness was more evident than ever.
'I want to see M. Poirot, Captain Hastings. Is he up yet, do you know?'
'I will take you up with me now,' I said. 'We shall find him in the sitting-room.'
'Thank you.'
'I hope,' I said, as we left the dining-room together, 'that you didn't sleep too badly?'
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