‘He speaks in the warmest terms of your ability.’
‘He is right,’ said Poirot, modestly averting his eyes.
‘He begs you to investigate this matter for him—puts it as a personal favour.’
‘Quite so. It is unneccessary to repeat all this to me. You understand, my dear Hastings. I have read the letter myself.’
‘It’s too bad,’ I cried. ‘This will put an end to our holiday.’
‘No, no, calmez vous—there is no question of that.’
‘But the Home Secretary says the matter is urgent.’
‘He may be right—or again he may not. These politicians, they are easily excited. I have seen myself, in the Chambre des Deputés in Paris—’
‘Yes, yes, but Poirot, surely we ought to be making arrangements? The express to London has gone—it leaves at twelve o’clock. The next—’
‘Calm yourself, Hastings, calm yourself, I pray of you! Always the excitement, the agitation. We are not going to London today—nor yet tomorrow.’
‘But this summons—’
‘Does not concern me. I do not belong to your police force, Hastings. I am asked to undertake a case as a private investigator. I refuse.’
‘You refuse?’
‘Certainly. I write with perfect politeness, tender my regrets, my apologies, explain that I am completely desolated—but what will you? I have retired—I am finished.’
‘You are not finished,’ I exclaimed warmly.
Poirot patted my knee.
‘There speaks the good friend—the faithful dog. And you have reason, too. The grey cells, they still function—the order, the method—it is still there. But when I have retired, my friend, I have retired! It is finished! I am not a stage favourite who gives the world a dozen farewells. In all generosity I say: let the young men have a chance. They may possibly do something creditable. I doubt it, but they may. Anyway they will do well enough for this doubtless tiresome affair of the Home Secretary’s.’
‘But, Poirot, the compliment!’
‘Me, I am above compliments. The Home Secretary, being a man of sense, realizes that if he can only obtain my services all will be successful. What will you? He is unlucky. Hercule Poirot has solved his last case.’
I looked at him. In my heart of hearts I deplored his obstinacy. The solving of such a case as was indicated might add still further lustre to his already world-wide reputation. Nevertheless I could not but admire his unyielding attitude.
Suddenly a thought struck me and I smiled.
‘I wonder,’ I said, ‘that you are not afraid. Such an emphatic pronouncement will surely tempt the gods.’
‘Impossible,’ he replied, ‘that anyone should shake the decision of Hercule Poirot.’
‘Impossible, Poirot?’
‘You are right, mon ami, one should not use such a word. Eh, ma foi, I do not say that if a bullet should strike the wall by my head, I would not investigate the matter! One is human after all!’
I smiled. A little pebble had just struck the terrace beside us, and Poirot’s fanciful analogy from it tickled my fancy. He stooped now and picked up the pebble as he went on.
‘Yes—one is human. One is the sleeping dog—well and good, but the sleeping dog can be roused. There is a proverb in your language that says so.’
‘In fact,’ I said, ‘if you find a dagger planted by your pillow tomorrow morning—let the criminal who put it there beware!’
He nodded, but rather absently.
Suddenly, to my surprise, he rose and descended the couple of steps that led from the terrace to the garden. As he did so, a girl came into sight hurrying up towards us.
I had just registered the impression that she was a decidedly pretty girl when my attention was drawn to Poirot who, not looking where he was going, had stumbled over a root and fallen heavily. He was just abreast of the girl at the time and she and I between us helped him to his feet. My attention was naturally on my friend, but I was conscious of an impression of dark hair, an impish face and big dark-blue eyes.
‘A thousand pardons,’ stammered Poirot. ‘Mademoiselle, you are most kind. I regret exceedingly—ouch!—my foot he pains me considerably. No, no, it is nothing really—the turned ankle, that is all. In a few minutes all will be well. But if you could help me, Hastings—you and Mademoiselle between you, if she will be so very kind. I am ashamed to ask it of her.’
With me on the one side and the girl on the other we soon got Poirot on to a chair on the terrace. I then suggested fetching a doctor, but this my friend negatived sharply.
‘It is nothing, I tell you. The ankle turned, that is all. Painful for the moment, but soon over.’ He made a grimace. ‘See, in a little minute I shall have forgotten. Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times. You were most kind. Sit down, I beg of you.’
The girl took a chair.
‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘But I wish you would let it be seen to.’
‘Mademoiselle, I assure you, it is a bagatelle! In the pleasure of your society the pain passes already.’
The girl laughed.
‘That’s good.’
‘What about a cocktail?’ I suggested. ‘It’s just about the time.’
‘Well—’ She hesitated. ‘Thanks very much.’
‘Martini?’
‘Yes, please—dry Martini.’
I went off. On my return, after having ordered the drinks, I found Poirot and the girl engaged in animated conversation.
‘Imagine, Hastings,’ he said, ‘that house there—the one on the point—that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.’
‘Indeed?’ I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house. ‘It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.’
‘It’s called End House,’ said the girl. ‘I love it—but it’s a tumble-down old place. Going to rack and ruin.’
‘You are the last of an old family, Mademoiselle?’
‘Oh! we’re nothing important. But there have been Buckleys here for two or three hundred years. My brother died three years ago, so I’m the last of the family.’
‘That is sad. You live there alone, Mademoiselle?’
‘Oh!
