Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery

  ‘You mean—?’

  ‘The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.’

  ‘Ah c’est malin.’

  ‘Quite so.’

  ‘Ah, well, well,’ murmured Poirot. ‘The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.’

  His eyes twinkled with their old glint.

  Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.

  ‘Dancing on the edge of death,’ she said lightly.

  ‘It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?’

  ‘Yes. Rather fun.’

  She was off again, with a wave of her hand.

  ‘I wish she hadn’t said that,’ I said, slowly.

  ‘Dancing on the edge of death. I don’t like it.’

  ‘I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage—voilàce qu’il nous faut!’

  The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-past eleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.

  ‘Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.’

  ‘Clear for what?’

  ‘You shall see.’

  We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.

  When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, ‘End House. Private.’ There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.

  In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened the door and went out into the hall. From there he mounted the stairs, I at his heels. He went straight to Nick’s bedroom—sat down on the edge of the bed and nodded to me with a twinkle.

  ‘You see, my friend, how easy it is. No one has seen us come. No one will see us go. We could do any little affair we had to do in perfect safety. We could, for instance, fray through a picture wire so that it would be bound to snap before many hours had passed. And supposing that by chance anyone did happen to be in front of the house and see us coming. Then we would have a perfectly natural excuse—providing that we were known as friends of the house.’

  ‘You mean that we can rule out a stranger?’

  ‘That is what I mean, Hastings. It is no stray lunatic who is at the bottom of this. We must look nearer home than that.’

  He turned to leave the room and I followed him. We neither of us spoke. We were both, I think, troubled in mind.

  And then, at the bend of the staircase, we both stopped abruptly. A man was coming up.

  He too stopped. His face was in shadow but his attitude was one of one completely taken aback. He was the first to speak, in a loud, rather bullying voice.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here, I’d like to know?’

  ‘Ah!’ said Poirot. ‘Monsieur—Croft, I think?’

  ‘That’s my name, but what—’

  ‘Shall we go into the drawing-room to converse? It would be better, I think.’

  The other gave way, turned abruptly and descended, we following close on his heels. In the drawing-room, with the door shut, Poirot made a little bow.

  ‘I will introduce myself. Hercule Poirot at your service.’

  The other’s face cleared a little.

  ‘Oh!’ he said slowly. ‘You’re the detective chap. I’ve read about you.’

  ‘In the St Loo Herald?’

  ‘Eh? I’ve read about you way back in Australia. French, aren’t you?’

  ‘Belgian. It makes no matter. This is my friend, Captain Hastings.’

  ‘Glad to meet you. But look, what’s the big idea? What are you doing here? Anything—wrong?’

  ‘It depends what you call—wrong.’

  The Australian nodded. He was a fine-looking man in spite of his bald head and advancing years. His physique was magnificent. He had a heavy, rather underhung face—a crude face, I called it to myself. The piercing blue of his eyes was the most noticeable thing about him.

  ‘See here,’ he said. ‘I came round to bring little Miss Buckley a handful of tomatoes and a cucumber. That man of hers is no good—bone idle—doesn’t grow a thing. Lazy hound. Mother and I—why, it makes us mad, and we feel it’s only neighbourly to do what we can! We’ve got a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. Neighbours should be matey, don’t you think? I came in, as usual, through the window and dumped the basket down. I was just going off again when I heard footsteps and men’s voices overhead. That struck me as odd. We don’t deal much in burglars round here—but after all it was possible. I thought I’d just make sure everything was all right. Then I met you two on the stairs coming down. It gave me a bit of a surprise. And now you tell me you’re a bonza detective. What’s it all about?’

  ‘It is very simple,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘Mademoiselle had a rather alarming experience the other night. A picture fell above her bed. She may have told you of it?’

  ‘She did. A mighty fine escape.’

  ‘To make all secure I promised to bring her some special chain—it will not do to repeat the occurrence, eh? She tells me she is going out this morning, but I may come and measure what amount of chain will be needed. Voilà—it is simple.’

  He flung out his hands with a childlike simplicity and his most engaging smile.

  Croft drew a deep breath.

  ‘So that’s all it is?’

  ‘Yes—you have had the scare for nothing. We are very law-abiding citizens, my friend and I.’

  ‘Didn’t I see you yesterday?’ said Croft, slowly. ‘Yesterday evening it was. You passed our little place.’

  ‘Ah! yes, you were working in the garden and were so polite as to say good-afternoon when we passed.’

  ‘That’s right. Well—well. And you’re the Monsieur Hercule Poirot I’ve heard so much about. Tell me, are you busy, Mr Poirot? Because if not, I wish you’d come back with me now—have a cup of morning tea, Australian fashion, and meet my old lady. She’s read all about you in the newspapers.’

  ‘You are too kind, M. Croft. We have nothing to do and shall be delighted.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘You have the measurements correctly, Hastings?’ asked Poirot, turning to me.

  I assured him that I had the measurements correctly and we accompanied our new friend.

  Croft was a talker; we soon realized that. He told us of his home near Melbourne, of his early struggles, of his meeting with his wife, of their combined efforts and of his final good fortune and success.

  ‘Right away we made up our minds to travel,’ he said. ‘We’d always wanted to come to the old country. Well, we did. We came down to this part of the world—tried to look up some of my wife’s people—they came from round about here. But we couldn’t trace any of them. Then we took a trip on the Continent—Paris, Rome, the Italian Lakes, Florence—all those places. It was while we were in Italy that we had the train accident. My poor wife was badly smashed up. Cruel, wasn’t it? I’ve taken her to the best doctors and they all say the same—there’s nothing for it but time—time and lying up. It’s an injury to the spine.’

  ‘What a misfortune!’

  ‘Hard luck, isn’t it? Well, there it was. And she’d only got one kind of fancy—to come down here. She kind of felt if we had a little place of our own—something small—it would make all the difference. We saw a lot of messy-looking shacks, and then by good luck we found this. Nice and quiet and tucked away—no cars passing, or
gramophones next door. I took it right away.’

  With the last words we had come to the lodge itself. He sent his voice echoing forth in a loud ‘Cooee,’ to which came an answering ‘Cooee.’

  ‘Come in,’ said Mr Croft. He passed through the open door and up the short flight of stairs to a pleasant bedroom. There, on a sofa, was a stout middle-aged woman with pretty grey hair and a very sweet smile.

  ‘Who do you think this is, mother?’ said Mr Croft. ‘The extra-special, world-celebrated detective, Mr Hercule Poirot. I brought him right along to have a chat with you.’

  ‘If that isn’t too exciting for words,’ cried Mrs Croft, shaking Poirot warmly by the hand. ‘Read about that Blue Train business, I did, and you just happening to be on it, and a lot about your other cases. Since this trouble with my back, I’ve read all the detective stories that ever were, I should think. Nothing else seems to pass the time away so quick. Bert, dear, call out to Edith to bring the tea along.’

  ‘Right you are, mother.’

  ‘She’s a kind of nurse attendant, Edith is,’ Mrs Croft explained. ‘She comes along each morning to fix me up. We’re not bothering with servants. Bert’s as good a cook and a house-parlourman as you’d find anywhere, and it gives him occupation—that and the garden.’

  ‘Here we are,’ cried Mr Croft, reappearing with a tray. ‘Here’s the tea. This is a great day in our lives, mother.’

  ‘I suppose you’re staying down here, Mr Poirot?’ Mrs Croft asked, as she leaned over a little and wielded the teapot.

  ‘Why, yes, Madame, I take the holiday.’

  ‘But surely I read that you had retired—that you’d taken a holiday for good and all.’

  ‘Ah! Madame, you must not believe everything you read in the papers.’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough. So you still carry on business?’

  ‘When I find a case that interests me.’

  ‘Sure you’re not down here on work?’ inquired Mr Croft, shrewdly. ‘Calling it a holiday might be all part of the game.’

  ‘You mustn’t ask him embarrassing questions, Bert,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘Or he won’t come again. We’re simple people, Mr Poirot, and you’re giving us a great treat coming here today—you and your friend. You really don’t know the pleasure you’re giving us.’

  She was so natural and so frank in her gratification that my heart quite warmed to her.

  ‘That was a bad business about that picture,’ said Mr Croft.

  ‘That poor little girl might have been killed,’ said Mrs Croft, with deep feeling. ‘She is a live wire. Livens the place up when she comes down here. Not much liked in the neighbourhood, so I’ve heard. But that’s the way in these stuck English places. They don’t like life and gaiety in a girl. I don’t wonder she doesn’t spend much time down here, and that long-nosed cousin of hers has no more chance of persuading her to settle down here for good and all than—than—well, I don’t know what.’

  ‘Don’t gossip, Milly,’ said her husband.

  ‘Aha!’ said Poirot. ‘The wind is in that quarter. Trust the instinct of Madame! So M. Charles Vyse is in love with our little friend?’

  ‘He’s silly about her,’ said Mrs Croft. ‘But she won’t marry a country lawyer. And I don’t blame her. He’s a poor stick, anyway. I’d like her to marry that nice sailor—what’s his name, Challenger. Many a smart marriage might be worse than that. He’s older than she is, but what of that? Steadying—that’s what she needs. Flying about all over the place, the Continent even, all alone or with that queer-looking Mrs Rice. She’s a sweet girl, Mr Poirot—I know that well enough. But I’m worried about her. She’s looked none too happy lately. She’s had what I call a haunted kind of look. And that worries me! I’ve got my reasons for being interested in that girl, haven’t I, Bert?’

  Mr Croft got up from his chair rather suddenly.

  ‘No need to go into that, Milly,’ he said. ‘I wonder, Mr Poirot, if you’d care to see some snapshots of Australia?’

  The rest of our visit passed uneventfully. Ten minutes later we took our leave.

  ‘Nice people,’ I said. ‘So simple and unassuming. Typical Australians.’

  ‘You liked them?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘They were very pleasant—very friendly.’

  ‘Well, what is it, then? There’s something, I can see.’

  ‘They were, perhaps, just a shade too “typical”,’ said Poirot, thoughtfully. ‘That cry of Cooee—that insistence on showing us snapshots—was it not playing a part just a little too thoroughly?’

  ‘What a suspicious old devil you are!’

  ‘You are right, mon ami. I am suspicious of everyone—of everything. I am afraid, Hastings—afraid.’

  Chapter 6

  A Call Upon Mr Vyse

  Poirot clung firmly to the Continental breakfast. To see me consuming eggs and bacon upset and distressed him—so he always said. Consequently he breakfasted in bed upon coffee and rolls and I was free to start the day with the traditional Englishman’s breakfast of bacon and eggs and marmalade.

  I looked into his room on Monday morning as I went downstairs. He was sitting up in bed arrayed in a very marvellous dressing-gown.

  ‘Bonjour, Hastings. I was just about to ring. This note that I have written, will you be so good as to get it taken over to End House and delivered to Mademoiselle at once.’

  I held out my hand for it. Poirot looked at me and sighed.

  ‘If only—if only, Hastings, you would part your hair in the middle instead of at the side! What a difference it would make to the symmetry of your appearance. And your moustache. If you must have a moustache, let it be a real moustache—a thing of beauty such as mine.’

  Repressing a shudder at the thought, I took the note firmly from Poirot’s hand and left the room.

  I had rejoined him in our sitting-room when word was sent up to say Miss Buckley had called. Poirot gave the order for her to be shown up.

  She came in gaily enough, but I fancied that the circles under her eyes were darker than usual. In her hand she held a telegram which she handed to Poirot.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘I hope that will please you!’

  Poirot read it aloud.

  ‘Arrive 5.30 today. Maggie.’

  ‘My nurse and guardian!’ said Nick. ‘But you’re wrong, you know. Maggie’s got no kind of brains. Good works is about all she’s fit for. That and never seeing the point of jokes. Freddie would be ten times better at spotting hidden assassins. And Jim Lazarus would be better still. I never feel one has got to the bottom of Jim.’

  ‘And the Commander Challenger?’

  ‘Oh! George! He’d never see anything till it was under his nose. But he’d let them have it when he did see. Very useful when it came to a show-down, George would be.’

  She tossed off her hat and went on:

  ‘I gave orders for the man you wrote about to be let in. It sounds mysterious. Is he installing a dictaphone or something like that?’

  Poirot shook his head.

  ‘No, no, nothing scientific. A very simple little matter of opinion, Mademoiselle. Something I wanted to know.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ said Nick. ‘It’s all great fun, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it, Mademoiselle?’ asked Poirot, gently.

  She stood for a minute with her back to us, looking out of the window. Then she turned. All the brave defiance had gone out of her face. It was childishly twisted awry, as she struggled to keep back the tears.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘It—it isn’t, really. I’m afraid—I’m afraid. Hideously afraid. And I always thought I was brave.’

  ‘So you are, mon enfant, so you are. Both Hastings and I, we have both admired your courage.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I put in warmly.

  ‘No,’ said Nick, shaking her head. ‘I’m not brave. It’s—it’s the waiting. Wondering the whole time if anything more’s going to happen. And how it’ll happen! And expecting it to happen.’


  ‘Yes, yes—it is the strain.’

  ‘Last night I pulled my bed out into the middle of the room. And fastened my window and bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by the road. I couldn’t—I simply couldn’t come through the garden. It’s as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It’s this thing coming on top of everything else.’

  ‘What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?’

  There was a momentary pause before she replied.

  ‘I don’t mean anything particular. What the newspapers call “the strain of modern life”, I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes—all that sort of thing. It’s just that I’ve got into a ridiculous—sort of—of state.’

  She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.

  ‘You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.’

  ‘There isn’t—there really isn’t.’

  ‘There is something you have not told me.’

  ‘I’ve told you every single smallest thing.’

  She spoke sincerely and earnestly.

  ‘About these accidents—about the attacks upon you, yes.’

  ‘Well—then?’

  ‘But you have not told me everything that is in your heart—in your life…’

  She said slowly:

  ‘Can anyone do that…?’

  ‘Ah! then,’ said Poirot, with triumph. ‘You admit it!’

  She shook her head. He watched her keenly.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, shrewdly. ‘It is not your secret?’

  I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.

  ‘Really and truly, M. Poirot, I’ve told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It’s having no suspicions that’s driving me mad! Because I’m not a fool. I can see that if those “accidents” weren’t accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand—somebody who—knows me. And that’s what is so awful. Because I haven’t the least idea—not the very least—who that somebody might be.’