I had caught him by the arm, and was clutching him with one hand, while with the other I pointed.
We were within a hundred yards of the house, and just in front of us, between us and the open French window, there lay a huddled figure wrapped in a scarlet Chinese shawl…
‘Mon Dieu!’ whispered Poirot. ‘Mon Dieu…’
Chapter 8
The Fatal Shawl
I suppose it was not more than forty seconds that we stood there, frozen with horror, unable to move, but it seemed like an hour. Then Poirot moved forward, shaking off my hand. He moved stiffly like an automaton.
‘It has happened,’ he murmured, and I can hardly describe the anguished bitterness of his voice. ‘In spite of everything—in spite of my precautions, it has happened. Ah! miserable criminal that I am, why did I not guard her better. I should have foreseen. Not for one instant should I have left her side.’
‘You mustn’t blame yourself,’ I said.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I could hardly articulate.
Poirot only responded with a sorrowful shake of his head. He knelt down by the body.
And at that moment we received a second shock.
For Nick’s voice rang out, clear and gay, and a moment later Nick appeared in the square of the window silhouetted against the lighted room behind.
‘Sorry I’ve been so long, Maggie,’ she said. ‘But—’
Then she broke off—staring at the scene before her.
With a sharp exclamation, Poirot turned over the body on the lawn and I pressed forward to see.
I looked down into the dead face of Maggie Buckley.
In another minute Nick was beside us. She gave a sharp cry.
‘Maggie—Oh! Maggie—it—it can’t—’
Poirot was still examining the girl’s body. At last very slowly he rose to his feet.
‘Is she—is—’ Nick’s voice broke off.
‘Yes, Mademoiselle. She is dead.’
‘But why? But why? Who could have wanted to kill her?’
Poirot’s reply came quickly and firmly.
‘It was not her they meant to kill, Mademoiselle! It was you! They were misled by the shawl.’
A great cry broke from Nick.
‘Why couldn’t it have been me?’ she wailed. ‘Oh! why couldn’t it have been me? I’d so much rather. I don’t want to live—now. I’d be glad—willing—happy—to die.’
She flung up her arms wildly and then staggered slightly. I passed an arm round her quickly to support her.
‘Take her into the house, Hastings,’ said Poirot. ‘Then ring up the police.’
‘The police?’
‘Mais oui! Tell them someone has been shot. And afterwards stay with Mademoiselle Nick. On no account leave her.’
I nodded comprehension of these instructions, and supporting the half-fainting girl, made my way through the drawing-room window. I laid the girl on the sofa there, with a cushion under her head, and then hurried out into the hall in search of the telephone.
I gave a slight start on almost running into Ellen. She was standing there with a most peculiar expression on her meek, respectable face. Her eyes were glittering and she was passing her tongue repeatedly over her dry lips. Her hands were trembling, as though with excitement. As soon as she saw me, she spoke.
‘Has—has anything happened, sir?’
‘Yes,’ I said curtly. ‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘Nothing—nothing wrong, sir?’
‘There’s been an accident,’ I said evasively. ‘Somebody hurt. I must telephone.’
‘Who has been hurt, sir?’
There was a positive eagerness in her face.
‘Miss Buckley. Miss Maggie Buckley.’
‘Miss Maggie? Miss Maggie? Are you sure, sir—I mean are you sure that—that it’s Miss Maggie?’
‘I’m quite sure,’ I said. ‘Why?’
‘Oh!—nothing. I—I thought it might be one of the other ladies. I thought perhaps it might be—Mrs Rice.’
‘Look here,’ I said. ‘Where’s the telephone?’
‘It’s in the little room here, sir.’ She opened the door for me and indicated the instrument.
‘Thanks,’ I said. And, as she seemed disposed to linger, I added: ‘That’s all I want, thank you.’
‘If you want Dr Graham—’
‘No, no,’ I said. ‘That’s all. Go, please.’
She withdrew reluctantly, as slowly as she dared. In all probability she would listen outside the door, but I could not help that. After all, she would soon know all there was to be known.
I got the police station and made my report. Then, on my own initiative, I rang up the Dr Graham Ellen had mentioned. I found his number in the book. Nick, at any rate, should have medical attention, I felt—even though a doctor could do nothing for that poor girl lying out there. He promised to come at once and I hung up the receiver and came out into the hall again.
If Ellen had been listening outside the door she had managed to disappear very swiftly. There was no one in sight when I came out. I went back into the drawing-room. Nick was trying to sit up.
‘Do you think—could you get me—some brandy?’
‘Of course.’
I hurried into the dining-room, found what I wanted and came back. A few sips of the spirit revived the girl. The colour began to come back into her cheeks. I rearranged the cushion for her head.
‘It’s all—so awful.’ She shivered. ‘Everything—everywhere.’
‘I know, my dear, I know.’
‘No, you don’t! You can’t. And it’s all such a waste. If it were only me. It would be all over…’
‘You mustn’t,’ I said, “be morbid”.’
She only shook her head, reiterating: ‘You don’t know! You don’t know!’
Then, suddenly, she began to cry. A quiet, hopeless sobbing like a child. That, I thought, was probably the best thing for her, so I made no effort to stem her tears.
When their first violence had died down a little, I stole across to the window and looked out. I had heard an outcry of voices a few minutes before. They were all there by now, a semi-circle round the scene of the tragedy, with Poirot like a fantastical sentinel, keeping them back.
As I watched, two uniformed figures came striding across the grass. The police had arrived.
Iwent quietly back to my place by the sofa. Nick lifted her tear-stained face.
‘Oughtn’t I to be doing something?’
‘No, my dear. Poirot will see to it. Leave it to him.’ Nick was silent for a minute or two, then she said:
‘Poor Maggie. Poor dear old Maggie. Such a good sort who never harmed a soul in her life. That this should happen to her. I feel as though I’d killed her—bringing her down in the way that I did.’
I shook my head sadly. How little one can foresee the future. When Poirot insisted on Nick’s inviting a friend, how little did he think that he was signing an unknown girl’s death warrant.
We sat in silence. I longed to know what was going on outside, but I loyally fulfilled Poirot’s instructions and stuck to my post.
It seemed hours later when the door opened and Poirot and a police inspector entered the room. With them came a man who was evidently Dr Graham. He came over at once to Nick.
‘And how are you feeling, Miss Buckley? This must have been a terrible shock.’ His fingers were on her pulse.
‘Not too bad.’
He turned to me.
‘Has she had anything?’
‘Some brandy,’ I said.
‘I’m all right,’ said Nick, bravely.
‘Able to answer a few questions, eh?’
‘Of course.’
The police inspector moved forward with a preliminary cough. Nick greeted him with the ghost of a smile.
‘Not impeding the traffic this time,’ she said.
I gathered they were not strangers to each other.
‘This is a terrible business, Miss B
uckley,’ said the inspector. ‘I’m very sorry about it. Now Mr Poirot here, whose name I’m very familiar with (and proud we are to have him with us, I’m sure), tells me that to the best of his belief you were shot at in the grounds of the Majestic Hotel the other morning?’
Nick nodded.
‘I thought it was just a wasp,’ she explained. ‘But it wasn’t.’
‘And you’d had some rather peculiar accidents before that?’