Appointment With Death (Hercule Poirot 19)

‘Yes. And of course, as I said, I didn’t think much of it at the time. But later I walked along the stream and Miss King was there. And there amongst a lot of other very unsuitable things—even a tin or two—I saw a little bright metal box—not an exact square—a sort of long square, if you understand what I mean—’

‘But yes, I understand perfectly. About so long?’

‘Yes, how clever of you! And I thought to myself, “I suppose that’s what the Boynton girl threw away, but it’s a nice little box.” And just out of curiosity I picked it up and opened it. It had a kind of syringe inside—the same thing they stuck into my arm when I was being inoculated for typhoid. And I thought how curious to throw it away like that because it didn’t seem broken or anything. But just as I was wondering, Miss King spoke behind me. I hadn’t heard her come up. And she said, “Oh, thank you—that’s my hypodermic. I was coming to look for it.” So I gave it to her, and she went back to the camp with it.’

Miss Pierce paused and then went on hurriedly:

‘And, of course, I expect there is nothing in it—only it did seem a little curious that Carol Boynton should throw away Miss King’s syringe. I mean, it was odd, if you know what I mean. Though, of course, I expect there is a very good explanation.’

She paused, looking expectantly at Poirot.

His face was grave. ‘Thank you, mademoiselle. What you have told me may not be important in itself, but I will tell you this! It completes my case! Everything is now clear and in order.’

‘Oh, really?’ Miss Pierce looked as flushed and pleased as a child.

Poirot escorted her to the hotel.

Back in his own room he added one line to his memorandum. Point No. 10. ‘I never forget. Remember that. I’ve never forgotten anything…’

‘Mais oui,’ he said. ‘It is all clear now!’

Chapter 15

‘My preparations are complete,’ said Hercule Poirot.

With a little sigh he stepped back a pace or two and contemplated his arrangement of one of the unoccupied hotel bedrooms.

Colonel Carbury, leaning inelegantly against the bed which had been pushed against the wall, smiled as he puffed at his pipe. ‘Funny feller, aren’t you, Poirot?’ he said. ‘Like to dramatize things.’

‘Perhaps—that is true,’ admitted the little detective. ‘But indeed it is not all self-indulgence. If one plays a comedy, one must first set the scene.’

‘Is this a comedy?’

‘Even if it is a tragedy—there, too, the décor must be correct.’

Colonel Carbury looked at him curiously.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it’s up to you! I don’t know what you’re driving at. I gather, though, that you’ve got something.’

‘I shall have the honour to present to you what you asked me for—the truth!’

‘Do you think we can get a conviction?’

‘That, my friend, I did not promise you.’

‘True enough. Maybe I’m glad you haven’t. It depends.’

‘My arguments are mainly psychological,’ said Poirot.

Colonel Carbury sighed. ‘I was afraid they might be.’

‘But they will convince you,’ Poirot reassured him. ‘Oh, yes, they will convince you. The truth, I have always thought, is curious and beautiful.’

‘Sometimes,’ said Colonel Carbury, ‘it’s damned unpleasant.’

‘No, no.’ Poirot was earnest. ‘You take there the personal view. Take instead the abstract, the detached point of vision. Then the absolute logic of events is fascinating and orderly.’

‘I’ll try to look on it that way,’ said the Colonel.