‘A telegram?’ I said hopefully.
‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘A telegram.’
The post office was still open. Poirot wrote out his telegram and despatched it. He vouchsafed me no information as to its contents. Feeling that he wanted me to ask him, I carefully refrained from doing so.
‘It is annoying that tomorrow is Sunday,’ he remarked, as we strolled back to the hotel. ‘We cannot now call upon M. Vyse till Monday morning.’
‘You could get hold of him at his private address.’
‘Naturally. But that is just what I am anxious not to do. I would prefer, in the first place, to consult him professionally and to form my judgement of him from that aspect.’
‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that would be best.’
‘The answer to one simple little question, for instance, might make a great difference. If M. Charles Vyse was in his office at twelve-thirty this morning, then it was not he who fired that shot in the garden of the Majestic Hotel.’
‘Ought we not to examine the alibis of the three at the hotel?’
‘That is much more difficult. It would be easy enough for one of them to leave the others for a few minutes, a hasty egress from one of the innumerable windows—lounge, smoking-room, drawing-room, writing-room, quickly under cover to the spot where the girl must pass—the shot fired and a rapid retreat. But as yet, mon ami, we are not even sure that we have arrived at all the dramatis personae in the drama. There is the respectable Ellen—and her so far unseen husband. Both inmates of the house and possibly, for all we know, with a grudge against our little Mademoiselle. There are even the unknown Australians at the lodge. And there may be others, friends and intimates of Miss Buckley’s whom she has no reason for suspecting and consequently has not mentioned. I cannot help feeling, Hastings, that there is something behind this—something that has not yet come to light. I have a little idea that Miss Buckley knows more than she told us.’
‘You think she is keeping something back?’
‘Yes.’
‘Possibly with an idea of shielding whoever it is?’
Poirot shook his head with the utmost energy.
‘No, no. As far as that goes, she gave me the impression of being utterly frank. I am convinced that as regards these attempts on her life, she was telling all she knew. But there is something else—something that she believes has nothing to do with that at all. And I should like to know what that something is. For I—I say it in all modesty—am a great deal more intelligent than une petite comme ça. I, Hercule Poirot, might see a connection where she sees none. It might give me the clue I am seeking. For I announce to you, Hastings, quite frankly and humbly, that I am as you express it, all on the sea. Until I can get some glimmering of the reason behind all this, I am in the dark. There must be something—some factor in the case that I do not grasp. What is it? Je me demande ça sans cesse. Qu’est-ce que c’est?’
‘You will find out,’ I said, soothingly.
‘So long,’ he said sombrely, ‘as I do not find out too late.’
Chapter 5
Mr and Mrs Croft
There was dancing that evening at the hotel. Nick Buckley dined there with her friends and waved a gay greeting to us.
She was dressed that evening in floating scarlet chiffon that dragged on the floor. Out of it rose her white neck and shoulders and her small impudent dark head.
‘An engaging young devil,’ I remarked.
‘A contrast to her friend—eh?’
Frederica Rice was in white. She danced with a languorous weary grace that was as far removed from Nick’s animation as anything could be.
‘She is very beautiful,’ said Poirot suddenly.
‘Who? Our Nick?’
‘No—the other. Is she evil? Is she good? Is she merely unhappy? One cannot tell. She is a mystery. She is, perhaps, nothing at all. But I tell you, my friend, she is an allumeuse.’
‘What do you mean?’ I asked curiously.
He shook his head, smiling.
‘You will feel it sooner or later. Remember my words.’
Presently to my surprise, he rose. Nick was dancing with George Challenger. Frederica and Lazarus had just stopped and had sat down at their table. Then Lazarus got up and went away. Mrs Rice was alone. Poirot went straight to her table. I followed him.
His methods were direct and to the point.
‘You permit?’ He laid a hand on the back of a chair, then slid into it. ‘I am anxious to have a word with you while your friend is dancing.’
‘Yes?’ Her voice sounded cool, uninterested.
‘Madame, I do not know whether your friend has told you. If not, I will. Today her life has been attempted.’
Her great grey eyes widened in horror and surprise. The pupils, dilated black pupils, widened too.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Mademoiselle Buckley was shot at in the garden of this hotel.’
She smiled suddenly—a gentle, pitying, incredulous smile.
‘Did Nick tell you so?’
‘No, Madame, I happened to see it with my own eyes. Here is the bullet.’
He held it out to her and she drew back a little.
‘But, then—but, then—’
‘It is no fantasy of Mademoiselle’s imagination, you understand. I vouch for that. And there is more. Several very curious accidents have happened in the last few days. You will have heard—no, perhaps you will not. You only arrived yesterday, did you not?’
‘Yes—yesterday.’
‘Before that you were staying with friends, I understand. At Tavistock.’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder, Madame
, what were the names of the friends with whom you were staying.’
She raised her eyebrows.
‘Is there any reason why I should tell you that?’ she asked coldly.
Poirot was immediately all innocent surprise.
‘A thousandpardons, Madame. I was most maladroit. But I myself, having friends at Tavistock, fancied that you might have met them there…Buchanan—that is the name of my friends.’
Mrs Rice shook her head.
‘I don’t remember them. I don’t think I can have met them.’ Her tone now was quite cordial. ‘Don’t let us talk about boring people. Go on about Nick. Who shot at her? Why?’
‘I do not know who—as yet, said Poirot. ‘But I shall find out. Oh! yes, I shall find out. I am, you know, a detective. Hercule Poirot is my name.’
‘A very famous name.’
‘Madame is too kind.’
She said slowly:
‘What do you want me to do?’
I think she surprised us both there. We had not expected just that.
‘I will ask you, Madame, to watch over your friend.’
‘I will.’
‘That is all.’
He got up, made a quick bow, and we returned to our own table.
‘Poirot,’ I said, ‘aren’t you showing your hand very plainly?’
‘Mon ami, what else can I do? It lacks subtlety, perhaps, but it makes for safety. I can take no chances. At any rate one thing emerges plain to see.’
‘What is that?’
‘Mrs Rice was not at Tavistock. Where was she? Ah! but I will find out. Impossible to keep information from Hercule Poirot. See—the handsome Lazarus has returned. She is telling him. He looks over at us. He is clever, that one. Note the shape of his head. Ah! I wish I knew—’
‘What?’ I asked, as he came to a stop.
‘What I shall know on Monday,’ he returned, ambiguously.
I looked at him but said nothing. He sighed.
‘You have no longer the curiosity, my friend. In the old days—’
‘There are some pleasures,’ I said, coldly, ‘that it is good for you to do without.’