to have any reason for desiring the little Nick’s death. The property? End House? That passes to the cousin—but does he particularly want a heavily mortgaged and very dilapidated old house? It is not even a family place so far as he is concerned. He is not a Buckley, remember. We must see this Charles Vyse, certainly, but the idea seems fantastic.
‘Then there is Madame—the bosom friend—with her strange eyes and her air of a lost Madonna—’
‘You felt that too?’ I asked, startled.
‘What is her concern in the business? She tells you that her friend is a liar. C’est gentille, ça! Why does she tell you? Is she afraid of something that Nick may say? Is that something connected with the car? Or did she use that as an instance, and was her real fear of something else? Did anyone tamper with the car, and if so, who? And does she know about it?
‘Then the handsome blond, M. Lazarus. Where does he fit in? With his marvellous automobile and his money. Can he possibly be concerned in any way? Commander Challenger—’
‘He’s all right,’ I put in quickly. ‘I’m sure of that. A real pukka sahib.’
‘Doubtless he has been to what you consider the right school. Happily, being a foreigner, I am free from these prejudices, and can make investigations unhampered by them. But I will admit that I find it hard to connect Commander Challenger with the case. In fact, I do not see that he can be connected.’
‘Of course he can’t,’ I said warmly.
Poirot looked at me meditatively.
‘You have an extraordinary effect on me, Hastings. You have so strongly the flair in the wrong direction that I am almost tempted to go by it! You are that wholly admirable type of man, honest, credulous, honourable, who is invariably taken in by any scoundrel. You are the type of man who invests in doubtful oil fields, and non-existent gold mines. From hundreds like you, the swindler makes his daily bread. Ah, well—I shall study this Commander Challenger. You have awakened my doubts.’
‘My dear Poirot,’ I cried, angrily. ‘You are perfectly absurd. A man who has knocked about the world like I have—’
‘Never learns,’ said Poirot, sadly. ‘It is amazing—but there it is.’
‘Do you suppose I’d have made a success of my ranch out in the Argentine if I were the kind of credulous fool you make out?’
‘Do not enrage yourself, mon ami. You have made a great success of it—you and your wife.’
‘Bella,’ I said, ‘always goes by my judgement.’
‘She is as wise as she is charming,’ said Poirot. ‘Let us not quarrel my friend. See, there ahead of us, it says Mott’s Garage. That, I think, is the garage mentioned by Mademoiselle Buckley. A few inquiries will soon give us the truth of that little matter.’
We duly entered the place and Poirot introduced himself by explaining that he had been recommended there by Miss Buckley. He made some inquiries about hiring a car for some afternoon drives and from there slid easily into the topic of the damage sustained by Miss Buckley’s car not long ago.
Immediately the garage proprietor waxed voluble. Most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen. He proceeded to be technical. I, alas, am not mechanically minded. Poirot, I should imagine, is even less so. But certain facts did emerge unmistakably. The car had been tampered with. And the damage had been something quite easily done, occupying very little time.
‘So that is that,’ said Poirot, as we strolled away. ‘The little Nick was right, and the rich M. Lazarus was wrong. Hastings, my friend, all this is very interesting.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘We visit the post office and send off a telegram if it is not too late.’
‘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.’
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