There was a light tap on his door. Harold jumped up to open it.
It was not Elsie who came in but her mother and Harold was aghast at her appearance. She looked suddenly years older. Her grey hair was dishevelled and there were deep black circles under her eyes.
He sprang up and helped her to a chair. She sat down, her breath coming painfully. Harold said quickly:
“You look all in, Mrs. Rice. Can I get you something?”
She shook her head.
“No. Never mind me. I’m all right, really. It’s only the shock. Mr. Waring, a terrible thing has happened.”
Harold asked:
“Is Clayton seriously injured?”
She caught her breath.
“Worse than that. He’s dead . . .”
V
The room spun round.
A feeling as of icy water trickling down his spine rendered Harold incapable of speech for a moment or two.
He repeated dully:
“Dead?”
Mrs. Rice nodded.
She said, and her voice had the flat level tones of complete exhaustion:
“The corner of that marble paperweight caught him right on the temple and he fell back with his head on the iron fender. I don’t know which it was that killed him—but he is certainly dead. I have seen death often enough to know.”
Disaster—that was the word that rang insistently in Harold’s brain. Disaster, disaster, disaster. . . .
He said vehemently:
“It was an accident . . . I saw it happen.”
Mrs. Rice said sharply:
“Of course it was an accident. I know that. But—but—is anyone else going to think so? I’m—frankly, I’m frightened, Harold! This isn’t England.”
Harold said slowly:
“I can confirm Elsie’s story.”
Mrs. Rice said:
“Yes, and she can confirm yours. That—that is just it!”
Harold’s brain, naturally a keen and cautious one, saw her point. He reviewed the whole thing and appreciated the weakness of their position.
He and Elsie had spent a good deal of their time together. Then there was the fact that they had been seen together in the pinewoods by one of the Polish women under rather compromising circumstances. The Polish ladies apparently spoke no English, but they might nevertheless understand it a little. The woman might have known the meaning of words like “jealousy” and “husband” if she had chanced to overhear their conversation. Anyway it was clear that it was something she had said to Clayton that had aroused his jealousy. And now—his death. When Clayton had died, he, Harold, had been in Elsie Clayton’s room. There was nothing to show that he had not deliberately assaulted Philip Clayton with the paperweight. Nothing to show that the jealous husband had not actually found them together. There was only his word and Elsie’s. Would they be believed?
A cold fear gripped him.
He did not imagine—no, he really did not imagine—that either he or Elsie was in danger of being condemned to death for a murder they had not committed. Surely, in any case, it could be only a charge of manslaughter brought against them. (Did they have manslaughter in these foreign countries?) But even if they were acquitted of blame there would have to be an inquiry—it would be reported in all the papers. An English man and woman accused—jealous husband—rising politician. Yes, it would mean the end of his political career. It would never survive a scandal like that.
He said on an impulse:
“Can’t we get rid of the body somehow? Plant it somewhere?”
Mrs. Rice’s astonished and scornful look made him blush. She said incisively:
“My dear Harold, this isn’t a detective story! To attempt a thing like that would be quite crazy.”
“I suppose it would.” He groaned. “What can we do? My God, what can we do?”
Mrs. Rice shook her head despairingly. She was frowning, her mind working painfully.
Harold demanded:
“Isn’t there anything we can do? Anything to avoid this frightful disaster?”
There, it was out—disaster! Terrible—unforeseen—utterly damning.
They stared at each other. Mrs. Rice said hoarsely:
“Elsie—my little girl. I’d do anything . . . It will kill her if she has to go through a thing like this.” And she added: “You too, your career—everything.”
Harold managed to say:
“Never mind me.”
But he did not really mean it.
Mrs. Rice went on bitterly:
“And all so unfair—so utterly untrue! It’s not as though there had ever been anything between you. I know that well enough.”
Harold suggested, catching at a straw:
“You’ll be able to say that at least—that it was all perfectly all right.”
Mrs. Rice said bitterly:
“Yes, if they believe me. But you know what these people out here are like!”
Harold agreed gloomily. To the Continental mind, there would undoubtedly be a guilty connection between himself and Elsie, and all Mrs. Rice’s denials would be taken as a mother lying herself black in the face for her daughter.
Harold said gloomily:
“Yes, we’re not in England, worse luck.”
“Ah!” Mrs. Rice lifted her head. “That’s true . . . It’s not England. I wonder now if something could be done—”
“Yes?” Harold looked at her eagerly.
Mrs. Rice said abruptly:
“How much money have you got?”
“Not much with me.” He added, “I could wire for money, of course.”
Mrs. Rice said grimly:
“We may need a good deal. But I think it’s worth trying.”
Harold felt a faint lifting of despair. He said:
“What is your idea?”
Mrs. Rice spoke decisively.
“We haven’t a chance of concealing the death ourselves, but I do think there’s just a chance of hushing it up officially!”
“You really think so?” Harold was hopeful but slightly incredulous.
“Yes, for one thing the manager of the hotel will be on our side. He’d much rather have the thing hushed up. It’s my opinion that in these out of the way curious little Balkan countries you can bribe anyone and everyone—and the police are probably more corrupt than anyone else!”
Harold said slowly:
“Do you know, I believe you’re right.”
Mrs. Rice went on:
“Fortunately, I don’t think anyone in the hotel heard anything.”
“Who has the room next to Elsie’s on the other side from yours?”
“The two Polish ladies. They didn’t hear anything. They’d have come out into the passage if they had. Philip arrived late, nobody saw him but the night porter. Do you know, Harold, I believe it will be possible to hush the whole thing up—and get Philip’s death certified as due to natural causes! It’s just a question of bribing high enough—and finding the right man—probably the Chief of Police!”
Harold smiled faintly. He said:
“It’s rather Comic Opera, isn’t it? Well, after all, we can but try.”
VI
Mrs. Rice was energy personified. First the manager was summoned. Harold remained in his room, keeping out of it. He and Mrs. Rice had agreed that the story told had better be that of a quarrel between husband and wife. Elsie’s youth and prettiness would command more sympathy.
On the following morning various police officials arrived and were shown up to Mrs. Rice’s bedroom. They left at midday. Harold had wired for money but otherwise had taken no part in the proceedings—indeed he would have been unable to do so since none of these official personages spoke English.
At twelve o’clock Mrs. Rice came to his room. She looked white and tired, but the relief on her face told its own story. She said simply:
“It’s worked!”
“Thank heaven! You’ve been really marvellous! It seems incredible!”
Mrs.
Rice said thoughtfully:
“By the ease with which it went, you might almost think it was quite normal. They practically held out their hands right away. It’s—it’s rather disgusting, really!”
Harold said dryly:
“This isn’t the moment to quarrel with the corruption of the public services. How much?”
“The tariff’s rather high.”
She read out a list of figures.
“The Chief of Police.
The Commissaire.
The Agent.
The Doctor.
The Hotel Manager.
The Night Porter.”
Harold’s comment was merely:
“The night porter doesn’t get much, does he? I suppose it’s mostly a question of gold lace.”
Mrs. Rice explained:
“The manager stipulated that the death should not have taken place in his hotel at all. The official story will be that Philip had a heart attack in the train. He went along the corridor for air—you know how they always leave those doors open—and he fell out on the line. It’s wonderful what the police can do when they try!”
“Well,” said Harold. “Thank God our police force isn’t like that.”
And in a British and superior mood he went down to lunch.
VII
After lunch Harold usually joined Mrs. Rice and her daughter for coffee. He decided to make no change in his usual behaviour.
This was the first time he had seen Elsie since the night before. She was very pale and was obviously still suffering from shock, but she made a gallant endeavour to behave as usual, uttering small commonplaces about the weather and the scenery.
They commented on a new guest who had just arrived, trying to guess his nationality. Harold thought a moustache like that must be French—Elsie said German—and Mrs. Rice thought he might be Spanish.
There was no one else but themselves on the terrace with the exception of the two Polish ladies who were sitting at the extreme end, both doing fancywork.
As always when he saw them, Harold felt a queer shiver of apprehension pass over him. Those still faces, those curved beaks of noses, those long clawlike hands. . . .
A page boy approached and told Mrs. Rice she was wanted. She rose and followed him. At the entrance to the hotel they saw her encounter a police official in full uniform.
Elsie caught her breath.
“You don’t think—anything’s gone wrong?”
Harold reassured her quickly.
“Oh, no, no, nothing of that kind.”
But he himself knew a sudden pang of fear.
He said:
“Your mother’s been wonderful!”
“I know. Mother is a great fighter. She’ll never sit down under defeat.” Elsie shivered. “But it is all horrible, isn’t it?”
“Now, don’t dwell on it. It’s all over and done with.”
Elsie said in a low voice:
“I can’t forget that—that it was I who killed him.”
Harold said urgently:
“Don’t think of it that way. It was an accident. You know that really.”
Her face grew a little happier. Harold added:
“And anyway it’s past. The past is the past. Try never to think of it again.”
Mrs. Rice came back. By the expression on her face they saw that all was well.
“It gave me quite a fright,” she said almost gaily. “But it was only a formality about some papers. Everything’s all right, my children. We’re out of the shadow. I think we might order ourselves a liqueur on the strength of it.”
The liqueur was ordered and came. They raised their glasses.
Mrs. Rice said: “To the Future!”
Harold smiled at Elsie and said:
“To your happiness!”
She smiled back at him and said as she lifted her glass:
“And to you—to your success! I’m sure you’re going to be a very great man.”
With the reaction from fear they felt gay, almost light-headed. The shadow had lifted! All was well. . . .
From the far end of the terrace the two birdlike women rose. They rolled up their work carefully. They came across the stone flags.
With little bows they sat down by Mrs. Rice. One of them began to speak. The other one let her eyes rest on Elsie and Harold. There was a little smile on her lips. It was not, Harold thought, a nice smile. . . .
He looked over at Mrs. Rice. She was listening to the Polish woman and though he couldn’t understand a word, the expression on Mrs. Rice’s face was clear enough. All the old anguish and despair came back. She listened and occasionally spoke a brief word.
Presently the two sisters rose, and with stiff little bows went into the hotel.
Harold leaned forward. He said hoarsely:
“What is it?”
Mrs. Rice answered him in the quiet hopeless tones of despair.
“Those women are going to blackmail us. They heard everything last night. And now we’ve tried to hush it up, it makes the whole thing a thousand times worse . . .”
VIII
Harold Waring was down by the lake. He had been walking feverishly for over an hour, trying by sheer physical energy to still the clamour of despair that had attacked him.
He came at last to the spot where he had first noticed the two grim women who held his life and Elsie’s in their evil talons. He said aloud:
“Curse them! Damn them for a pair of devilish bloodsucking harpies!”
A slight cough made him spin round. He found himself facing the luxuriantly moustached stranger who had just come out from the shade of the trees.
Harold found it difficult to know what to say. This little man must have almost certainly overheard what he had just said.
Harold, at a loss, said somewhat ridiculously:
“Oh—er—good afternoon.”
In perfect English the other replied:
“But for you, I fear, it is not a good afternoon?”
“Well—er—I—” Harold was in difficulties again.
The little man said:
“You are, I think, in trouble, Monsieur? Can I be of any assistance to you?”
“Oh no thanks, no thanks! Just blowing off steam, you know.”
The other said gently:
“But I think, you know, that I could help you. I am correct, am I not, in connecting your troubles with two ladies who were sitting on the terrace just now?”
Harold stared at him.
“Do you know anything about them?” He added: “Who are you, anyway?”
As though confessing to royal birth the little man said modestly:
“I am Hercule Poirot. Shall we walk a little way into the wood and you shall tell me your story? As I say, I think I can aid you.”
To this day, Harold is not quite certain what made him suddenly pour out the whole story to a man to whom he had only spoken a few minutes before. Perhaps it was overstrain. Anyway, it happened. He told Hercule Poirot the whole story.
The latter listened in silence. Once or twice he nodded his head gravely. When Harold came to a stop the other spoke dreamily.
“The Stymphalean Birds, with iron beaks, who feed on human flesh and who dwell by the Stymphalean Lake . . . Yes, it accords very well.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Harold staring.
Perhaps, he thought, this curious-looking little man was mad!
Hercule Poirot smiled.
“I reflect, that is all. I have my own way of looking at things, you understand. Now as to this business of yours. You are very unpleasantly placed.”
Harold said impatiently:
“I don’t need you to tell me that!”
Hercule Poirot went on:
“It is a serious business, blackmail. These harpies will force you to pay—and pay—and pay again! And if you defy them, well, what happens?”
Harold said bitterly:
“The whole thing comes out. My career’s ruined, and a wretched girl who’s neve
r done anyone any harm will be put through hell, and God knows what the end of it all will be!”
“Therefore,” said Hercule Poirot, “something must be done!”
Harold said baldly: “What?”
Hercule Poirot leaned back, half-closing his eyes. He said (and again a doubt about his sanity crossed Harold’s mind):
“It is the moment for the castanets of bronze.”
Harold said:
“Are you quite mad?”
The other shook his head. He said:
“Mais non! I strive only to follow the example of my great predecessor, Hercules. Have a few hours’ patience, my friend. By tomorrow I may be able to deliver you from your persecutors.”
IX
Harold Waring came down the following morning to find Hercule Poirot sitting alone on the terrace. In spite of himself Harold had been impressed by Hercule Poirot’s promises.
He came up to him now and asked anxiously:
“Well?”
Hercule Poirot beamed upon him.
“It is well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything has settled itself satisfactorily.”
“But what has happened?”
Hercule Poirot replied dreamily:
“I have employed the castanets of bronze. Or, in modern parlance, I have caused metal wires to hum—in short I have employed the telegraph! Your Stymphalean Birds, Monsieur, have been removed to where they will be unable to exercise their ingenuity for some time to come.”
“They were wanted by the police? They have been arrested?”
“Precisely.”
Harold drew a deep breath.
“How marvellous! I never thought of that.” He got up. “I must find Mrs. Rice and Elsie and tell them.”
“They know.”
“Oh good.” Harold sat down again. “Tell me just what—”
He broke off.
Coming up the path from the lake were two figures with flapping cloaks and profiles like birds.
He exclaimed:
“I thought you said they had been taken away!”
Hercule Poirot followed his glance.
“Oh, those ladies? They are very harmless; Polish ladies of good family, as the porter told you. Their appearance is, perhaps, not very pleasing but that is all.”
“But I don’t understand!”