Peril at End House (Hercule Poirot 8)

‘No more I did.’

‘But these chocolates—’

‘Well, they were all right. You sent them.’

‘What is that you say, Mademoiselle?’

‘You sent them!’

‘Me? Never. Never anything of the kind.’

‘But you did. Your card was in the box.’

‘What?’

Nick made a spasmodic gesture towards the table by the bed. The nurse came forward.

‘You want the card that was in the box?’

‘Yes, please, nurse.’

There was a moment’s pause. The nurse returned to the room with it in her hand.

‘Here it is.’

I gasped. So did Poirot. For on the card, in flourishing handwriting, were written the same words that I had seen Poirot inscribe on the card that accompanied the basket of flowers.

‘With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.’

‘Sacré tonnerre!’

‘You see,’ said Nick, accusingly.

‘I did not write this!’ cried Poirot.

‘What?’

‘And yet,’ murmured Poirot, ‘and yet it is my handwriting.’

‘I know. It’s exactly the same as the card that came with the orange carnations. I never doubted that the chocolates came from you.’

Poirot shook his head.

‘How should you doubt? Oh! the devil! The clever, cruel devil! To think of that! Ah! but he has genius, this man, genius! “With the Compliments of Hercule Poirot.” So simple. Yes, but one had to think of it. And I—I did not think. I omitted to foresee this move.’

Nick moved restlessly.

‘Do not agitate yourself, Mademoiselle. You are blameless—blameless. It is I that am to blame, miserable imbecile that I am! I should have foreseen this move. Yes, I should have foreseen it.’

His chin dropped on his breast. He looked the picture of misery.

‘I really think—’ said the nurse.

She had been hovering nearby, a disapproving expression on her face.

‘Eh? Yes, yes, I will go. Courage, Mademoiselle. This is the last mistake I will make. I am ashamed, desolated—I have been tricked, outwitted—as though I were a little schoolboy. But it shall not happen again. No. I promise you. Come, Hastings.’

Poirot’s first proceeding was to interview the matron. She was, naturally, terribly upset over the whole business.

‘It seems incredible to me, M. Poirot, absolutely incredible. That a thing like that should happen in my nursing home.’

Poirot was sympathetic and tactful. Having soothed her sufficiently, he began to inquire into the circumstance of the arrival of the fatal packet. Here, the matron declared, he would do best to interview the orderly who had been on duty at the time of its arrival.

The man in question, whose name was Hood, was a stupid but honest-looking young fellow of about twenty-two. He looked nervous and frightened. Poirot put him at his ease, however.

‘No blame can be attached to you,’ he said kindly. ‘But I want you to tell me exactly when and how this parcel arrived.’

The orderly looked puzzled.

‘It’s difficult to say, sir,’ he said, slowly. ‘Lots of people come and inquire and leave things for the different patients.’

‘The nurse says this came last night,’ I said. ‘About six o’clock.’

The lad’s face brightened.

‘I do remember, now, sir. A gentleman brought it.’

‘A thin-faced gentleman—fair-haired?’

‘He was fair-haired—but I don’t know about thin-faced.’

‘Would Charles Vyse bring it himself?’ I murmured to Poirot.

I had forgotten that the lad would know a local name.

‘It wasn’t Mr Vyse,’ he said. ‘I know him. It was a bigger gentleman—handsome-looking—came in a big car.’

‘Lazarus,’ I exclaimed.

Poirot shot me a warning glance and I regretted my precipitance.

‘He came in a large car and he left this parcel. It was addressed to Miss Buckley?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And what did you do with it?’

‘I didn’t touch it, sir. Nurse took it up.’

‘Quite so, but you touched it when you took it from the gentleman, n’est ce pas?’

‘Oh! that, yes, of course, sir. I took it from him and put it on the table.’

‘Which table? Show me, if you please.’

The orderly led us into the hall. The front door was open. Close to it, in the hall, was a long marble-topped table on which lay letters and parcels.

‘Everything that comes is put on here, sir. Then the nurses take things up to the patients.’

‘Do you remember what time this parcel was left?’

‘Must have been about five-thirty, or a little after. I know the post had just been, and that’s usually at about half-past five. It was a pretty busy afternoon, a lot of people leaving flowers and coming to see patients.’

‘Thank you. Now, I think, we will see the nurse who took up the parcel.’

This proved to be one of the probationers, a fluffy little person all agog with excitement. She remembered taking the parcel up at six o’clock when she came on duty.

‘Six o’clock,’ murmured Poirot. ‘Then it must have been twenty minutes or so that the parcel was lying on the table downstairs.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Nothing, Mademoiselle. Continue. You took the parcel to Miss Buckley?’

‘Yes, there were several things for her. There was this box and some flowers also—sweet peas—from a Mr and Mrs Croft, I think. I took them up at the same time. And there was a parcel that had come by post—and curiously enough that was a box of Fuller’s chocolates also.’

‘Comment? A second box?’

‘Yes, rather a coincidence. Miss Buckley opened them both. She said: “Oh! what a shame. I’m not allowed to eat them.” Then she opened the lids to look inside and see if they were both just the same, and your card was in one and she said, “Take the other impure box away, nurse. I might have got them mixed up.” Oh! dear, whoever would have thought of such a thing? Seems like an Edgar Wallace, doesn’t it?’

Poirot cut short this flood of speech.

‘Two boxes, you say? From whom was the other box?’

‘There was no name inside.’

‘And which was the one that came—that had the appearance of coming?

??from me? The one by post or the other?’

‘I declare now—I can’t remember. Shall I go up and ask Miss Buckley?’

‘If you would be so amiable.’

She ran up the stairs.

‘Two boxes,’ murmured Poirot. ‘There is confusion for you.’

The nurse returned breathless.

‘Miss Buckley isn’t sure. She unwrapped them both before she looked inside. But she thinks it wasn’t the box that came by post.’

‘Eh?’ said Poirot, a little confused.

‘The box from you was the one that didn’t come by post. At least she thinks so, but she isn’t quite sure.’

‘Diable!’ said Poirot, as we walked away. ‘Is no one ever quite sure? In detective books—yes. But life—real life—is always full of muddle. Am I sure, myself, about anything at all? No, no—a thousand times, no.’

‘Lazarus,’ I said.

‘Yes, that is a surprise, is it not?’

‘Shall you say anything to him about it?’

‘Assuredly. I shall be interested to see how he takes it. By the way, we might as well exaggerate the serious condition of Mademoiselle. It will do no harm to let it be assumed that she is at death’s door. You comprehend? The solemn face—yes, admirable. You resemble closely an undertaker. C’est tout à fait bien.’

We were lucky in finding Lazarus. He was bending over the bonnet of his car outside the hotel.

Poirot went straight up to him.

‘Yesterday evening, Monsieur Lazarus, you left a box of chocolates for Mademoiselle,’ he began without preamble.

Lazarus looked rather surprised.

‘Yes?’

‘That was very amiable of you.’

‘As a matter of fact they were from Freddie, from Mrs Rice. She asked me to get them.’

‘Oh! I see.’

‘I took them round in the car.’

‘I comprehend.’

He was silent for a minute or two and then said:

‘Madame Rice, where is she?’

‘I think she’s in the lounge.’

We found Frederica having tea. She looked up at us with an anxious face.

‘What is this I hear about Nick being taken ill?’

‘It is a most mysterious affair, Madame. Tell me, did you send her a box of chocolates yesterday?’

‘Yes. At least she asked me to get them for her.’

‘She asked you to get them for her?’