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السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته هادي مجموعة روايات بالانجليزي ... ان شاء الله تعجبكم الرواية (1)agatha christie - appointment with death. 1 "You do see, don't you,

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السلام عليكم ورحمة الله وبركاته


هادي مجموعة روايات بالانجليزي ... ان شاء الله تعجبكم

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agatha christie - appointment with death.
1
"You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?"
The question floated out into the still night air, seemed to hang there a moment and then drift away down into the darkness towards the Dead Sea.
Hercule Poirot paused a minute with his hand on the window catch. Frowning, he shut it decisively, thereby excluding any injurious night air! Hercule Poirot had been brought up to believe that all outside air was best left outside, and that night air was especially dangerous to the health.
As he pulled the curtains neatly over the window and walked to his bed, he smiled tolerantly to himself. "You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?" Curious words for one Hercule Poirot, detective, to overhear on his first night in Jerusalem.
"Decidedly, wherever I go, there is something to remind me of crime!" he murmured to himself. His smile continued as he remembered a story he had once heard concerning Anthony Trollope, the novelist.
Trollope was crossing the Atlantic at the time and had overheard two fellow passengers discussing the last published installment of one of his novels.
"Very good," one man had declared. "But he ought to kill off that tiresome old woman."
With a broad smile the novelist had addressed them: "Gentlemen, I am much obliged to you! I will go and kill her immediately!"
Hercule Poirot wondered what had occasioned the words he had just overheard. A collaboration, perhaps, over a play or a book. He thought, still smiling: "Those words might be remembered one day, and be given a more sinister meaning."
There had been, he now recollected, a curious nervous intensity in the voicea tremor that spoke of some intense emotional strain. A man's voiceor a boy's . . .
Hercule Poirot thought to himself as he turned out the light by his bed: "I should know that voice again. . . ."
Their elbows on the windowsill, their heads close together, Raymond and Carol Boynton gazed out into the blue depths of the night. Nervously, Raymond repeated his former words: "You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?"
Carol Boynton stirred slightly. She said, her voice deep and hoarse: "It's horrible. . . ."
"It's not more horrible than this!"
"I suppose not. . . ."
Raymond said violently: "It can't go on like thisit can't. . . . We must do something. . . . And there isn't anything else we can do. . . ." Carol saidbut her voice was unconvincing and she knew it: "If we could get away somehow . . . ?"
"We can't." His voice was empty and hopeless. "Carol, you know we can't . . ."
The girl shivered.
"I know Ray I know."
He gave a sudden short bitter laugh. "People would say we were crazynot to be able just to walk out"
Carol said slowly: "Perhaps we are crazy!"
"I daresay. Yes, I daresay we are. Anyway we soon shall be . . . I suppose some people would say we are already. Here we are calmly planning, in cold blood, to kill our own mother!"
Carol said sharply: "She isn't our own mother!"
"No, that's true."
There was a pause and then Raymond said, his voice now quietly matter-of-fact: "You do agree, Carol?"
Carol answered steadily: "I think she ought to dieyes . . ." Then she broke out suddenly: "She's mad . . . I'm quite sure she's mad . . . Sheshe couldn't torture us like she does if she were sane. For years we've been saying: 'This can't go on!' And it has gone on! We've said, 'She'll die sometime'but she hasn't died! I don't think she ever will die unless"
Raymond said steadily: "Unless we kill her . . ."
"Yes."
She clenched her hands on the windowsill in front of her.
Her brother went on in a cool matter-of-fact tone, with just a slight tremor denoting his deep underlying excitement: "You see why it's got to be one of us, don't you? With Lennox, there's Nadine to consider. And we couldn't bring Jinny into it."
Carol shivered. "Poor Jinny . . . I'm so afraid . . ."
"I know. It's getting pretty bad, isn't it? That's why something's got to be done quicklybefore she goes right over the edge."
Carol stood up suddenly, pushing back the tumbled chestnut hair from her forehead. "Ray," she said. "You don't think it's really wrong, do you?"
He answered in that same would-be dispassionate tone: "No. I think it's just like killing a mad dogsomething that's doing harm in the world and must be stopped. This is the only way of stopping it."
Carol murmured: "But they'dthey'd send us to the chair just the same . . . I mean we couldn't explain what she's like . . . It would sound fantastic . . . In a way, you know, it's all in our own minds!"
Raymond said: "Nobody will ever know. I've got a plan. I've thought it all out. We shall be quite safe."
Carol turned suddenly round on him. "Raysomehow or otheryou're different. Something's happened to you . . . What's put all this into your head?"
"Why should you think anything's 'happened' to me?" He turned his head away, staring out into the night.
"Because it has . . . Ray, was it that girl on the train?"
"No, of course notwhy should it be? Oh, Carol, don't talk nonsense. Let's get back again toto"
"To your plan? Are you sure it's a good plan?"
"Yes. I think so . . . We must wait for the right opportunity, of course. And thenif it goes all rightwe shall be freeall of us."
"Free?" Carol gave a little sigh. She looked up at the stars. Then suddenly she shook from head to foot in a sudden storm of weeping.
"Carol, what's the matter?"
She sobbed out brokenly: "It's so lovelythe night and the blueness and the stars. If only we could be part of it all . . . If only we could be like other people instead of being as we areall queer and warped and wrong."
"But we shall be all rightwhen she's dead!"

"Are you sure? Isn't it too late? Shan't we always be queer and different?"
"No, no, no."
"I wonder"
"Carol, if you'd rather not"
She pushed his comforting arm aside. "No, I'm with youdefinitely I'm with you! Because of the othersespecially Jinny. We must save Jinny!"
Raymond paused a moment. "Thenwe'll go on with it?"
"Yes!"
"Good. I'll tell you my plan . . ."
He bent his head to hers.


2
Miss Sarah King, M.B., stood by the table in the writing-room of the Solomon Hotel in Jerusalem idly turning over the papers and magazines. A frown contracted her brows and she looked preoccupied.
The tall, middle-aged Frenchman who entered the room from the hall watched her for a moment or two before strolling up to the opposite side of the table. When their eyes met, Sarah made a little gesture of smiling recognition.
She remembered that this man had come to her help when traveling from Cairo and had carried one of her suitcases at a moment when no porter appeared to be available.
"You like Jerusalem, yes?" asked Dr. Gerard, after they had exchanged greetings.
"It's rather terrible in some ways," said Sarah, and added: "Religion is very odd!"
The Frenchman looked amused. "I know what you mean." His English was very nearly perfect. "Every imaginable sect squabbling and fighting!"
"And the awful things they've built, too!" Said Sarah.
"Yes, indeed."
Sarah sighed. "They turned me out of one place today because I had on a sleeveless dress," she said ruefully. "Apparently the Almighty doesn't like my arms in spite of having made them."
Dr. Gerard laughed. Then he said: "I was about to order some coffee. You will join me, Miss?"
"King, my name is. Sarah King."
"And minepermit me." He whipped out a card.
Taking it, Sarah's eyes widened in delighted awe. "Dr. Theodore Gerard? Oh! I am excited to meet you. I've read all your works, of course. Your views on schizophrenia are frightfully interesting."
"Of course?" Gerard's eyebrows rose inquisitively.
Sarah explained rather diffidently. "You seeI'm by way of being a doctor myself. Just got my M.B.."
"Ah! I see."
Dr. Gerard ordered coffee and they sat down in a corner of the lounge. The Frenchman was less interested in Sarah's medical achievements than in the black hair that rippled back from her forehead and the beautifully shaped red mouth. He was amused at the obvious awe with which she regarded him.
"You are staying here long?" he asked conversationally.
"A few days. That is all. Then I want to go to Petra."
"Aha? I, too, was thinking of going there if it does not take too long. You see, I have to be back in Paris on the 14th."
"It takes about a week, I believe. Two days to go, two days there and two days back again."
"I must go to the travel bureau in the morning and see what can be arranged."
A party of people entered the lounge and sat down.
Sarah watched them with some interest. She lowered her voice: "Those people who have just come indid you notice them on the train the other night? They left Cairo the same time as we did."
Dr. Gerard screwed in an eyeglass and directed his glance across the room. "Americans?"
Sarah nodded.
"Yes. An American family. Butrather an unusual one, I think."
"Unusual? How unusual?"
"Well, look at them. Especially at the old woman." Dr. Gerard complied. His keen professional glance flitted swiftly from face to face. He noticed first a tall, rather loose-boned manage about thirty. The face was pleasant but weak and his manner seemed oddly apathetic. Then there were two good-looking youngstersthe boy had almost a Greek head. "Something the matter with him, too," thought Dr. Gerard. "Yesa definite state of nervous tension." The girl was clearly his sister, a strong resemblance, and she also was in an excitable condition. There was another girl younger stillwith golden red hair that stood out like a halo; her hands were very restless; they were tearing and pulling at the handkerchief in her lap. Yet another woman, young, calm, dark-haired with a creamy pallor, a placid face not unlike a Luini Madonna. Nothing jumpy about her! And the center of the group"Heavens!" thought Dr. Gerard, with a Frenchman's candid repulsion. "What a horror of a woman!" Old, swollen, bloated, sitting there immovable in the midst of thema distorted old spider in the center of a web!
To Sarah he said: "La Manian, she is not beautiful, eh?" And he shrugged his shoulders.
"There's something rathersinister about her, don't you think?" asked Sarah.
Dr. Gerard scrutinized her again. This time his eye was professional, not aesthetic. "Dropsycardiac" He added a glib medical phrase.
"Oh, yes, that!" Sarah dismissed the medical side. "But there is something odd in their attitude to her, don't you think?"
"Who are they, do you know?"
"Their name is Boynton. Mother, married son, his wife, one younger son and two younger daughters."
Dr. Gerard murmured: "La famille Boynton sees the world."
"Yes, but there's something odd about the way they're seeing it. They never speak to anyone else. And none of them can do anything unless the old woman says so!"
"She is of the matriarchal type," said Gerard thoughtfully.
"She's a complete tyrant, I think," said Sarah.
Dr. Gerard shrugged his shoulders and remarked that the American woman ruled the earththat was well known.
"Yes, but it's more than just that." Sarah was persistent. "She's Oh, she's got them all so, so cowedso positively under her thumbthat it's, it's indecent!"
"To have too much power is bad for women," Gerard agreed, with sudden gravity. He shook his head. "It is difficult for a woman not to abuse power." He shot a quick sideways glance at Sarah. She was watching the Boynton familyor rather she was watching one particular member of it. Dr. Gerard smiled a quick comprehending Gallic smile. Ah! so it was like that, was it?
He murmured tentatively: "You have spoken with themyes?"
"Yesat least with one of them."
"The young manthe younger son?"
"Yes. On the train coming here from Kantara. He was standing in the corridor. I spoke to him." There was no self-consciousness in Sarah's manner. There was, indeed, no self-consciousness in her attitude to life. She was interested in humanity and was of a friendly though impatient disposition.
"What made you speak to him?" asked Gerard.
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "Why not? I often speak to people traveling. I'm interested in peoplein what they do and think and feel."
"You put them under the microscope, that is to say!"
"I suppose you might call it that," the girl admitted.
"And what were your impressions in this case?"
"Well"she hesitated"it was rather odd. . . . To begin with, the boy flushed right up to the roots of his hair."
"Is that so remarkable?" asked Gerard dryly.
Sarah laughed. "You mean that he thought I was a shameless hussy making advances to him? Oh, no, I don't think he thought that. Men can always tell, can't they?"
She gave him a frank, questioning glance. Dr. Gerard nodded his head.
"I got the impression," said Sarah, speaking slowly and frowning a little, "that he washow shall I put it?both excited and appalled. Excited out of all proportionand quite absurdly apprehensive at the same time. Now that's odd, isn't it, because I've always found Americans unusually self-possessed. An American boy of twenty, say, has infinitely more knowledge of the world and far more savoir-faire than an English boy of the same age. And this boy must be over twenty."
"About twenty-three or four, I should say."
"As much as that?"
"I should think so."
"Yes . . . perhaps you're right . . . only, somehow, he seems very young. . . ."
"Maladjustment mentally. The 'child' factor persists."
"Then I am right? I mean, there is something not quite normal about him?"
Dr. Gerard shrugged his shoulders, smiling a little at her earnestness. "My dear young lady, are any of us quite normal? But I grant you that there is probably a neurosis of some kind."
"Connected with that horrible old woman, I'm sure!"
"You seem to dislike her very much," said Gerard, looking at her curiously.
"I do. She's got aoh, a malevolent eye!"
Gerard murmured: "So have many mothers when their sons are attracted to fascinating young ladies!"
Sarah shrugged an impatient shoulder. Frenchmen were all alike, she thought, obsessed by sex! Though, of course, as a conscientious psychologist she herself was bound to admit that there was always an underlying basis of sex to most phenomena. Sarah's thoughts ran along a familiar psychological track. She came out of her meditations with a start. Raymond Boynton was crossing the room to the center table. He selected a magazine. As he passed her chair on his return journey she looked up at him and spoke: "Have you been busy sightseeing today?"
She selected her words at random; her real interest was to see how they would be received.
Raymond half stopped, flushed, shied like a nervous horse and his eyes went apprehensively to the center of his family group. He muttered: "Ohoh, yeswhy, yes, certainly. I" Then, as suddenly as though he had received the prick of a spur, he hurried back to his family, holding out the magazine.
The grotesque Buddha-like figure held out a fat hand for it, but as she took it her eyes, Dr. Gerard noticed, were on the boy's face. She gave a grunt, certainly no audible thanks. The position of her head shifted very slightly. The doctor saw that she was now looking hard at Sarah. Her face was quite impassive, it had no expression in it. Impossible to tell what was passing in the woman's mind.
Sarah looked at her watch and uttered an exclamation. "It's much later than I thought." She got up. "Thank you so much. Dr. Gerard, for standing me coffee. I must write some letters now."
He rose and took her hand.
"We shall meet again, I hope," he said.
"Oh, yes! Perhaps you will come to Petra?"
"I shall certainly try to do so."
Sarah smiled at him and turned away. Her way out of the room led her past the Boynton family.
Dr. Gerard, watching, saw Mrs. Boynton's gaze shift to her son's face. He saw the boy's eyes meet hers. As Sarah passed, Raymond Boynton half turned his headnot towards her but away from her. . . . It was a slow unwilling motion and conveyed the idea that old Mrs. Boynton had pulled an invisible string.
Sarah King noticed the avoidance, and was young enough and human enough to be annoyed by it. They had had such a friendly talk together in the swaying corridor of the Wagon-Lit. They had compared notes on Egypt, had laughed at the ridiculous language of the donkey boys and street touts. Sarah had described how a camel man, when he had started hopefully and impudently, "You English lady or American?" had received the answer: "No, Chinese," and her pleasure in seeing the man's complete bewilderment as he stared at her. The boy had been, she thought, like a nice eager schoolboythere had been, perhaps, something almost pathetic about his eagerness. And now for no reason at all, he was shy, boorishpositively rude.
"I shan't take any more trouble with him," said Sarah indignantly. For Sarah, without being unduly conceited, had a fairly good opinion of herself. She knew herself to be definitely attractive to the opposite sex, and she was not one to take a snubbing lying down! She had been, perhaps, a shade over-friendly to this boy because, for some obscure reason, she had felt sorry for him.
But now, it was apparent, he was merely a rude, stuck-up, boorish young American! Instead of writing the letters she had mentioned, Sarah King sat down in front of her dressing-table, combed the hair back from her forehead, looked into a pair of troubled hazel eyes in the glass, and took stock of her situation in life.
She had just passed through a difficult emotional crisis. A month ago she had broken off her engagement to a young doctor some four years her senior. They had been very much attracted to each other, but had been too much alike in temperament. Disagreements and quarrels had been of common occurrence. Sarah was of too imperious a temperament herself to brook a calm assertion of autocracy.
Like many high-spirited women, Sarah believed herself to admire strength. She had always told herself that she wanted to be mastered. When she met a man capable of mastering her she found that she did not like it at all! To break off her engagement had cost her a good deal of heart burning, but she was clear-sighted enough to realize that mere mutual attraction was not a sufficient basis on which to build a lifetime of happiness. She had treated herself deliberately to an interesting holiday abroad in order to help on forgetfulness before she went back to start working in earnest.
Sarah's thoughts came back from the past to the present.
"I wonder," she thought, "if Dr. Gerard will let me talk to him about his work? He's done such marvelous work. If only he'll take me seriously . . . Perhapsif he comes to Petra" Then she thought again of the strange, boorish young American.
She had no doubt that it was the presence of his family which had caused him to react in such a peculiar manner, but she felt slightly scornful of him, nevertheless. To be under the thumb of one's family like thatit was really rather ridiculousespecially for a man! And yet . . .
A queer feeling passed over her. Surely there was something a little odd about it all?
She said suddenly out loud: "That boy wants rescuing! I'm going to see to it!"


3
When Sarah had left the lounge Dr. Gerard sat where he was for some minutes. Then he walked over to the table, picked up the latest number of Le Matin and strolled with it to a chair a few yards away from the Boynton family. His curiosity was aroused.
He had at first been amused by the English girl's interest in this American family, shrewdly diagnosing that it was inspired by interest in one particular member of the group. But now something out of the ordinary about this family party awakened in him the deeper, more impartial interest of the scientist. He sensed that there was something here of definite psychological interest.
Very discreetly, under the cover of his paper, he took stock of them. First, the boy in whom that attractive English girl took such a decided interest. Yes, thought Gerard, definitely the type to appeal to her temperamentally. Sarah King had strengthshe possessed well-balanced nerves, cool wits and a resolute will. Dr. Gerard judged the young man to be sensitive, perceptive, diffident and intensely suggestible. He noted with a physician's eye the obvious fact that the boy was at the moment in a state of high nervous tension. Dr. Gerard wondered why. He was puzzled. Why should a young man whose physical health was obviously good, who was abroad ostensibly enjoying himself, be in such a condition that a nervous breakdown was imminent?
The doctor turned his attention to the other members of the party. The girl with the chestnut hair was obviously Raymond's sister. They were of the same racial type, small-boned, well-shaped, aristocratic-looking. They had the same slender, well-formed hands, the same clean line of jaw, and the same poise of the head on a long slender neck. And the girl, too, was nervous. . . . She made slight involuntary nervous movements, her eyes were deeply shadowed underneath and over-bright. Her voice, when she spoke, was too quick and a shade breathless. She was watchfulalertunable to relax.
"And she is afraid, too," decided Dr. Gerard. "Yes, she is afraid!"
He overheard scraps of conversationa very ordinary normal conversation.
"We might go to Solomon's Stables."
"Would that be too much for Mother?"
"The Weeping Wall in the morning?"
"The Temple, of coursethe Mosque of Omar they call it. I wonder why?"
"Because it's been made into a Moslem mosque, of course, Lennox."
Ordinary, commonplace tourists' talk. And yet, somehow, Dr. Gerard felt a queer conviction that these overheard scraps of dialogue were all singularly unreal. They were a maska cover for something that surged and eddied underneathsomething too deep and formless for words . . . .
Again he shot a covert glance from behind the shelter of Le Matin.
Lennox? That was the elder brother. The same family likeness could be traced, but there was a difference. Lennox was not so highly strung; he was, Gerard decided, of a less nervous temperament. But about him, no, there seemed something odd. There was no sign of muscular tension about him as there was about the other two. He sat relaxed, limp. Puzzling, searching among memories of patients he had seen sitting like that in hospital wards, Gerard thought: "He is exhaustedyes, exhausted with suffering. That look in the eyesthe look you see in a wounded dog or a sick horsedumb bestial endurance. . . . It is odd, that. . . . Physically there seems nothing wrong with him. . . . Yet there is no doubt that lately he has been through much sufferingmental suffering. Now he no longer suffershe endures dumblywaiting, I think, for the blow to fall. . . . What blow? Am I fancying all this? No, the man is waiting for something, for the end to come. So cancer patients lie and wait, thankful that an anodyne dulls the pain a little. . . ."
Lennox Boynton got up and retrieved a ball of wool that the old lady had dropped.
"Here you are. Mother."
"Thank you."
What was she knitting, this monumental, impassive old woman? Something thick and coarse. Gerard thought: "Mittens for inhabitants of a workhouse!" and smiled at his own fantasy.
He turned his attention to the youngest member of the partythe girl with the golden red hair. She was, perhaps, seventeen. Her skin had the exquisite clearness that often goes with red hair. Although over-thin, it was a beautiful face. She was sitting smiling to herselfsmiling into space. There was something a little curious about that smile. It was so far removed from the Solomon Hotel, from Jerusalem. . . . It reminded Dr. Gerard of something . . . Presently it came to him in a flash. It was the strange unearthly smile that lifts the lips of the Maidens in the Acropolis at Athenssomething remote and lovely and a little inhuman. . . . The magic of the smile, her exquisite stillness, gave him a little pang.
And then with a shock, Dr. Gerard noticed her hands. They were concealed from the group around her by the table, but he could see them clearly from where he sat. In the shelter of her lap they were pickingpickingtearing a delicate handkerchief into tiny shreds.
It gave him a horrible shock.
The aloof remote smilethe still bodyand the busy destructive hands . . .


4
There was a slow asthmatic wheezing coughthen the monumental knitting woman spoke.
"Ginevra, you're tired; you'd better go to bed."
The girl started; her fingers stopped their mechanical action.
"I'm not tired. Mother."
Gerard recognized appreciatively the musical quality of her voice. It had the sweet singing quality that lends enchantment to the most commonplace utterances.
"Yes, you are. I always know. I don't think you'll be able to do any sightseeing tomorrow."
"Oh! But I shall. I'm quite all right."
In a thick hoarse voice, almost a grating voice, her mother said: "No, you're not. You're going to be ill."
"I'm not! I'm not!" The girl began trembling violently.
A soft calm voice said: "I'll come up with you. Jinny." The quiet young woman with wide, thoughtful gray eyes and neatly coiled dark hair rose to her feet.
Old Mrs. Boynton said: "No. Let her go up alone."
The girl cried: "I want Nadine to come!"
"Then of course I will." The young woman moved a step forward.
The old woman said: "The child prefers to go by herselfdon't you Jinny?"
There was a pausea pause of a momentthen Ginevra Boynton said, her voice suddenly flat and dull: "YesI'd rather go alone. Thank you, Nadine."
She walked away, a tall angular figure that moved with a surprising grace.
Dr. Gerard lowered his paper and took a full satisfying gaze at old Mrs. Boynton. She was looking after her daughter and her fat face was creased into a peculiar smile. It was a caricature of the lovely unearthly smile that had transformed the girl's face so short a time before. Then the old woman transferred her gaze to Nadine.
The latter had just sat down again. She raised her eyes and met her mother-in-law's glance. Her face was quite imperturbable. The old woman's glance was malicious.
Dr. Gerard thought: "What an absurdity of an old tyrant!"
And then, suddenly, the old woman's eyes were full on him, and he drew in his breath sharply. Small, black, smoldering eyes they were, but something came from thema power, a definite force, a wave of evil malignancy. Dr. Gerard knew something about the power of personality. He realized that here was no spoilt tyrannical invalid indulging petty whims. This old woman was a definite force. In the malignancy of her glare he felt a resemblance to the effect produced by a cobra. Mrs. Boynton might be old, infirm, a prey to disease, but she was not powerless.
She was a woman who knew the meaning of power, who recognized a lifetime of power and who had never once doubted her own force. Dr. Gerard had once met a woman who performed a most dangerous and spectacular act with tigers. The great slinking brutes had crawled to their places and performed their degrading and humiliating tricks. Their eyes and subdued snarls told of hatred, bitter fanatical hatred, but they had obeyed, cringed. That had been a young woman, a woman with an arrogant dark beauty, but the look had been the same.
"Une dompteuse!" said Dr. Gerard to himself. And he understood now what that undercurrent to the harmless family talk had been. It was hatreda dark eddying stream of hatred.
He thought: "How fanciful and absurd most people would think me! Here is a commonplace devoted American family reveling in Palestineand I weave a story of black magic round it!"
Then he looked with interest at the quiet young woman who was called Nadine. There was a wedding ring on her left hand, and as he watched her, he saw her give one swift betraying glance at the fair-haired, loose-limbed Lennox. He knew, then . . . They were man and wife, those two. But it was a mother's glance rather than a wife'sa true mother's glanceprotecting, anxious. And he knew something more. He knew that out of that group, Nadine Boynton alone was unaffected by her mother-in-law's spell. She may have disliked the old woman, but she was not afraid of her. The power did not touch her.
She was unhappy, deeply concerned about her husband, but she was free.
Dr. Gerard said to himself: "All this is very interesting."


5
INTO THESE DARK imaginings a breath of the commonplace came with almost ludicrous effect.
A man came into the lounge, caught sight of the Boyntons and came across to them.
He was a pleasant middle-aged American of a strictly conventional type. He was carefully dressed, with a long, clean-shaven face and he had a slow, pleasant, somewhat monotonous voice.
"I was looking around for you all," he said. Meticulously he shook hands with the entire family.
"And how do you find yourself, Mrs. Boynton? Not too tired by the journey?"
Almost graciously, the old lady wheezed out: "No, thank you. My health's never good, as you know"
"Why, of course; too badtoo bad."
"But I'm certainly no worse." Mrs. Boynton added with a slow reptilian smile: "Nadine, here, takes good care of me; don't you, Nadine?"
"I do my best." Her voice was expressionless.
"Why, I'll bet you do," said the stranger heartily. "Well, Lennox, and what do you think of King David's city?"
"Oh, I don't know." Lennox spoke apatheticallywithout interest.
"Find it kind of disappointing, do you? I'll confess it struck me that way at first. But perhaps you haven't been around much yet?"
Carol Boynton said: "We can't do very much because of Mother."
Mrs. Boynton explained: "A couple of hours' sightseeing is about all I can manage every day."
The stranger said heartily: "I think it's wonderful you manage to do all you do, Mrs. Boynton."
Mrs. Boynton gave a slow wheezy chuckle; it had an almost gloating sound. "I don't give in to my body! It's the mind that matters! Yes, it's the mind. . . ."
Her voice died away. Gerard saw Raymond Boynton give a nervous jerk.
"Have you been to the Weeping Wall yet, Mr. Cope?" he asked.
"Why, yes, that was one of the first places I visited. I hope to have done Jerusalem thoroughly in a couple more days and I'm letting them get me out an itinerary at Cook's so as to do the Holy Land thoroughlyBethlehem, Nazareth, Tiberias, the Sea of Galilee. It's all going to be mighty interesting. Then there's Jerash; there are some very interesting ruins thereRoman, you know. And I'd very much like to have a look at the Rose Red City of Petra, a most remarkable natural phenomenon, I believe that is, and right off the beaten track; but it takes the best part of a week to get there and back and do it properly."
Carol said: "I'd love to go there. It sounds marvelous."
"Why I should say it was definitely worth seeingyes, definitely worth seeing." Mr. Cope paused, shot a somewhat dubious glance at Mrs. Boynton, and then went on in a voice that to the listening Frenchman was palpably uncertain: "I wonder now if I couldn't persuade some of you people to come with me? Naturally I know you couldn't manage it, Mrs. Boynton, and naturally some of your family would want to remain with you; but if you were to divide forces, so to speak"
He paused. Gerard heard the even click of Mrs. Boynton's knitting needles. Then she said: "I don't think we'd care to divide up. We're a very homey group." She looked up. "Well, children, what do you say?"
There was a queer ring in her voice. The answers came promptly: "No, Mother."
"Oh, no."
"No, of course not."
Mrs. Boynton said, smiling that very odd smile of hers: "You seethey won't leave me. What about you, Nadine? You didn't say anything."
"No, thank you, Mother, not unless Lennox cares about it."
Mrs. Boynton turned her head slowly towards her son. "Well, Lennox, what about it; why don't you and Nadine go? She seems to want to."
He started. Looked up.
"Iwellno, II think we'd better all stay together." Mr. Cope said genially: "Well, you are a devoted family!" But something in his geniality rang a little hollow and forced.
"We keep to ourselves," said Mrs. Boynton. She began to wind up her ball of wool. "By the way, Raymond, who was that young woman who spoke to you just now?"
Raymond started nervously. He flushed, then went white. "II don't know her name. Sheshe was on the train the other night."
Mrs. Boynton began slowly to try and heave herself out of her chair. "I don't think we'll have much to do with her," she said.
Nadine rose and assisted the old woman to struggle out of her chair. She did it with a professional deftness that attracted Gerard's attention.
"Bedtime," said Mrs. Boynton. "Good night, Mr. Cope."
"Good night, Mrs. Boynton. Good night, Mrs. Lennox."
They went offa little procession. It did not seem to occur to any of the younger members of the party to stay behind.
Mr. Cope was left looking after them. The expression on his face was an odd one.
As Dr. Gerard knew by experience, Americans are disposed to be a friendly race. They have not the uneasy suspicion of the traveling Briton. To a man of Dr. Gerard's tact, making the acquaintance of Mr. Cope presented few difficulties. The American was lonely and was, like most of his race, disposed to friendliness. Dr. Gerard's card-case was again to the fore.
Reading the name on it, Mr. Jefferson Cope was duly impressed.
"Why surely. Dr. Gerard, you were over in the States not very long ago?"
"Last Autumn. I was lecturing at Harvard."
"Of course. Yours, Dr. Gerard, is one of the most distinguished names in your profession. You're pretty well at the head of your subject in Paris."
"My dear sir, you are far too kind! I protest."
"No, no, this is a great privilegemeeting you like this. As a matter of fact, there are several very distinguished people here in Jerusalem just at present. There's yourself and there's Lord Welldon, and Sir Gabriel Steinbaum, the financier. Then there's the veteran English archaeologist, Sir Manders Stone. And there's Lady Westholme who's very prominent in English politics. And there's that famous Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot."
"Little Hercule Poirot? Is he here?"
"I read his name in the local paper as having lately arrived. Seems to me all the world and his wife are at the Solomon Hotel. A mighty fine hotel it is, too. And very tastefully decorated."
Mr. Jefferson Cope was clearly enjoying himself. Dr. Gerard was a man who could display a lot of charm when he chose. Before long the two men had adjourned to the bar.
After a couple of highballs Gerard said: "Tell me, is that a typical American family to whom you were talking?"
Jefferson Cope sipped his drink thoughtfully. Then he said: "Why, no, I wouldn't say it was exactly typical."
"No? A very devoted family, though."
Cope said slowly: "You mean they all seem to revolve round the old lady? That's true enough. She's a very remarkable old lady, you know."
"Indeed?"
Mr. Cope needed very little encouragement. The gentle invitation was enough. "I don't mind telling you, Dr. Gerard, I've been having that family a good deal on my mind lately. I've been thinking about them a lot. If I may say so, it would ease my mind to talk to you about the matter. If it won't bore you, that is?"
Dr. Gerard disclaimed boredom. Mr. Jefferson Cope went on slowly, his pleasant clean-shaven face creased with perplexity.
"I'll tell you straight away that I'm just a little worried. Mrs. Boynton, you see, is an old friend of mine. That is to say, not the old Mrs. Boynton, the young one. Mrs. Lennox Boynton."
"Ah, yes, that very charming dark-haired young lady."
"That's right. That's Nadine. Nadine Boynton, Dr. Gerard, is a very lovely character. I knew her before she was married. She was in hospital then, working to be a trained nurse. Then she went for a vacation to stay with the Boyntons and she married Lennox."
"Yes?"
Mr. Jefferson Cope took another sip of highball and went on. "I'd like to tell you, Dr. Gerard, just a little of the Boynton family history."
"Yes? I should be most interested."
"Well, you see, the late Elmer Boyntonhe was quite a well-known man and a very charming personwas twice married. His first wife died when Carol and Raymond were tiny toddlers. The second Mrs. Boynton, so I've been told, was a handsome woman when he married her, though not very young. Seems odd to think she can ever have been handsome to look at her now, but that's what I've been told on very good authority. Anyway, her husband thought a lot of her and adopted her judgment on almost every point. He was an invalid for some years before he died, and she practically ruled the roost. She's a very capable woman with a fine head for business. A very conscientious woman, too. After Elmer died, she devoted herself absolutely to these children. There's one of her own, tooGinevrapretty red-haired girl but a bit delicate. Well, as I was telling you, Mrs. Boynton devoted herself entirely to her family. She just shut out the outside world entirely. Now, I don't know what you think, Dr. Gerard, but I don't think that's always a very sound thing."
"I agree with you. It is most harmful to developing mentalities."
"Yes, I should say that just about expresses it. Mrs. Boynton shielded these children from the outside world and never let them make any outside contacts. The result of that is that they've grown upwell, kind of nervy. They're jumpy, if you know what I mean. Can't make friends with strangers. It's bad, that."
"It is very bad."
"I we no doubt Mrs. Boynton meant well. It was just over-devotion on her part."
"They all live at home?" asked the doctor.
"Yes."
"Do neither of the sons work?"
"Why, no. Elmer Boynton was a rich man. He left all his money to Mrs. Boynton for her lifetimebut it was understood that it was for the family upkeep generally."
"So they are dependent on her financially?"
"That is so. And she's encouraged them to live at home and not go out and look for jobs. Well, maybe that's all right; there's plenty of money. They don't need to take jobs but I think for the male sex, anyway, work's a good tonic. Then there's another thingthey've none of them got any hobbies. They don't play golf. They don't belong to any country club. They don't go around to dances or do anything with the other young people. They live in a great barrack of a house way down in the country, miles from anywhere. I tell you. Dr. Gerard, it seems all wrong to me."
"I agree with you," said Dr. Gerard.
"Not one of them has got the least social sense. The community spiritthat's what's lacking! They may be a very devoted family but they're all bound up in themselves."
"There has never been any question of one or the other of them branching out for him- or herself?"
"Not that I've heard of. They just sit around."
"Do you put the blame for that on them or on Mrs. Boynton?"
Jefferson Cope shifted uneasily. "Well, in a sense I feel she is more or less responsible. It's bad bringing up on her part. All the same, when a young fellow comes to maturity it's up to him to kick over the traces of his own accord. No boy ought to keep on being tied to his mother's apron strings. He ought to choose to be independent."
Dr. Gerard said thoughtfully: "That might be impossible."
"Why impossible?"
"There are methods, Mr. Cope, of preventing a tree from growing."
Cope stared. "They're a fine healthy lot, Dr. Gerard."
"The mind can be stunted and warped as well as the body."
"They're bright mentally too."
Gerard sighed.
Jefferson Cope went on: "No, Dr. Gerard, take it from me, a man has got the control of his own destiny right there in his own hands. A man who respects himself strikes out on his own and makes something of his life. He doesn't just sit round and twiddle his thumbs. No woman ought to respect a man who does that."
Gerard looked at him curiously for a minute or two, then he said: "You refer particularly, I think, to Mr. Lennox Boynton?"
"Why, yes, it was Lennox I was thinking of. Raymond's only a boy still. But Lennox is just on thirty. Time he showed he was made of something."
"It is a difficult life, perhaps, for his wife?"
"Of course it's a difficult life for her! Nadine is a very fine girl. I admire her more than I can say. She's never let drop one word of complaint. But she's not happy, Dr. Gerard. She's just as unhappy as she can be."
Gerard nodded his head. "Yes, I think that well might be."
"I don't know what you think about it, Dr. Gerard, but I think that there's a limit to what a woman ought to put up with! If I were Nadine I'd put it to young Lennox straight. Either he sets to and proves what he's made of, or else"
"Or else, you think, she should leave him?"
"She's got her own life to live. Dr. Gerard. If Lennox doesn't appreciate her as she ought to be appreciated, well, there are other men who will."
"There isyourself, for instance?"
The American flushed. Then he looked straight at the other with a certain simple dignity. "That's so," he said. "I'm not ashamed of my feelings for that lady. I respect her and I am very, very deeply attached to her. All I want is her happiness. If she were happy with Lennox, I'd sit right back and fade out of the picture."
"But as it is?"
"But as it is, I'm standing by! If she wants me, I'm here!"
"You are, in fact, the 'parfait gentil' knight," murmured Gerard.
"Pardon?"
"My dear sir, chivalry only lives nowadays in the American nation! You are ******* to serve your lady without hope of reward! It is most admirable, that! What exactly do you hope to be able to do for her?"
"My idea is to be right here at hand if she needs me."
"And what, may I ask, is the older Mrs. Boynton's attitude towards you?"
Jefferson Cope said slowly: "I'm never quite sure about that old lady. As I've told she isn't fond of making outside contacts. But she's been different to me, she's always very gracious and treats we quite like one of the family."
"In fact, she approves of your friendship with Mrs. Lennox?"
"She does."
Dr. Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "That is, perhaps, a little odd?"
Jefferson Cope said stiffly: "Let me assure you, Dr. Gerard, there is nothing dishonorable in that friendship. It is purely platonic."
"My dear sir, I am quite sure of that. I repeat, though, that for Mrs. Boynton to encourage that friendship is a curious action on her part. You know, Mr. Cope, Mrs. Boynton interests meshe interests me greatly."
"She is certainly a remarkable woman. She has great force of charactera most prominent personality. As I say Elmer Boynton had the greatest faith in her judgment."
"So much so that he was ******* to leave his children completely at her mercy from the financial point of view. In my country, Mr. Cope, it is impossible by law to do such a thing."
Mr. Cope rose. "In America," he said, "we're great believers in absolute freedom."
Dr. Gerard rose also. He was unimpressed by the remark. He had heard it made before by people of many different nationalities. The illusion that freedom is the prerogative of one's own particular race is fairly widespread.
Dr. Gerard was wiser. He knew that no race, no country and no individual could be described as free. But he also knew that there were different degrees of bondage.
He went up to bed thoughtful and interested.


6
Sarah King stood in the precincts of the Temple, the Haram-esh-Sherif. Her back was to the Dome of the Rock. The splashing of fountains sounded in her ears. Little groups of tourists passed by without disturbing the peace of the oriental atmosphere.
Strange, thought Sarah, that once a Jebusite should have made this rocky summit into a threshing floor and that David should have purchased it for six hundred shekels of gold and made it a Holy Place. And now the loud chattering tongues of sightseers of all nations could be heard . . .
She turned and looked at the Mosque which now covered the shrine and wondered if Solomon's temple would have looked half as beautiful.
There was a clatter of footsteps and a little party came out from the interior of the Mosque. It was the Boyntons escorted by a voluble dragoman. Mrs. Boynton was supported between Lennox and Raymond. Nadine and Mr. Cope walked behind. Carol came last. As they were moving off, the latter caught sight of Sarah.
She hesitated, then, on a sudden decision, she wheeled around and ran swiftly and noiselessly across the courtyard.
"Excuse me," she said breathlessly.
"I must II felt I must speak to you."
"Yes?" said Sarah.
Carol was trembling violently. Her face was quite white. "It's aboutmy brother. When youyou spoke to him last night you must have thought him very rude. But he didn't mean to behehe couldn't help it. Oh, do please believe me."
Sarah felt that the whole scene was ridiculous. Both her pride and her good taste were offended. Why should a strange girl suddenly rush up and tender a ridiculous apology for a boorish brother?
An offhand reply trembled on her lipsand then, quickly, her mood changed. There was something out of the ordinary here. This girl was in deadly earnest. That something in Sarah which had led her to adopt a medical career reacted to the girl's need. Her instinct told her there was something badly wrong.
She said encouragingly: "Tell me about it."
"He spoke to you on the train, didn't he?" began Carol.
Sarah nodded. "Yesat least I spoke to him."
"Oh, of course. It would be that way around. But, you see, last night. Ray was afraid" She stopped.
"Afraid?"
Carol's white face crimsoned. "Oh, I know it sounds absurdmad. You see, my mothershe'sshe's not welland she doesn't like us making friends outside. Butbut I know Ray wouldwould like to be friends with you."
Sarah was interested. Before she could speak, Carol went on. "I know what I'm saying sounds very silly, but we are rather an odd family." She cast a quick look aroundit was a look of fear. "II mustn't stay," she murmured. "They may miss me."
Sarah made up her mind. She spoke. "Why shouldn't you stayif you want to? We might walk back together."
"Oh no." Carol drew back. "II couldn't do that."
"Why not?" said Sarah.
"I couldn't really. My mother would bewould be"
Sarah said clearly and calmly: "I know it's awfully difficult sometimes for parents to realize that their children are grown up. They will go on trying to run their lives for them. But it's a pity, you know, to give in! One must stand up for one's rights."
Carol murmured: "You don't understandyou don't understand in the least. . . ." Her hands twisted together nervously.
Sarah went on: "One gives in sometimes because one is afraid of rows. Rows are very unpleasant, but I think freedom of action is always worth fighting for."
"Freedom?" Carol stared at her. "None of us has ever been free. We never will be."
"Nonsense!" said Sarah clearly.
Carol leaned forward and touched her arm. "Listen. I must try and make you understand! Before her marriage my mothershe's my stepmother reallywas a wardress in a prison. My father was the Governor and he married her. Well, it's been like that ever since. She's gone on being a wardressto us. That's why our life is justbeing in prison!" Her head jerked around again. "They've missed me. II must go."
Sarah caught her by the arm as she was darting off. "One minute. We must meet again and talk."
"I can't. I shan't be able to."
"Yes, you can." She spoke authoritatively. "Come to my room after you go to bed. It's 319. Don't forget; 319." She released her hold. Carol ran off after her family.
Sarah stood staring after her. She awoke from her thoughts to find Dr. Gerard by her side.
"Good morning, Miss King. So you've been talking to Miss Carol Boynton?"
"Yes, we had the most extraordinary conversation. Let me tell you."
She repeated the substance of her conversation with the girl.
Gerard pounced on one point. "Wardress in a prison, was she, that old hippopotamus? That is significant, perhaps."
Sarah said: "You mean that that is the cause of her tyranny? It is the habit of her former profession?"
Gerard shook his head. "No, that is approaching it from the wrong angle. There is some deep underlying compulsion. She does not love tyranny because she has been a wardress. Let us rather say that she became a wardress because she loved tyranny. In my theory it was a secret desire for power over other human beings that led her to adopt that profession."
His face was very grave. "There are such strange things buried down in the unconscious. A lust for powera lust for crueltya savage desire to tear and rendall the inheritance of our past racial memories . . . They are all there, Miss King, all the cruelty and savagery and lust . . . We shut the door on them and deny them conscious life, but sometimes they are too strong."
Sarah shivered. "I know."
Gerard continued: "We see it all around us todayin political creeds, in the conduct of nations. A reaction from humanitarianism, from pity, from brotherly good will. The creeds sound well sometimes, a wise regime, a beneficent governmentbut imposed by forceresting on a basis of cruelty and fear. They are opening the door, these apostles of violence, they are letting out the old savagery, the old delight in cruelty for its own sake! Oh, it is difficult. Man is an animal very delicately balanced. He has one prime necessityto survive. To advance too quickly is as fatal as to lag behind. He must survive! He must, perhaps, retain some of the old savagery, but he must notno, definitely he must notdeify it!"
There was a pause. Then Sarah said: "You think old Mrs. Boynton is a kind of Sadist?"
"I am almost sure of it. I think she rejoices in the infliction of painmental pain, mind you, not physical. That is very much rarer and very much more difficult to deal with. She likes to have control of other human beings and she likes to make them suffer."
"It's pretty beastly," said Sarah.
Gerard told her of his conversation with Jefferson Cope.
"He doesn't realize what is going on?" she said thoughtfully.
"How should he? He is not a psychologist."
"True. He hasn't got our disgusting minds!"
"Exactly. He has a nice, upright, sentimental, normal American mind. He believes in good rather than evil. He sees that the atmosphere of the Boynton family is all wrong, but he credits Mrs. Boynton with misguided devotion rather than active maleficence."
"That must amuse her," said Sarah.
"I should imagine it does!"
Sarah said impatiently: "But why don't they break away? They could."
Gerard shook his head. "No, there you are wrong. They cannot. Have you ever seen the old experiment with a cock? You chalk a line on the floor and put the cock's beak to it. The cock believes he is tied there. He cannot raise his head. So with these unfortunates. She has worked on them, remember, since they were children. And her dominance has been mental. She has hypnotized them to believe that they cannot disobey her. Oh, I know most people would say that was nonsensebut you and I know better. She has made them believe that utter dependence on her is inevitable. They have been in prison so long that if the prison door stood open they would no longer notice! One of them, at least, no longer even wants to be free! And they would all be afraid of freedom."
Sarah asked practically: "What will happen when she dies?"
Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "It depends on how soon that happens. If it happened, well, I think it might not be too late. The boy and the girl are still youngimpressionable. They would become, I believe, normal human beings. With Lennox, possibly, it has gone too far. He looks to me like a man who has parted company with hopehe lives and endures like a brute beast."
Sarah said impatiently: "His wife ought to have done something! She ought to have yanked him out of it."
"I wonder. She may have triedand failed."
"Do you think she's under the spell too?"
Gerard shook his head. "No. I don't think the old lady has any power over her, and for that reason she hates her with a bitter hatred. Watch her eyes."
Sarah frowned. "I can't make her outthe young one, I mean. Does she know what is going on?"
"I think she must have a pretty shrewd idea."
"Hm," said Sarah. "That old woman ought to be murdered! Arsenic in her early morning tea would be my prescription."
Then she said abruptly: "What about the youngest girlthe red-haired one with the rather fascinating vacant smile?"
Gerard frowned. "I don't know. There is something queer there. Ginevra Boynton is the old woman's own daughter, of course."
"Yes. I suppose that would be differentor wouldn't it?"
Gerard said slowly: "I do not believe that when once the mania for power (and the lust for cruelty) has taken possession of a human being that it can spare anybodynot even its nearest and dearest."
He was silent for a moment then he said: "Are you a Christian, Mademoiselle?"
Sarah said slowly: "I don't know. I used to think that I wasn't anything. But nowI'm not sure. I feeloh, I feel that if I could sweep all this away" she made a violent gesture, "all the buildings and the sects and the fierce squabbling churchesthatthat I might see Christ's quiet figure riding into Jerusalem on a donkeyand believe in him."
Dr. Gerard said gravely: "I believe at least in one of the chief tenets of the Christian faith*******ment with a lowly place. I am a doctor and I know that ambitionthe desire to succeedto have powerleads to most ills of the human soul. If the desire is realized it leads to arrogance, violence and final satiety; and if it is deniedah! If it is denied let all the asylums for the insane rise up and give their testimony! They are filled with human beings who were unable to face being mediocre, insignificant, ineffective and who therefore created for themselves ways of escape from reality so to be shut off from life itself forever."
Sarah said abruptly: "It's a pity the old Boynton woman isn't in an asylum."
Gerard shook his head. "Noher place is not there among the failures. It is worse than that. She has succeeded, you see! She has accomplished her dream."
Sarah shuddered.
She cried passionately: "Such things ought not to be!"


7
Sarah wondered very much whether Carol Boynton would keep her appointment that night. On the whole, she rather doubted it. She was afraid that Carol would have a sharp reaction after her semi-confidences of the morning.
Nevertheless, she made her preparations, slipping on a blue satin dressing gown and getting out her little spirit lamp and boiling up water. She was just on the point of giving Carol up (it was after one o'clock) and going to bed, when there was a tap on her door. She opened it and drew quickly back to let Carol come in.
The latter said breathlessly: "I was afraid you might have gone to bed . . ."
Sarah's manner was carefully matter-of-fact. "Oh, no. I was waiting for you. Have some tea, will you? It's real Lapsang Souchong."
She brought over a cup. Carol had been nervous and uncertain of herself. Now she accepted the cup and a biscuit and her manner became calmer.
"This is rather fun," said Sarah, smiling.
Carol looked a little startled.
"Yes," she said doubtfully. "Yes, I suppose it is."
"Rather like the midnight feasts we used to have at school," went on Sarah. "I suppose you didn't go away to school?"
Carol shook her head. "We never left home. We had a governessdifferent governesses. They never stayed long."
"Did you never go away at all?"
"We've lived always in the same house. This coming abroad is the first time I've ever been away."
Sarah said casually: "It must have been a great adventure."
"Oh, it was. Itit's all been like a dream."
"What made youryour stepmother decide to come abroad?"
At the mention of Mrs. Boynton's name, Carol had flinched. Sarah said quickly: "You know, I'm by way of being a doctor. I've just taken my M.B.. Your motheror stepmother ratheris very interesting to meas a case, you know. I should say she was quite definitely a pathological case."
Carol stared. It was clearly a very unexpected point of view to her. Sarah had spoken as she had with deliberate intent. She realized that to her family Mrs. Boynton loomed as a kind of powerful obscene idol. It was Sarah's object to rob her of her more terrifying aspect.
"Yes," she said. "There's a kind of disease ofof grandeurthat gets hold of people. They get very autocratic and insist on everything being done exactly as they say and are altogether very difficult to deal with."
Carol put down her cup. "Oh," she cried, "I'm so glad to be talking to you. You know, I believe Ray and I have been getting quitewell, quite queer. We'd got terribly worked up about things."
"Talking with an outsider is always a good thing," said Sarah. "Inside a family one is apt to get too intense." Then she asked casually: "If you are unhappy, haven't you ever thought of leaving home?"
Carol looked startled. "Oh, no! How could we? II mean, Mother would never allow it."
"But she couldn't stop you," said Sarah gently. "You're over age."
"I'm twenty-three."
"Exactly."
"But still, I don't see howI mean I wouldn't know where to go and what to do." Her tone seemed bewildered. "You see," she said, "we haven't got any money."
"Haven't you any friends you could go to?"
"Friends?" Carol shook her head. "Oh, no, we don't know anyone!"
"Did none of you ever think of leaving home?"
"NoI don't think so. Ohohwe couldn't."
Sarah changed the subject. She found the girl's bewilderment pitiful.
She said: "Are you fond of your stepmother?"
Slowly Carol shook her head. She whispered in a low scared voice: "I hate her. So does Ray . . . We'vewe've often wished she would die."
Again Sarah changed the subject. "Tell me about your elder brother."
"Lennox? I don't know what's the matter with Lennox. He hardly ever speaks now. He goes about in a kind of daydream. Nadine's terribly worried about him."
"You are fond of your sister-in-law?"
"Yes Nadine is different. She's always kind. But she's very unhappy."
"About your brother?"
"Yes."
"Have they been married long?"
"Four years."
"And they've always lived at home?"
"Yes."
Sarah asked: "Does your sister-in-law like that?"
"No." There was a pause. Then Carol said: "There was an awful fuss once about four years ago now. You see, as I told you, none of us ever goes outside the house at home. I mean we go into the grounds, but nowhere else. But Lennox did. He got out at night. He went into Fountain Springsthere was a sort of dance going on. Mother was frightfully angry when she found out. It was terrible. And then, after that, she asked Nadine to come and stay. Nadine was a very distant cousin of father's. She was very poor and was training to be a hospital nurse. She came and stayed with us for a month. I can't tell you how exciting it was to have someone to stay! And she and Lennox fell in love with each other. And Mother said they'd better be married quickly and live on with us."
"And was Nadine willing to do that?"
Carol hesitated. "I don't think she wanted to do that very much, but she didn't really mind. Then, later, she wanted to go awaywith Lennox, of course"
"But they didn't go?" asked Sarah.
"No, Mother wouldn't hear of it." Carol paused and then said: "I don't think she likes Nadine any longer. Nadine is funny. You never know what she's thinking. She tries to help Jinny and Mother doesn't like it."
"Jinny is your younger sister?"
"Yes. Ginevra is her real name."
"Is sheunhappy too?"
Carol shook her head doubtfully. "Jinny's been very queer lately. I don't understand her. You see, she's always been rather delicateandand Mother fusses about her andand it makes her worse. And lately Jinny has been very queer indeed. Sheshe frightens me sometimes. Sheshe doesn't always know what she's doing."
"Has she seen a doctor?"
"No; Nadine wanted her to, but Mother said no, and Jinny got very hysterical and screamed and said she wouldn't see a doctor. But I'm worried about her." Suddenly Carol rose. "I mustn't keep you up. It'sit's very good of you letting me come and talk to you. You must think us very odd as a family."
"Oh, everybody's odd, really," said Sarah lightly. "Come again, will you? And bring your brother, if you like."
"May I really?"
"Yes; we'll do some secret plotting. I'd like you to meet a friend of mine, too; a Dr. Gerard, an awfully nice Frenchman."
The color came into Carol's cheeks. "Oh what fun it sounds. If only Mother doesn't find out!"
Sarah suppressed her original retort and said instead, "Why should she? Good night. Shall we say tomorrow night at the same time?"
"Oh yes. The day after, you see, we may be going away."
"Then let's have a definite date for tomorrow. Good night."
"Good night and thank you."
Carol went out of the room and slipped noiselessly along the corridor. Her own room was on the floor above. She reached it, opened the doorand stood appalled on the threshold.
Mrs. Boynton was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace in a crimson wool dressing gown. A little cry escaped from Carol's lips. "Oh!"
A pair of black eyes bored into hers. "Where have you been, Carol?"
"II"
"Where have you been?" A soft husky voice with that queer menacing undertone in it that always made Carol's heart beat with unreasoning terror.
"To see a Miss KingSarah King."
"The girl who spoke to Raymond the other evening?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Have you made any plans to see her again?"
Carol's lips moved soundlessly. She nodded assent. Frightgreat sickening waves of fright . . .
"When?"
"Tomorrow night."
"You are not to go. You understand?"
"Yes, Mother."
"You promise?"
"Yesyes."
Mrs. Boynton struggled to get up. Mechanically Carol came forward and helped her. Mrs. Boynton walked slowly across the room supporting herself on her stick. She paused in the doorway and looked back at the cowering girl.
"You are to have nothing more to do with this Miss King. You understand?"
"Yes, Mother."
"Repeat it."
"I am to have nothing more to do with her."
"Good."
Mrs. Boynton went out and shut the door.
Stiffly, Carol moved across the bedroom. She felt sick, her whole body felt wooden and unreal. She dropped onto the bed and suddenly she was shaken by a storm of weeping. It was as though a vista had opened before hera vista of sunlight and trees and flowers. . . . Now the black walls had closed around her once more. . . .


8
"Can I speak to you a minute?"
Nadine Boynton turned in surprise, staring into the dark eager face of an entirely unknown young woman.
"Why, certainly." But as she spoke, almost unconsciously she threw a quick nervous glance over her shoulder.
"My name is Sarah King," went on the other.
"Oh, yes?"
"Mrs. Boynton, I'm going to say something rather odd to you. I talked to your sister-in-law for quite a long time the other evening."
A faint shadow seemed to ruffle the serenity of Nadine Boynon's face. "You talked to Ginevra?"
"No, not to Ginevrato Carol."
The shadow lifted.
"Oh, I seeto Carol."
Nadine Boynton seemed pleased, but very much surprised.
"How did you manage that?"
Sarah said: "She came to my roomquite late." She saw the faint raising of the penciled brows on the white forehead. She said, with some embarrassment: "I'm sure it must seem very odd to you."
"No," said Nadine Boynton. "I am very glad. Very glad indeed. It is very nice for Carol to have a friend to talk to."
"Wewe got on very well together." Sarah tried to choose her words carefully. "In fact we arranged toto meet again the following night."
"Yes?"
"But Carol didn't come."
"Didn't she?"
Nadine's voice was coolreflective. Her face, so quiet and gentle, told Sarah nothing.
"No. Yesterday she was passing through the hall. I spoke to her and she didn't answer. Just looked at me once, and then away again, and hurried on."
"I see."
There was a pause. Sarah found it difficult to go on.
Nadine Boynton said presently: "I'mvery sorry. Carol israther a nervous girl."
Again that pause. Sarah took her courage in both hands. "You know, Mrs. Boynton, I'm by way of being a doctor. I thinkI think it would be good for your sister-in-law not tonot to shut herself away too much from people."
Nadine Boynton looked thoughtfully at Sarah. She said: "I see. You're a doctor. That makes a difference."
"You see what I mean?" Sarah urged.
Nadine bent her head. She was still thoughtful. "You are quite right, of course," she said after a minute or two. "But there are difficulties. My mother-in-law is in bad health and she has what I can only describe as a morbid dislike of any outsiders penetrating into her family circle."
Sarah said mutinously: "But Carol is a grown-up woman."
Nadine Boynton shook her head. "Oh no," she said. "In body, but not in mind. If you talked to her you must have noticed that. In an emergency she would always behave like a frightened child."
"Do you think that's what happened? Do you think she becameafraid?"
"I should imagine, Miss King, that my mother-in-law insisted on Carol having nothing more to do with you."
"And Carol gave in?"
Nadine Boynton said quietly: "Can you really imagine her doing anything else?"
The eyes of the two women met. Sarah felt that behind the mask of conventional words, they understood each other. Nadine, she felt, understood the position. But she was clearly not prepared to discuss it in any way. Sarah felt discouraged. The other evening it had seemed to her as though half the battle were won. By means of secret meetings she would imbue Carol with the spirit of revoltyes, and Raymond, too. (Be honest, now; wasn't it Raymond really she had had in mind all along?)
And now, in the very first round of the battle she had been ignominiously defeated by that hulk of shapeless flesh with her evil gloating eyes. Carol had capitulated without a struggle.
"It's all wrong!" cried Sarah.
Nadine did not answer. Something in her silence went home to Sarah like a cold hand laid on her heart. She thought: "This woman knows the hopelessness of it much better than I do. She's lived with it!"
The elevator doors opened. The elder Mrs. Boynton emerged. She leaned on a stick and Raymond supported her on the other side.
Sarah gave a slight start. She saw the old woman's eyes sweep from her to Nadine and back again. She had been prepared for dislike in those eyesfor hatred even. She was not prepared for what she sawa triumphant and malicious enjoyment.
Sarah turned away. Nadine went forward and joined the other two.
"So there you are, Nadine," said Mrs. Boynton. "I'll sit down and rest a little before I go out."
They settled her in a high-backed chair. Nadine sat down beside her.
"Who were you talking to, Nadine?"
"A Miss King."
"Oh, yes. The girl who spoke to Raymond the other night. Well, Ray, why don't you go and speak to her now? She's over there at the writing table."
The old woman's mouth widened into a malicious smile as she looked at Raymond. His face flushed. He turned his head away and muttered something.
"What's that you say, son?"
"I don't want to speak to her."
"No, I thought not. You won't speak to her. You couldn't, however much you wanted to!"
She coughed suddenlya wheezing cough. "I'm enjoying this trip, Nadine," she said. "I wouldn't have missed it for anything."
"No?" Nadine's voice was expressionless.
"Ray."
"Yes, Mother?"
"Get me a piece of notepaperfrom the table over there in the corner."
Raymond went off obediently. Nadine raised her head. She watched, not the boy, but the old woman. Mrs. Boynton was leaning forward, her nostrils dilated as though with pleasure. Ray passed close by Sarah. She looked up, a sudden hope showing in her face. It died down as he brushed past her, took some notepaper from the case and went back across the room.
There were little beads of sweat on his forehead as he rejoined them and his face was dead white. Very softly Mrs. Boynton murmured: "Ah . . ." as she watched his face. Then she saw Nadine's eyes fixed on her. Something in them made her own snap with sudden anger. "Where's Mr. Cope this morning?" she said.
Nadine's eyes dropped again. She answered in her gentle expressionless voice: "I don't know. I haven't seen him."
"I like him," said Mrs. Boynton. "I like him very much. We must see a good deal of him. You'll like that, won't you?"
"Yes," said Nadine. "I, too, like him very much."
"What's the matter with Lennox lately? He seems very dull and quiet. Nothing wrong between you, is there?"
"Oh, no. Why should there be?"
"I wondered. Married people don't always hit it off. Perhaps you'd be happier living in a home of your own?"
Nadine did not answer.
"Well, what do you say to the idea? Does it appeal to you?"
Nadine shook her head. She said, smiling: "I don't think it would appeal to you. Mother."
Mrs. Boynton's eyelids flickered. She said sharply and venomously: "You've always been against me, Nadine."
The younger woman replied evenly: "I'm sorry you should think that."
The old woman's hand closed on her stick. Her face seemed to get a shade more purple. She said, with a change of tone: "I forgot my drops. Get them for me, Nadine."
"Certainly."
Nadine got up and crossed the lounge to the elevator. Mrs. Boynton looked after her. Raymond sat limply in a chair, his eyes glazed with dull misery. Nadine went upstairs and along the corridor. She entered the sitting room of their suite. Lennox was sitting by the window. There was a book in his hand, but he was not reading. He roused himself as Nadine came in. "Hullo, Nadine."
"I've come up for Mother's drops. She forgot them." She went on into Mrs. Boynton's bedroom. From a bottle on the washstand she carefully measured a dose into a small medicine glass, filling it up with water. As she passed through the sitting room again she paused. "Lennox."
It was a moment or two before he answered her. It was as though the message had a long way to travel. Then he said: "I beg your pardon. What is it?"
Nadine Boynton set down the glass carefully on the table. Then she went over and stood beside him. "Lennox, look at the sunshine out there, through the window. Look at life. It's beautiful. We might be out instead of being here looking through a window."
Again there was a pause. Then he said: "I'm sorry. Do you want to go out?"
She answered him quickly: "Yes I want to go outwith youout into the sun! Go out into lifeand livethe two of us together."
He shrank back into his chair. His eyes looked restless, hunted. "Nadine, my dear, must we go into all this again"
"Yes, we must. Let us go away and lead our own life somewhere."
"How can we? We've no money."
"We can earn money."
"How could we? What could we do? I'm untrained. Thousands of menqualified mentrained menare out of jobs as it is. We couldn't manage it."
"I would earn money for both of us."
"My dear child, you've never even completed your training. It's hopelessimpossible."
"No; what is hopeless and impossible is our present life."
"You don't know what you are talking about. Mother is very good to us. She gives us every luxury."
"Except freedom. Lennox, make an effort. Come with me now, today"
"Nadine, I think you're quite mad."
"No, I'm sane. Absolutely and completely sane. I want a life of my own, with you, in the sunshine, not stifled in the shadow of an old woman who is a tyrant and who delights in making you unhappy."
"Mother may be rather an autocrat"
"Your mother is mad! She's insane!"
He answered mildly: "That's not true. She's got a remarkably good head for business."
"Perhapsyes."
"And you must realize, Nadine, she can't live forever. She's sixty-odd and she's in very bad health. At her death my father's money is to be divided equally among us, share and share alike. You remember, she read us the will?"
"When she dies," said Nadine. "It may be too late."
"Too late?"
"Too late for happiness."
Lennox murmured: "Too late for happiness." He shivered suddenly. Nadine went closer to him. She put her hand on his shoulder.
"Lennox, I love you. It's a battle between me and your mother. Are you going to be on her side or mine?"
"On yours, on yours!"
"Then do what I ask."
"It's impossible!"
"No, it's not impossible. Think, Lennox, we could have children . . ."
"Mother wants us to have children, anyway. She has said so."
"I know, but I won't bring children into the world to live in the shadow you have all been brought up in. Your mother can influence you, but she's no power over me."
Lennox murmured: "You make her angry sometimes, Nadine; it isn't wise."
"She is only angry because she knows that she can't influence my mind or dictate my thoughts!"
"I know you are always polite and gentle with her. You're wonderful. You're too good for me. You always have been. When you said you would marry me it was like an unbelievable dream."
Nadine said quietly: "I was wrong to marry you."
Lennox said hopelessly: "Yes, you were wrong."
"You don't understand. What I mean is that if I had gone away then and asked you to follow me you would have done so. Yes, I really believe you would. . . . I was not clever enough then to understand your mother and what she wanted."
She paused, then she said: "You refuse to come away? Well, I can't make you. But I am free to go! I thinkI think I shall go. . . ."
He stared up at her incredulously. For the first time his reply came quickly, as though at last the sluggish current of his thoughts was accelerated. He stammered: "Butbutyou can't do that. MotherMother would never hear of it."
"She couldn't stop me."
"You've no money."
"I could make, borrow, beg or steal it. Understand Lennox, your mother has no power over me! I can go or stay at my will. I am beginning to feel that I have borne this life long enough."
"Nadinedon't leave medon't leave me. . . ."
She looked at him thoughtfullyquietlywith an inscrutable expression.
"Don't leave me, Nadine." He spoke like a child. She turned her head away, so he should not see the sudden pain in her eyes.
She knelt down beside him. "Then come with me. Come with me! You can. Indeed you can if you only will!"
He shrank back from her. "I can't! I can't! I tell you. I haven'tGod help meI haven't the courage. . . ."


9
Dr. Gerard walked into the office of Messrs. Castle the tourist agents, and found Sarah King at the counter.
She looked up.
"Oh, good morning. I'm fixing up my tour to Petra. I've just heard you are going after all."
"Yes, I find I can just manage it."
"How nice."
"Shall we be a large party, I wonder?"
"They say just two other womenand you and me. One car load."
"That will be delightful," said Gerard with a little bow. Then he, in turn, attended to his business. Presently, holding his mail in his hands, he joined Sarah as she stepped out of the office. It was a crisp sunny day, with a slight cold tang in the air.
"What news of our friends, the Boyntons?" asked Dr. Gerard. "I have been to Bethlehem and Nazareth and other placesa tour of three days."
Slowly and rather unwillingly, Sarah narrated her abortive efforts to establish contact. "Anyhow I failed," she finished. "And they're leaving today."
"Where are they going?"
"I've no idea."
She went on vexedly: "I feel, you know, that I've made rather a fool of myself."
"In what way?"
"Interfering in other people's business."
Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "That is a matter of opinion."
"You mean whether one should interfere or not?"
"Yes."
"Do you?"
The Frenchman looked amused. "You mean, is it my habit to concern myself with other people's affairs? I will say to you franklyno."
"Then you think I'm wrong to have tried butting in?"
"No, no, you misunderstand me." Gerard spoke quickly and energetically. "It is, I think, a moot question. Should one, if one sees a wrong being done, attempt to put it right? One's interference may do goodbut it may also do incalculable harm! It is impossible to lay down any ruling on the subject. Some people have a genius for interferencethey do it well! Some people do it clumsily and had therefore better leave it alone! Then there is, too, the question of age. Young people have the courage of their ideals and convictions, their values are more theoretical than practical. They have not experienced, as yet, that fact contradicts theory! If you have a belief in yourself and in the rightness of what you are doing, you can often accomplish things that are well worthwhile! (Incidentally you often do a good deal of harm!) On the other hand, the middle-aged person has experience, he has found that harm as well as, and perhaps more often than, good comes of trying to interfere and so, very wisely, he refrains! So the result is eventhe earnest young do both harm and goodthe prudent middle-aged do neither!"
"All that isn't very helpful," objected Sarah.
"Can one person ever be helpful to another? It is your problem not mine."
"You mean you are not going to do anything about the Boyntons?"
"No. For me, there would be no chance of success."
"Then there isn't for me either?"
"For you, there might be."
"Why?"
"Because you have special qualifications. The appeal of your youth and sex."
"Sex? Oh, I see."
"One comes always back to sex, does one not? You have failed with the girl. It does not follow that you would fail with her brother. What you have just told me, (what the girl Carol told you), shows very clearly the one menace to Mrs. Boynton's autocracy. The eldest son, Lennox, defied her in the force of his young manhood. He played truant from home, went to local dances. The desire of a man for a mate was stronger than the hypnotic spell. But the old woman was quite aware of the power of sex. (She will have seen something of it in her career.) She dealt with it very cleverly, brought a pretty but penniless girl into the house, encouraged a marriage. And so acquired yet another slave."
Sarah shook her head. "I don't think young Mrs. Boynton is a slave."
Gerard agreed. "No, perhaps not. I think that because she was a quiet docile young girl, old Mrs. Boynton underestimated her force of will and character. Nadine Boynton was too young and inexperienced at the time to appreciate the true position. She appreciates it now, but it is too late."
"Do you think she has given up hope?"
Dr. Gerard shook his head doubtfully. "If she has plans no one would know about them. There are, you know, certain possibilities where Cope is concerned. Man is a naturally jealous animaland jealousy is a strong force. Lennox Boynton might still be roused from the inertia in which he is sinking."
"And you think"Sarah purposely made her tone very businesslike and professional"that there's a chance I might be able to do something about Raymond?"
"I do."
Sarah sighed. "I suppose I might have tried Oh, well, it's too late now, anyway. Andand I don't like the idea."
Gerard looked amused. "That is because you are English! The English have a complex about sex. They think it is 'not quite nice.'"
Sarah's indignant response failed to move him. "Yes, yes, I know you are very modern, that you use freely in public the most unpleasant words you can find in the dictionary, that you are professional and entirely uninhibited! Tout de merne, I repeat, you have the same racial characteristics as your mother and your grandmother. You are still the blushing English Miss although you do not blush!"
"I never heard such rubbish!"
Dr. Gerard, a twinkle in his eyes, and quite unperturbed, added: "And it makes you very charming."
This time Sarah was speechless.
Dr. Gerard hastily raised his hat. "I take my leave," he said, "before you have time to begin to say all that you think."
He escaped into the hotel.
Sarah followed him more slowly. There was a good deal of activity going on. Several cars loaded with luggage were in process of departing. Lennox and Nadine Boynton and Mr. Cope were standing by a big saloon car superintending arrangements. A fat dragoman was standing talking to Carol with quite unintelligible fluency.
Sarah passed them and went into the hotel. Mrs. Boynton, wrapped in a thick coat, was sitting in a chair, waiting to depart. Looking at her, a queer revulsion of feeling swept over Sarah.
She had felt that Mrs. Boynton was a sinister figure, an incarnation of evil malignancy. Now, suddenly, she saw the old woman as a pathetic ineffectual figure. To be born with such a lust for power, such a desire for dominion, and to achieve only a petty domestic tyranny! If only her children could see her as Sarah saw her that minutean object of pitya stupid, malignant, pathetic, posturing old woman.
On an impulse Sarah went up to her.
"Goodbye, Mrs. Boynton," she said. "I hope you'll have a nice trip."
The old lady looked at her. Malignancy struggled with outrage in those eyes.
"You've wanted to be very rude to me," said Sarah. (Was she crazy, she wondered? What on earth was urging her on to talk like this?) "You've tried to prevent your son and daughter making friends with me. Don't you think, really, that that is all very silly and childish? You like to make yourself out a kind of ogre, but really, you know, you're just pathetic and rather ludicrous. If I were you I'd give up all this silly play-acting. I expect you'll hate me for saying this, but I mean itand some of it may stick. You know you could have a lot of fun still. It's really much better to be friendly and kind. You could be if you tried."
There was a pause. Mrs. Boynton had frozen into a deadly immobility. At last she passed her tongue over her dry lips, her mouth opened. . . . Still for a moment no words came. "Go on," said Sarah encouragingly. "Say it! It doesn't matter what you say to me. But think over what I've said to you."
The words came at lastin a soft, husky, but penetrating voice. Mrs. Boynton's basilisk eyes looked, not at Sarah, but oddly over her shoulder. She seemed to address, not Sarah, but some familiar spirit.
"I never forget," she said. "Remember that. I've never forgotten anything, not an action, not a name, not a face. . . ." There was nothing in the words themselves, but the venom with which they were spoken made Sarah retreat a step.
And then Mrs. Boynton laughed. It was, definitely, rather a horrible laugh.
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "You poor old thing," she said. She turned away. As she went towards the elevator she almost collided with Raymond Boynton. On an impulse she spoke quickly: "Goodbye; I hope you'll have a lovely time. Perhaps we'll meet again some day."
She smiled at him, a warm friendly smile, and passed quickly on.
Raymond stood as though turned to stone. So lost in his own thoughts was he that a small man with big moustaches, endeavoring to pass out of the elevator, had to speak several times.
"Pardon."
At last it penetrated. Raymond stepped aside. "So sorry," he said. "II was thinking."
Carol came towards him. "Ray, get Jinny, will you? She went back to her room. We're going to start."
"Right; I'll tell her she's got to come straight away." Raymond walked into the elevator.
Hercule Poirot stood for a moment looking after him, his eyebrows raised, his head a little on one side as though he were listening. Then he nodded his head as though in agreement. Walking through the lounge he took a good look at Carol who had joined her mother. Then he beckoned the head waiter who was passing.
"Pardon, can you tell me the name of those people over there?"
"The name is Boynton, Monsieur; they are Americans."
"Thank you," said Hercule Poirot.
On the third floor Dr. Gerard, going to his room, passed Raymond Boynton and Ginevra walking towards the waiting elevator. Just as they were about to get into it Ginevra said: "Just a minute. Ray; wait for me in the elevator." She ran back, turned a corner, caught up with the walking man. "PleaseI must speak to you."
Dr. Gerard looked up in astonishment. The girl came up close to him and caught his arm. "They're taking me away! They may be going to kill me. . . . I don't really belong to them, you know. My name isn't really Boynton. . . ." She hurried on, her words coming fast and tumbling over each other. "I'll trust you with the secret. I'mI'm Royal, really! I'm the heiress to a throne. That's why there are enemies all around me. They try to poison me, all sorts of things . . . If you could help meto get away" She broke off. Footsteps.
"Jinny"
Beautiful in her sudden startled gesture, the girl put a finger to her lips, threw Gerard an imploring glance, and ran back. "I'm coming, Ray."
Dr. Gerard walked on with his eyebrows raised. Slowly, he shook his head and frowned.


10
It was the morning of the start to Petra.
Sarah came down to find a big masterful woman with a rocking-horse nose whom she had already noticed in the hotel, outside the main entrance objecting fiercely to the size of the car.
"A great deal too small! Four passengers? And a dragoman? Then of course we must have a much larger saloon. Please take that car away and return with one of an adequate size."
In vain did the representative of Messrs. Castle's raise his voice in explanation. That was the size of car always provided. It was really a most comfortable car. A larger car was not so suitable for desert travel. The large woman, metaphorically speaking, rolled over him like a large steamroller. Then she turned her attention to Sarah. "Miss King? I am Lady Westholme. I am sure you agree with me that that car is grossly inadequate as to size?"
"Well," said Sarah cautiously, "I agree that a larger one would be more comfortable!"
The young man from Castle's murmured that a larger car would add to the price.
"The price," said Lady Westholme firmly, "is inclusive and I shall certainly refuse to sanction any addition to it. Your prospectus distinctly states 'in comfortable saloon car.' You will keep to the terms of your agreement."
Recognizing defeat, the young man from Castle's murmured something about seeing what he could do and wilted away from the spot. Lady Westholme turned to Sarah, a smile of triumph on her weather-beaten countenance, her large red rocking-horse nostrils dilated exultantly.
Lady Westholme was a very well-known figure in the English political world. When Lord Westholme, a middle-aged, simple-minded peer, whose only interests in life were hunting, shooting and fishing, was returning from a trip to the United States, one of his fellow passengers was a Mrs. Vansittart. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Vansittart became Lady Westholme. The match was often cited as one of the examples of the danger of ocean voyages. The new Lady Westholme lived entirely in tweeds and stout brogues, bred dogs, bullied the villagers and forced her husband pitilessly into public life. It being borne in upon her, however, that politics was not Lord Westholme's métier in life and never would be, she graciously allowed him to resume his sporting activities and herself stood for Parliament. Being elected with a substantial majority, Lady Westholme threw herself with vigor into political life, being especially active at Question time. Cartoons of her soon began to appear (always a sure sign of success). As a public figure she stood for the old-fashioned values of Family Life, Welfare work amongst Women, and was an ardent supporter of the League of Nations. She had decided views on questions of Agriculture, Housing and Slum Clearance. She was much respected and almost universally disliked! It was highly possible that she would be given an Under Secretaryship when her Party returned to power. At the moment a Liberal Government (owing to a split in the National Government between Labor and Conservatives) was somewhat unexpectedly in power. Lady Westholme looked with grim satisfaction after the departing car. "Men always think they can impose upon women," she said.
Sarah thought that it would be a brave man who thought he could impose upon Lady Westholme! She introduced Dr. Gerard who had just come out of the hotel.
"Your name is, of course, familiar to me," said Lady Westholme, shaking hands. "I was talking to Professor Clemenceaux the other day in Paris. I have been taking up the question of the treatment of pauper lunatics very strongly lately. Very strongly, indeed. Shall we come inside while we wait for a better car to be obtained?"
A vague little middle-aged lady with wisps of gray hair who was hovering near by turned out to be Miss Annabel Pierce, the fourth member of the party. She too was swept into the lounge under Lady Westholme's protecting wing.
"You are a professional woman Miss King?"
"I've just taken my M.B.."
"Good," said Lady Westholme with condescending approval. "If anything is to be accomplished, mark my words, it is women who will do it."
Uneasily conscious for the first time of her sex, Sarah followed Lady Westholme meekly to a seat. There, as they sat waiting, Lady Westholme informed them that she had refused an invitation to stay with the High Commissioner during her stay in Jerusalem.
"I did not want to be hampered by officialdom. I wished to look into things for myself."
"What things?" Sarah wondered.
Lady Westholme went on to explain that she was staying at the Solomon Hotel so as to remain unhampered. She added that she had made several suggestions to the Manager for the more competent running of his hotel.
"Efficiency," said Lady Westholme, "is my Watchword."
It certainly seemed to be! In a quarter of an hour a large and extremely comfortable car arrived and in due courseafter advice from Lady Westholme as to how the luggage should be bestowedthe party set off.
Their first halt was the Dead Sea. They had lunch at Jericho. Afterwards when Lady Westholme armed with a Baedeker had gone off with Miss Pierce, the doctor and the fat dragoman to do a tour of old Jericho, Sarah remained in the garden of the hotel.
Her head ached slightly and she wanted to be alone. A deep depression weighed her downa depression for which she found it hard to account. She felt suddenly listless and uninterested, disinclined for sightseeing, bored by her companions. She wished at this moment that she had never committed herself to this Petra tour. It was going to be very expensive and she felt quite sure she wasn't going to enjoy it! Lady Westholme's booming voice, Miss Pierce's endless twitterings, and the anti-Zionist lamentation of the dragoman were already fraying her nerves to a frazzle. She disliked almost as much Dr. Gerard's amused air of knowing exactly how she was feeling.
She wondered where the Boyntons were nowperhaps they had gone on to Syriathey might be at Baalbek or Damascus. Raymond. She wondered what Raymond was doing. Strange how clearly she could see his face, its eagerness, its diffidence, its nervous tension. . . . Oh! Hell, why go on thinking of people she would probably never see again? That scene the other day with the old womanwhat could have possessed her to march up to the old lady and spurt out a lot of nonsense. Other people must have heard some of it. She fancied that Lady Westholme had been quite close by. Sarah tried to remember exactly what it was she had said. Something that probably sounded quite absurdly hysterical. Goodness, what a fool she had made of herself! But it wasn't her fault reallyit was old Mrs. Boynton's. There was something about her that made you lose your sense of proportion.
Dr. Gerard entered and plumped down in a chair, wiping his hot forehead. "Phew! That woman should be poisoned!" he declared.
Sarah started. "Mrs. Boynton?"
"Mrs. Boynton! No, I meant that Lady Westholme! It is incredible to me that she has had a husband for many years and that he has not already done so. What can he be made of, that husband?"
Sarah laughed. "Oh, he's the 'huntin', fishin', shootin'' kind," she explained.
"Psychologically that is very sound! He appeases his lust to kill on the (so-called) lower creations."
"I believe he is very proud of his wife's activities."
The Frenchman suggested: "Because they take her a good deal away from home? That is understandable." Then he went on. "What did you say just now? Mrs. Boynton? Undoubtedly it would be a very good idea to poison her, too. Undeniably the simplest solution of that family problem! In fact, a great many women would be better poisoned. All women who have grown old and ugly." He made an expressive face.
Sarah cried out, laughing: "Oh, you Frenchmen! You've got no use for any woman who isn't young and attractive."
Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "We are more honest about it, that is all. Englishmen, they do not get up in tubes and trains for ugly womenno, no."
"How depressing life is," said Sarah with a sigh.
"There is no need for you to sigh. Mademoiselle."
"Well, I feel thoroughly disgruntled today."
"Naturally."
"What do you meannaturally?" snapped Sarah.
"You could find the reason very easily if you examine your state of mind honestly."
"I think it's our fellow travelers who depress me," said Sarah. "It's awful, isn't it, but I do hate women! When they're inefficient and idiotic like Miss Pierce, they infuriate me, and when they're efficient like Lady Westholme, they annoy me more still."
"It is, I should say, unavoidable that these two people should annoy you. Lady Westholme is exactly fitted to the life she leads and is completely happy and successful. Miss Pierce has worked for years as a nursery governess and has suddenly come into a small legacy which has enabled her to fulfill her lifelong wish and travel. So far, travel has lived up to her expectations. Consequently you, who have just been thwarted in obtaining what you want, naturally resent the existence of people who have been more successful in life than you are."
"I suppose you're right," said Sarah gloomily. "What a horribly accurate mind reader you are. I keep trying to humbug myself and you won't let me."
At this moment the others returned. The guide seemed the most exhausted of the three. He was quite subdued and hardly exuded any information on the way to Amman. He did not even mention the Jews. For which everyone was profoundly grateful. His voluble and frenzied account of their iniquities had done much to try everyone's temper on the journey from Jerusalem.
Now the road wound upward from the Jordan, twisting and turning with clumps of oleanders showing rose-colored flowers.
They reached Amman late in the afternoon and after a short visit to the Graeco-Roman theatre, went to bed early. They were to make an early start the next morning as it was a full day's motor run across the desert to Ma'an.
They left soon after eight o'clock. The party was inclined to be silent. It was a hot airless day and by noon when a halt was made for a picnic lunch to be eaten, it was really, stiflingly hot. The irritation on a hot day of being boxed up closely with four other human beings had got a little on everyone's nerves.
Lady Westholme and Dr. Gerard had a somewhat irritable argument over the League of Nations. Lady Westholme was a fervent supporter of the League. The Frenchman, on the other hand, chose to be witty at the League's expense. From the attitude of the League concerning Abyssinia and Spain they passed to the Lithuania boundary dispute of which Sarah had never heard and from there to the activities of the League in suppressing dope gangs.
"You must admit they have done wonderful work. Wonderful!" snapped Lady Westholme.
Dr. Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps. And at wonderful expense, too!"
"The matter is a very serious one. Under the Dangerous Drugs Act" The argument waged on.
Miss Pierce twittered to Sarah: "It is really most interesting traveling with Lady Westholme."
Sarah said acidly: "Is it?" but Miss Pierce did not notice the acerbity and twittered happily on: "I've so often seen her name in the papers. So clever of women to go into public life and hold their own. I'm always so glad when a woman accomplishes something!"
"Why?" demanded Sarah ferociously.
Miss Pierce's mouth fell open and she stammered a little. "Oh, becauseI meanjust becausewellit's so nice that women are able to do things!"
"I don't agree," said Sarah. "It's nice when any human being is able to accomplish something worthwhile! It doesn't matter a bit whether it's a man or a woman. Why should it?"
"Well, of course" said Miss Pierce. "YesI confessof course, looking at it in that light" But she looked slightly wistful. Sarah said more gently: "I'm sorry, but I do hate this differentiation between the sexes. 'The modern girl has a thoroughly businesslike attitude to life!' That sort of thing. It's not a bit true! Some girls are businesslike and some aren't. Some men are sentimental and muddle-headed, others are clear-headed and logical. There are just different types of brains. Sex only matters where sex is directly concerned."
Miss Pierce flushed a little at the word sex and adroitly changed the subject. "One can't help wishing that there were a little shade," she murmured. "But I do think all this emptiness is so wonderful, don't you?"
Sarah nodded. Yes, she thought, the emptiness was marvelous . . . Healing . . . Peaceful . . . No human beings to agitate one with their tiresome inter-relationships . . . No burning personal problems! Now, at last, she felt, she was free of the Boyntons. Free of that strange compelling wish to interfere in the lives of people whose orbit did not remotely touch her own. She felt soothed and at peace. Here was loneliness, emptiness, spaciousness . . . In fact, peace . . . Only, of course, one wasn't alone to enjoy it. Lady Westholme and Dr. Gerard had finished with drugs and were now arguing about guileless young women who were exported in a sinister manner to Argentinean cabarets. Dr. Gerard had displayed throughout the conversation a levity which Lady Westholme, who, being a true politician, had no sense of humor, found definitely deplorable.
"We go on now, yes?" announced the tar-bushed dragoman and began to talk about the iniquities of Jews again.
It was about an hour off sunset when they reached Ma'an at last. Strange wild-faced men crowded around the car. After a short halt they went on. Looking over the flat desert country Sarah was at a loss as to where the rocky stronghold of Petra could be. Surely they could see for miles and miles all around them? There were no mountains, no hills anywhere. Were they then still many miles from their journey's end?
They reached the village of Am Musa where the cars were to be left. Here horses were waiting for themsorry looking thin beasts. The inadequacy of her striped wash frock disturbed Miss Pierce greatly. Lady Westholme was sensibly attired in riding breeches, not perhaps a particularly becoming style to her type of figure, but certainly practical.
The horses were led out of the village along a slippery path with loose stones. The ground fell away and the horses zigzagged down. The sun was close on setting.
Sarah was very tired with the long hot journey in the car. Her senses felt dazed. The ride was like a dream. It seemed to her afterwards that it was like the pit of Hell opening at one's feet. The way wound downdown into the ground. The shapes of rock rose up around them, down, down into the bowels of the earth, through a labyrinth of red cliffs. They towered now on either side. Sarah felt stifled, menaced by the ever-narrowing gorge. She thought confusedly to herself: "Down into the valley of deathdown into the valley of death. . . ."
On and on. It grew dark, the vivid red of the walls faded, and still on, winding in and out, imprisoned, lost in the bowels of the earth.
She thought: "It's fantastic and unbelievable . . . a dead city."
And again like a refrain came the words: "The valley of death. . . ."
Lanterns were lit now. The horses wound along through the narrow ways. Suddenly they came out into a wide spacethe cliffs receded. Far ahead of them was a cluster of lights.
"That is camp!" said the guide.
The horses quickened their pace a littlenot very muchthey were too starved and dispirited for that, but they showed just a shade of enthusiasm. Now the way ran along a gravelly waterbed. The lights grew nearer. They could see a cluster of tents, a higher row up against the face of a cliff. Caves, too, hollowed out in the rock.
They were arriving. Bedouin servants came running out.
Sarah stared up at one of the caves. It held a sitting figure. What was it? An idol? A gigantic squatting image?
No, that was the flickering lights that made it loom so large. But it must be an idol of some kind, sitting there immovable, brooding over the place. . . . And then, suddenly, her heart gave a leap of recognition.
Gone was the feeling of peaceof escapethat the desert had given her. She had been led from freedom back into captivity. She had ridden down into this dark winding valley and here, like an arch priestess of some forgotten cult, like a monstrous swollen female Buddha, sat Mrs. Boynton. . . .


11
Mrs. Boynton was here, at Petra!
Sarah answered mechanically questions that were addressed to her. Would she have dinner straight awayit was readyor would she like to wash first? Would she prefer to sleep in a tent or a cave?
Her answer to that came quickly. A tent. She flinched at the thought of a cave; the vision of that monstrous squatting figure recurred to her. (Why was it that something about the woman seemed hardly human?) Finally she followed one of the native servants. He wore khaki breeches much patched and untidy puttees and a ragged coat very much the worse for wear. On his head the native headdress, the cheffiyah, its long folds protecting the neck and secured in place with a black silk twist fitting tightly to the crown of his head. Sarah admired the easy swing with which he walked, the careless proud carriage of his head. Only the European part of his costume seemed tawdry and wrong. She thought: "Civilization's all wrongall wrong! But for civilization there wouldn't be a Mrs. Boynton! In savage tribes they'd probably have killed and eaten her years ago!"
She realized, half humorously, that she was overtired and on edge. A wash in hot water and a dusting of powder over her face and she felt herself againcool, poised, and ashamed of her recent panic.
She passed a comb through her thick black hair, squinting sideways at her reflection in the wavering light of a small oil lamp in a very inadequate glass.
Then she pushed aside the tent flap and came out into the night prepared to descend to the big marquee below.
"Youhere?"
It was a low crydazed, incredulous. She turned to look straight into Raymond Boynton's eyes. So amazed they were! And something in them held her silent and almost afraid. Such an unbelievable joy. . . . It was as though he had seen a vision of Paradisewondering, dazed, thankful, humble! Never, in all her life, was Sarah to forget that look. So might the damned look up and see Paradise. . . .
He said again: "You . . ."
It did something to herthat low vibrant tone. It made her heart turn over in her breast. It made her feel shy, afraid, humble and yet suddenly arrogantly glad.
She said quite simply: "Yes."
He came nearerstill dazedstill only half believing. Then suddenly he took her hand. "It is you," he said. "You're real. I thought at first you were a ghostbecause I'd been thinking about you so much." He paused and then said: "I love you, you know. . . . I have from the moment I saw you in the train. I know that now. And I want you to know it so thatso that you'll know it isn't methe real mewhowho behaves so caddishly. You see, I can't answer for myself even now. I might doanything! I might pass you by or cut youbut I do want you to know that it isn't methe real mewho is responsible for that. It's my nerves. I can't depend on them. . . . When she tells me to do thingsI do them! My nerves make me! You will understand, won't you? Despise me if you have to"
She interrupted him. Her voice was low and unexpectedly sweet. "I won't despise you."
"All the same, I'm pretty despicable! I ought toto be able to behave like a man."
It was partly an echo of Gerard's advice, but more out of her own knowledge and hope that Sarah answeredand behind the sweetness of her voice there was a ring of certainty and conscious authority. "You will now."
"Shall I?" His voice was wistful. "Perhaps. . . ."
"You'll have courage now. I'm sure of it."
He drew himself upflung back his head. "Courage? Yesthat's all that's needed. Courage!"
Suddenly he bent his head, touched her hand with his lips. A minute later he had left her.


12
Sarah went down to the big marquee. She found her three fellow travelers there. They were sitting at table eating. The guide was explaining that there was another party here.
"They come two days ago. Go day after tomorrow. Americans. The mother very fat, very difficult get here! Carried in chair by bearersthey say very hard workthey get very hotyes."
Sarah gave a sudden spurt of laughter. Of course, take it properly, the whole thing was funny! The fat dragoman looked at her gratefully. He was not finding his task too easy. Lady Westholme had contradicted him out of Baedeker three times that day and had now found fault with the type of bed provided. He was grateful to the one member of his party who seemed to be unaccountably in a good temper.
"Ha!" said Lady Westholme. "I think these people were at the Solomon. I recognized the old mother as we arrived here. I think I saw you talking to her at the hotel. Miss King."
Sarah blushed guiltily, hoping Lady Westholme had not overheard much of that conversation.
"Really, what possessed me!" she thought to herself in an agony. In the meantime Lady Westholme had made a pronouncement.
"Not interesting people at all. Very provincial," she said.
Miss Pierce made eager sycophantish noises and Lady Westholme embarked on a history of various interesting and prominent Americans whom she had met recently. The weather being so unusually hot for the time of year, an early start was arranged for the morrow.
The four assembled for breakfast at six o'clock. There were no signs of any of the Boynton family. After Lady Westholme had commented unfavorably on the absence of fruit, they consumed tea, tinned milk and fried eggs in a generous allowance of fat, flanked by extremely salty bacon.
Then they started forth. Lady Westholme and Dr. Gerard discussing with animation on the part of the former the exact value of vitamins in diet and the proper nutrition of the working classes.
Then there was a sudden hail from the camp and they halted to allow another person to join the party. It was Mr. Jefferson Cope who hurried after them, his pleasant face flushed with the exertion of running.
"Why, if you don't mind, I'd like to join your party this morning. Good morning, Miss King. Quite a surprise meeting you and Dr. Gerard here. What do you think of it?" He made a gesture indicating the fantastic red rocks that stretched in every direction.
"I think it's rather wonderful and just a little horrible," said Sarah. "I always thought of it as romantic and dreamlikethe 'rose red city.' But it's much more real than thatit's as real asas raw beef."
"And very much the color of it," agreed Mr. Cope.
"But it's marvelous, too," admitted Sarah.
The party began to climb. Two Bedouin guides accompanied them. Tall men, with an easy carriage, they swung upward unconcernedly in their hobnailed boots, completely foot-sure on the slippery slope. Difficulties soon began. Sarah had a good head for heights and so had Dr. Gerard. But both Mr. Cope and Lady Westholme were far from happy, and the unfortunate Miss Pierce had to be almost carried over the precipitous places, her eyes shut, her face green, while her voice rose ceaselessly in a perpetual wail: "I never could look down places. Neverfrom a child!"
Once she declared her intention of going back, but on turning to face the descent, her skin assumed an even greener tinge, and she reluctantly decided that to go on was the only thing to be done.
Dr. Gerard was kind and reassuring. He went up behind her, holding his stick between her and the sheer drop like a balustrade, and she confessed that the illusion of a rail did much to conquer the feeling of vertigo.
Sarah, panting a little, asked the dragoman, Mahmoud, who in spite of his ample proportions showed no signs of distress: "Don't you ever have trouble getting people up here? Elderly ones, I mean."
"Alwaysalways we have trouble," agreed Mahmoud serenely.
"Do you always try and take them?"
Mahmoud shrugged his thick shoulders. "They like to come. They have paid money to see these things. They wish to see them. The Bedouin guides are very cleververy surefootedalways they manage."
They arrived at last at the summit. Sarah drew a deep breath. All around and below stretched the blood-red rocksa strange and unbelievable country unparalleled anywhere. Here in the exquisite pure morning air, they stood like gods, surveying a baser worlda world of flaring violence.
Here was, as the guide told them, the "Place of Sacrifice"the "High Place."
He showed them the trough cut in the flat rock at their feet. Sarah strayed away from the rest, from the glib phrases that flowed so readily from the dragoman's tongue. She sat on a rock, pushed her hands through her thick black hair, and gazed down on the world at her feet. Presently she was aware of someone standing by her side.
Dr. Gerard's voice said: "You appreciate the appositeness of the devil's temptation in the New Testament. Satan took Our Lord up to the summit of a mountain and showed him the world. 'All these things will I give thee, if thou wilt fall down and worship me.' How much greater the temptation up on high to be a God of Material Power."
Sarah assented, but her thoughts were so clearly elsewhere that Gerard observed her in some surprise. "You are pondering something very deeply," he said.
"Yes, I am." She turned a perplexed face to him. "It's a wonderful ideato have a place of sacrifice up here. I think, sometimes, don't you, that a sacrifice is necessary. . . . I mean, one can have too much regard for life. Death isn't really so important as we make out."
"If you feel that, Miss King, you should not have adopted our profession. To us, death isand must always bethe Enemy."
Sarah shivered. "Yes, I suppose you're right. And yet, so often, death might solve a problem. It might even mean fuller life. . . ."
"'It is expedient for us that one man should die for the people!'" quoted Gerard gravely.
Sarah turned a startled face on him. "I didn't mean"
She broke off. Jefferson Cope was approaching them. "Now this is really a most remarkable spot," he declared. "Most remarkable, and I'm only too pleased not to have missed it. I don't mind confessing that though Mrs. Boynton is certainly a most remarkable woman. I greatly admire her pluck in being determined to come here. It does certainly complicate matters traveling with her. Her health is poor, and I suppose it naturally makes |her a little inconsiderate of other people's feelings, but it does not seem to occur to her that her family might like occasionally to go on excursions without her. She's just so used to them clustering round her that I suppose she doesn't think" Mr. Cope broke off. His nice kindly face looked a little disturbed and uncomfortable, "You know," he said, "I heard a piece of information about Mrs. Boynton that disturbed me greatly."
Sarah was lost in her own thoughts again. Mr. Cope's voice just flowed pleasantly in her ears like the agreeable murmur of a remote stream, but Dr. Gerard said: "Indeed? What was it?"
"My informant was a lady I came across in the hotel at Tiberias. It concerned a servant girl who had been in Mrs. Boynton's employ. This girl, I gather, washad" Mr. Cope paused, glanced delicately at Sarah and lowered his voice. "She was going to have a child. The old lady, it seemed, discovered this but was apparently quite kind to the girl. Then a few weeks before the child was born she turned her out of the house."
Dr. Gerard's eyebrows went up. "Ah," he said reflectively.
"My informant seemed very positive of her facts. I don't know whether you agree with me, but that seems to me a very cruel and heartless thing to do. I cannot understand"
Dr. Gerard interrupted him. "You should try to. That incident, I have no doubt, gave Mrs. Boynton a good deal of quiet enjoyment."
Mr. Cope turned a shocked face on him. "No, sir," he said with emphasis. "That I cannot believe. Such an idea is quite inconceivable."
Softly Dr. Gerard quoted: "'So I returned and did consider all the oppressions done beneath the sun. And there was weeping and whining from those that were oppressed and had no comfort; for with their oppressors there was power, so that no one came to comfort them. Then I did praise the dead which are already dead, yea, more than the living which linger still in life; yea, he that is not is better than dead or living; for he doth not know of the evil that is wrought forever on earth. . . .'" He broke off and said: "My dear sir, I have made a life's study of the strange things that go on in the human mind. It is no good turning one's face only to the fairer side of life. Below the decencies and conventions of everyday life, there lies a vast reservoir of strange things. There is such a thing, for instance, as delight in cruelty for its own sake. But when you have found that, there is something deeper still. The desire, profound and pitiful, to be appreciated. If that is thwarted, if through an unpleasing personality a human being is unable to get the response it needs, it turns to other methodsit must be feltit must countand so to innumerable strange perversions. The habit of cruelty, like any other habit, can be cultivated, can take hold of one"
Mr. Cope coughed. "I think, Dr. Gerard, that you are slightly exaggerating. Really, the air up here is too wonderful. . . ." He edged away. Gerard smiled a little. He looked again at Sarah. She was frowningher face was set in a youthful sternness. She looked, he thought, like a young judge delivering sentence. . . .
He turned as Miss Pierce tripped unsteadily towards him.
"We are going down now," she fluttered. "Oh, dear! I am sure I shall never manage it, but the guide says the way down is quite a different route and much easier. I do hope so, because from a child I never have been able to look down from heights. . . ."
The descent was down the course of a waterfall. Although there were loose stones which were a possible source of danger to ankles, it presented no dizzy vistas.
The party arrived back at the camp weary but in good spirits and with an excellent appetite for a late lunch. It was past two o'clock. The Boynton family was sitting around the big table in the marquee. They were just finishing their meal.
Lady Westholme addressed a gracious sentence to them in her most condescending manner. "Really a most interesting morning," she said. "Petra is a wonderful spot."
Carol, to whom the words seemed addressed, shot a quick look at her mother, and murmured: "Oh, yesyes, it is," and relapsed into silence.
Lady Westholme, feeling she had done her duty, addressed herself to her food. As they ate, the four discussed plans for the afternoon.
"I think I shall rest most of the afternoon," said Miss Pierce. "It is important, I think, not to do too much."
"I shall go for a walk and explore," said Sarah. "What about you Dr. Gerard?"
"I will go with you."
Mrs. Boynton dropped a spoon with a ringing clatter and everyone jumped.
"I think," said Lady Westholme, "that I shall follow your example Miss Pierce. Perhaps half an hour with a book, then I shall lie down and take an hour's rest at least. After that, perhaps, a short stroll."
Slowly, with the help of Lennox, old Mrs. Boynton struggled to her feet. She stood for a moment and then spoke. "You'd better all go for a walk this afternoon," she said with unexpected amiability.
It was, perhaps, slightly ludicrous to see the startled faces of her family.
"But, Mother, what about you?"
"I don't need any of you. I like sitting alone with my book. Jinny had better not go. She'll lie down and have a sleep."
"Mother, I'm not tired. I want to go with the others."
"You are tired. You've got a headache! You must be careful of yourself. Go and lie down and sleep. I know what's best for you."
Her head thrown back, the girl stared rebelliously. Then her eyes droppedfaltered. . . .
"Silly child," said Mrs. Boynton. "Go to your tent."
She stumped out of the marqueethe others followed.
"Dear me," said Miss Pierce. "What very peculiar people. Such a very odd color, the mother. Quite purple. Heart, I should imagine. This heat must be very trying for her."
Sarah thought: "She's letting them go free this afternoon. She knows Raymond wants to be with me. Why? Is it a trap?"
After lunch, when she had gone to her tent and had changed into a fresh linen dress, the thought still worried her. Since last night, her feeling towards Raymond had swelled into a passion of protective tenderness. This, then, was love, this agony on another's behalf, this desire to avert, at all costs, pain from the beloved. . . . Yes, she loved Raymond Boynton. It was St. George and the Dragon reversed. It was she who was the rescuer and Raymond who was the chained victim.
And Mrs. Boynton was the Dragon. A dragon whose sudden amiability was, to Sarah's suspicious mind, definitely sinister.
It was about a quarter past three when Sarah strolled down to the marquee.
Lady Westholrne was sitting on a chair. Despite the heat of the day she was still wearing her serviceable Harris tweed skirt. On her lap was the report of a Royal Commission. Dr. Gerard was talking to Miss Pierce who was standing by her tent holding a book entitled The Love Quest and described on its wrapper as a thrilling tale of passion and misunderstanding.
"I don't think it's wise to lie down too soon after lunch," explained Miss Pierce. "One's digestion, you know. Quite cool and pleasant in the shadow of the marquee. Oh, dear, do you think that old lady is wise to sit in the sun up there?"
They all looked at the ridge in front of them. Mrs. Boynton was sitting as she had sat last night, a motionless Buddha in the door of her cave. There was no other human creature in sight. All the camp personnel were asleep. A short distance away, following the line of the valley, a little group of people walked together.
"For once," said Dr. Gerard, "the good Mamma permits them to enjoy themselves without her. A new devilment on her part, perhaps?"
"Do you know," said Sarah, "that's just what I thought."
"What suspicious minds we have. Come, let us join the truants."
Leaving Miss Pierce to her exciting reading, they set off. Once around the bend of the valley, they caught up the other party who were walking slowly. For once, the Boyntons looked happy and carefree.
Lennox and Nadine, Carol and Raymond, Mr. Cope with a broad smile on his face and the last arrivals, Gerard and Sarah, were soon all laughing and talking together.
A sudden wild hilarity was born. In everyone's mind was the feeling that this was a snatched pleasurea stolen treat to enjoy to the full. Sarah and Raymond did not draw apart. Instead, Sarah walked with Carol and Lennox. Dr. Gerard chatted to Raymond close behind them. Nadine and Jefferson Cope walked a little apart.
It was the Frenchman who broke up the party. His words had been coming spasmodically for some time. Suddenly he stopped.
"A thousand excuses. I fear I must go back."
Sarah looked at him. "Anything the matter?"
He nodded. "Yes, fever. It's been coming on ever since lunch."
Sarah scrutinized him. "Malaria?"
"Yes. I'll go back and take quinine. Hope this won't be a bad attack. It is a legacy from a visit to the Congo."
"Shall I come with you?" asked Sarah.
"No, no. I have my case of drugs with me. A confounded nuisance. Go on, all of you."
He walked quickly back in the direction of the camp. Sarah looked undecidedly after him for a minute, then she met Raymond's eyes, smiled at him, and the Frenchman was forgotten.
For a time the six of them, Carol, herself, Lennox, Cope, Nadine and Raymond, kept together. Then, somehow or other, she and Raymond had drifted apart. They walked on, climbing up rocks, turning ledges and rested at last in a shady spot. There was a silence. Then Raymond said: "What's your name? It's King, I know. But your other name."
"Sarah."
"Sarah. May I call you that?"
"Of course."
"Sarah, will you tell me something about yourself?"
Leaning back against the rocks she talked, telling him of her life at home in Yorkshire, of her dogs and the aunt who had brought her up.
Then, in his turn, Raymond told her a little, disjointedly, of his own life. After that, there was a long silence. Their hands strayed together. They sat, like children, hand in hand, strangely *******.
Then, as the sun grew lower, Raymond stirred. "I'm going back now," he said. "No, not with you. I want to go back by myself. There's something I have to say and do. Once that's done, once I've proved to myself that I'm not a cowardthenthenI shan't be ashamed to come to you and ask you to help me. I shall need help, you know. I shall probably have to borrow money from you."
Sarah smiled. "I'm glad you're a realist. You can count on me."
"But first I've got to do this alone."
"Do what?"
The young boyish face grew suddenly stern. Raymond Boynton said: "I've got to prove my courage. It's now or never." Then, abruptly, he turned and strode away.
Sarah leaned back against the rock and watched his receding figure. Something in his words had vaguely alarmed her. He had seemed so intenseso terribly in earnest and strung up. For a moment she wished she had gone with him. . . . But she rebuked herself sternly for that wish. Raymond had desired to stand alone, to test his newfound courage. That was his right.
But she prayed with all her heart that that courage would not fail. . . .
The sun was setting when Sarah came once more in sight of the camp. As she came nearer in the dim light, she could make out the grim figure of Mrs. Boynton still sitting in the mouth of the cave. Sarah shivered a little at the sight of that grim motionless figure. . . .
She hurried past on the path below and came into the lighted marquee.
Lady Westholme was sitting knitting a navy blue jumper, a skein of wool hung around her neck. Miss Pierce was embroidering a table mat with anemic blue forget-me-nots, and being instructed on the proper reform of the Divorce Laws.
The servants came in and out preparing for the evening meal. The Boyntons were at the far end of the marquee in deck chairs reading. Mahmoud appeared, fat and dignified, and was plaintively reproachful. Very nice after tea ramble had been arranged to take place but everyone absent from camp. . . . The programme was now entirely thrown out. Very instructive visit to Nabatean architecture.
Sarah said hastily that they had all enjoyed themselves very much. She went off to her tent to wash for supper. On the way back she paused by Dr. Gerard's tent, calling in a low voice: "Dr. Gerard!"
There was no answer. She lifted the flap and looked in. The doctor was lying motionless on his bed. Sarah withdrew noiselessly, hoping he was asleep. A servant came to her and pointed to the marquee. Evidently supper was ready. She strolled down again.
Everyone was assembled there around the table with the exception of Dr. Gerard and Mrs. Boynton. A servant was dispatched to tell the old lady dinner was ready. Then there was a sudden commotion outside. Two frightened servants came in and spoke excitedly to the dragoman in Arabic.
Mahmoud looked around him in a flustered manner and went outside. On an impulse Sarah joined him.
"What's the matter?" she asked.
Mahmoud replied: "The old lady. Abdul says she is illcannot move."
"I'll come and see."
Sarah quickened her step. Following Mahmoud, she climbed the rocks and walked along until she came to the squat lounging chair, touched the puffy hand, felt for the pulse, bent over her. . . .
When she straightened herself she was paler. She re-trod her steps back to the marquee. In the doorway she paused a minute, looking at the group at the far end of the table.
Her voice when she spoke sounded to herself brusque and unnatural. "I'm so sorry," she said. She forced herself to address the head of the family, Lennox. "Your mother is dead, Mr. Boynton."
And curiously, as though from a great distance, she watched the faces of five people to whom that announcement meant freedom. . . .


Book Two
1
Colonel Carbury smiled across the table at his guest and lifted his glass. "Well, to crime!"
Hercule Poirot's eyes twinkled in acknowledgment of the toast.
He had come to Amman with a letter of introduction to Colonel Carbury from Colonel Race.
Carbury seemed interested to see this world-famous investigator person [a few unreadable pages here] Yet in Transjordania he was a power.
"There s Jerash," he said. "Care about that sort of thing?"
"I am interested in everything!"
"Yes" said Carbury. "That's the only way to react to life."
"Tell me, d'you ever find your own special job has a way of following you around?"
"Pardon?"
"Wellto put it plainlydo you come to places expecting a holiday from crimeand find instead bodies cropping up?"
"It has happened, yesmore than once."
"Hm," said Colonel Carbury, and looked particularly abstracted. Then he roused himself with a jerk. "Got a body now I'm not very happy about," he said.
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Here in Amman. Old American woman. Went to Petra with her family. Trying journey, unusual heat for time of year, old woman suffered from heart trouble, difficulties of the journey a bit harder for her than she imagined, extra strain on heartshe popped off!"
"Herein Amman?"
"No, down at Petra. They brought the body here today."
"Ah!"
"All quite natural. Perfectly possible. Likeliest thing in the world to happen. Only"
"Yes? Only?"
Colonel Carbury scratched his bald head. "I've got the idea," he said, "that her family did her in!"
"Aha! And what makes you think that?"
Colonel Carbury did not reply to that question directly. "Unpleasant old woman, it seems. No loss. General feeling all around that her popping off was a good thing. Anyway, very difficult to prove anything so long as the family stick together and if necessary lie like hell. One doesn't want complicationsor international unpleasantness. Easiest thing to dolet it go! Nothing really to look upon. Knew a doctor chap once. He told meoften had suspicions in cases of his patientshurried into the next world a little ahead of time! He saidbest thing to do keep quiet unless you really had something damned good to go upon! Otherwise beastly stink, case not proved, black mark against an earnest hard-working G.P.. Something in that. All the same" He scratched his head again. "I'm a tidy man," he said unexpectedly.
Colonel Carbury's tie was under his left ear, his socks were wrinkled, his coat was stained and torn. Yet Hercule Poirot did not smile. He saw, clearly enough, the inner neatness of Colonel Carbury's mind, his neatly docketed facts, his carefully sorted impressions.
"Yes. I'm a tidy man," said Carbury. He waved a vague hand. "Don't like a mess. When I come across a mess I want to clear it up. See?"
Hercule Poirot nodded gravely. He saw. "There was no doctor down there?" he asked.
"Yes, two. One of 'em was down with malaria, though. The other's a girljust out of the medical student stage. Still, she knows her job, I suppose. There wasn't anything odd about the death. Old woman had got a dicky heart. She'd been taking heart medicine for some time. Nothing really surprising about her conking out suddenly like she did."
"Then what, my friend, is worrying you?" asked Poirot gently.
Colonel Carbury turned a harassed blue eye on him. "Heard of a Frenchman called Gerard? Theodore Gerard?"
"Certainly. A very distinguished man in his own line."
"Loony bins," confirmed Colonel Carbury. "Passion for a charwoman at the age of four makes you insist you're the Archbishop of Canterbury when you're thirty-eight. Can't see why and never have, but these chaps explain it very convincingly."
"Dr. Gerard is certainly an authority on certain forms of deep-seated neurosis," agreed Poirot with a smile. "Iserareerhis views on the happening at Petra based on that line of argument?"
Colonel Carbury shook his head vigorously. "No, no. Shouldn't have worried about them if they had been! Not, mind you, that I don't believe it's all true. It's just one of those things I don't understandlike one of my Bedouin fellows who can get out of a car in the middle of a flat desert, feel the ground with his hand and tell you to within a mile or two where you are. It isn't magic, but it looks like it. No, Dr. Gerard's story is quite straightforward. Just plain facts. I think, if you're interestedyou are interested?"
"Yes, yes."
"Good man. Then I think I'll just phone over and get Gerard along here and you can hear his story for yourself."
When the Colonel had dispatched an orderly on this quest, Poirot said: "Of what does this family consist?"
"Name's Boynton. There are two sons, one of 'em married. His wife's a nice-looking girlthe quiet sensible kind. And there are two daughters. Both of 'em quite good-looking in totally different styles. Younger one a bit nervybut that may be just shock."
"Boynton," said Poirot. His eyebrows rose. "That is curiousvery curious."
Carbury cocked an inquiring eye at him. But as Poirot said nothing more, he himself went on: "Seems pretty obvious mother was a pest! Had to be waited on hand and foot and kept the whole lot of them dancing attendance. And she held the purse strings. None of them had a penny of their own."
"Aha! All very interesting. Is it known how she left her money?"
"I did just slip that question incasual like, you know. It gets divided equally among the lot of them."
Poirot nodded his head. Then he asked: "You are of opinion that they are all in it?"
"Don't know. That's where the difficulty's going to lie. Whether it was a concerted effort, or whether it was one bright member's idea. I don't know. Maybe the whole thing's a mare's nest! What it comes to is this: I'd like to have your professional opinion. Ah, here comes Gerard."


2
The Frenchman came in with a quick yet unhurried tread. As he shook hands with Colonel Carbury, he shot a keen interested glance at Poirot.
Carbury said: "This is M. Hercule Poirot. Staying with me. Been talking to him about this business down at Petra."
"Ah, yes?" Gerard's quick eyes looked Poirot up and down. "You are interested?"
Hercule Poirot threw up his hands. "Alas! One is always incurably interested in one's own subject."
"True," said Gerard.
"Have a drink?" said Carbury.
He poured out a whisky and soda and placed it by Gerard's elbow. He held up the decanter inquiringly but Poirot shook his head. Colonel Carbury set it down again and drew his chair a little nearer. "Well," he said. "Where are we?"
"I gather," said Poirot to Gerard, "that Colonel Carbury is not satisfied."
Gerard made an expressive gesture. "And that," he said, "is my fault! And I may be wrong. Remember that, Colonel Carbury; I may be entirely wrong."
Carbury gave a grunt. "Give Poirot the facts," he said.
Dr. Gerard began with a brief recapitulation of the events preceding the journey to Petra. He gave a short sketch of the various members of the Boynton family and described the condition of emotional strain under which they were laboring.
Poirot listened with interest.
Then Gerard proceeded to the actual events of their first day at Petra, describing how he had returned to the camp. "I was in for a bad bout of malariacerebral type," he explained. "For that I proposed to treat myself by an intravenous injection of quinine. That is the usual method."
Poirot nodded his comprehension.
"The fever was on me badly. I fairly staggered into my tent. I could not at first find my case of drugs, someone had moved it from where I had originally placed it. Then, when I had found that I could not find my hypodermic syringe, I hunted for it for some time, then gave it up and took a large dose of quinine by the mouth and flung myself on my bed."
Gerard paused, then went on: "Mrs. Boynton's death was not discovered until after sunset. Owing to the way in which she was sitting and the support the chair gave to her body no change occurred in her position and it was not until one of the boys went to summon her to dinner at six-thirty that it was noticed that anything was wrong."
He explained in full detail the position of the cave and its distance away from the big marquee. "Miss King, who is a qualified doctor, examined the body. She did not disturb me, knowing that I had fever. There was, indeed, nothing that could be done. Mrs. Boynton was deadand had been dead for some little time."
Poirot murmured: "How long exactly?"
Gerard said slowly: "I do not think that Miss King paid much attention to that point. She did not, I presume, think it of any importance."
"One can say, at least, when she was last definitely known to be alive?" said Poirot.
Colonel Carbury cleared his throat and referred to an official-looking document. "Mrs. Boynton was spoken to by Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce shortly after four P.M.. Lennox Boynton spoke to his mother about four-thirty. Mrs. Lennox Boynton had a long conversation with her about five minutes later. Carol Boynton had a word with her mother at a time she is unable to state preciselybut which, from the evidence of others, would seem to have been about ten minutes past five."
"Jefferson Cope, an American friend of the family, returning to the camp with Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce, saw her asleep. He did not speak to her. That was about twenty to six. Raymond Boynton, the younger son, seems to have been the last person to see her alive. On his return from a walk he went and spoke to her at about ten minutes to six. The discovery of the body was made at six-thirty when a servant went to tell her dinner was ready."
"Between the time that Mr. Raymond Boynton spoke to her and half-past six did no one go near her?" asked Poirot.
"I understand not."
"But someone might have done so?" Poirot persisted.
"Don't think so. From close on six and up to six-thirty servants were moving about the camp, people were going to and from their tents. No one can be found who saw anyone approaching the old lady."
"Then Raymond Boynton was definitely the last person to see his mother alive?" said Poirot.
Dr. Gerard and Colonel Carbury interchanged a quick glance. Colonel Carbury drummed on the table with his fingers.
"This is where we begin to get into deep waters," he said. "Go on, Gerard. This is your pigeon."
Dr. Gerard said: "As I mentioned just now, Sarah King, when she examined Mrs. Boynton, saw no reason for determining the exact time of death. She merely said that Mrs. Boynton had been dead 'some little time'; but when, on the following day for reasons of my own, I endeavored to narrow things down and happened to mention that Mrs. Boynton was last seen alive by her son, Raymond, at a little before six, Miss King, to my great surprise, said point blank that that was impossible, that at that time Mrs. Boynton must already have been dead."
Poirot's eyebrows rose. "Odd. Extremely odd. And what does M. Raymond Boynton say to that?"
Colonel Carbury said abruptly: "He swears that his mother was alive. He went up to her and said: 'I'm back. Hope you have had a nice afternoon?' Something of that kind. He says she just grunted 'Quite all right,' and he went on to his tent."
Poirot frowned perplexedly. "Curious," he said. "Extremely curious. Tell meit was growing dusk by then?"
"The sun was just setting."
"Curious," said Poirot again. "And you, Dr. Gerard, when did you see the body?"
"Not until the following day. At nine A.M., to be precise."
"And your estimate of the time death had occurred?"
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "It is difficult to be exact after that length of time. There must necessarily be a margin of several hours. Were I giving evidence on oath I could only say that she had been dead certainly twelve hours and not longer than eighteen. You see, that does not help at all!"
"Go on, Gerard," said Colonel Carbury. "Give him the rest of it."
"On getting up in the morning," said Dr. Gerard, "I found my hypodermic syringeit was behind a case of bottles on my dressing table." He leaned forward. "You may say, if you like, that I had overlooked it the day before. I was in a miserable state of fever and wretchedness, shaking from head to foot, and how often does one look for a thing that is there all the time and yet be unable to find it! I can only say that I am quite positive the syringe was not there then."
"There's something more still," said Carburv. "Yes, two facts for what they are worth and they mean a great deal. There was a mark on the dead woman's wrista mark such as would be caused by the insertion of a hypodermic syringe. Her daughter explains it as having been caused by the prick of a pin"
Poirot stirred. "Which daughter?"
"Her daughter, Carol."
"Yes, continue, I pray you."
"And there is the last fact. Happening to examine my little case of drugs I noticed that my stock of digitoxin was very much diminished."
"Digitoxin," said Poirot, "is a heart poison, is it not?"
"Yes. It is obtained from digitalis purpureathe common foxglove. There are four active principlesdigitalindigitonindigitaleinand digitoxin. Of these, digitoxin is considered the most active poisonous constituent of digitalis leaves. According to Kopp's experiments, it is from six to ten times stronger than digitalin or digitalein. It is official in Francebut not in the British Pharmacopoeia."
"And a large dose of digitoxin?"
Dr. Gerard said gravely: "A large dose of digitoxin thrown suddenly on the circulation by intravenous injection would cause sudden death by quick palsy of the heart. It has been estimated that four milligrams might prove fatal to an adult man."
"And Mrs. Boynton already suffered with heart trouble?"
"Yes; as a matter of fact, she was actually taking a medicine containing digitalis."
"That," said Poirot, "is extremely interesting."
"D'you mean," asked Colonel Carbury, "that her death might have been attributed to an overdose of her own medicine?"
"Thatyes. But I meant more than that. In some senses," said Dr. Gerard, "digitalis may be considered a cumulative drug. Moreover, as regards postmortem appearance, the active principles of the digitalis may destroy life and leave no appreciative sign."
Poirot nodded slow appreciation. "Yes, that is cleververy clever. Almost impossible to prove satisfactorily to a jury. Ah, but let me tell you, gentlemen, if this is a murder, it is a very clever murder! The hypodermic replaced, the poison employed being one which the victim was already takingthe possibilities of a mistakeor accidentare overwhelming. Oh, yes, there are brains here. There is thoughtcaregenius."
For a moment he sat in silence, then he raised his head. "And yet, one thing puzzles me."
"What is that?"
"The theft of the hypodermic syringe."
"It was taken," said Dr. Gerard quickly.
"Takenand returned?"
"Yes."
"Odd," said Poirot. "Very odd. Otherwise everything fits so well . . ."
Colonel Carbury looked at him curiously. "Well?" he said. "What's your expert opinion? Was it murderor wasn't it?"
Poirot held up a hand. "One moment. We have not yet arrived at that point. There is still some evidence to consider."
"What evidence? You've had it all."
"Ah! But this is evidence that I, Hercule Poirot, bring to you." He nodded his head and smiled a little at their two astonished faces. ''Yes it is droll, that! That I, to whom you tell the story, should in return present you with a piece of evidence about which you do not know. It was like this. In the Solomon Hotel, one night, I go to the window to make sure it is closed"
"Closedor open?" asked Carbury.
"Closed," said Poirot firmly. "It was open, so naturally, I go to close it. But before I do so, as my hand is on the latch, I hear a voice speakingan agreeable voice, low and clear with a tremor in it of nervous excitement. I say to myself it is a voice I will know again. And what does it say, this voice? It says these words: 'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?'"
He paused.
"At the moment, naturellement, I do not take those words as referring to a killing of flesh and blood. I think it is an author or perhaps a playwright who speaks. But now I am not so sure. That is to say, I am sure it was nothing of the kind."
Again he paused before saying: "Messieurs, I will tell you thisto the best of my knowledge and belief those words were spoken by a young man whom I saw later in the lounge of the hotel and who was, so they told me on inquiring, a young man of the name of Raymond Boynton."


3
"RAYMOND BOYNTON SAID THAT?" The exclamation broke from the Frenchman.
"You think it unlikelypsychologically speaking?" Poirot inquired placidly.
Gerard shook his head. "No, I should not say that. I was surprised, yes. If you follow me, I was surprised just because Raymond Boynton was so eminently fitted to be a suspect."
Colonel Carbury sighed. "These psychological fellers!" the sigh seemed to say. "Question is," he murmured, "what are we going to do about it?"
Gerard shrugged his shoulders. "I do not see what you can do," he confessed. "The evidence is bound to be inconclusive. You may know that murder has been done but it will be difficult to prove it."
"I see," said Colonel Carbury. "We suspect that murder's been done and we just sit back and twiddle our fingers! Don't like it!" He added, as if in extenuation, his former odd plea: "I'm a tidy man."
"I know. I know," Poirot nodded his head sympathetically. "You would like to clear this up. You would like to know definitely exactly what occurred and how it occurred. And you. Dr. Gerard? You have said that there is nothing to be donethat the evidence is bound to be inconclusive? That is probably true. But are you satisfied that the matter should rest so?"
"She was a bad life," said Gerard slowly. "In any case she might have died very shortlya weeka montha year."
"So you are satisfied?" persisted Poirot.
Gerard went on: "There is no doubt that her death washow shall we put it?beneficial to the community. It has brought freedom to her family. They will have scope to developthey are all, I think, people of good character and intelligence. They will be, now, useful members of society! The death of Mrs. Boynton, as I see it, has resulted in nothing but good."
Poirot repeated for the third time: "So you are satisfied?"
"No." Dr. Gerard pounded a fist suddenly on the table. "I am not 'satisfied,' as you put it! It is my instinct to preserve lifenot to hasten death. Therefore, though my conscious mind may repeat that this woman's death was a good thing, my unconscious mind rebels against it! It is not well, gentlemen, that a human being should die before his or her time has come."
Poirot smiled. He leaned back, *******ed with the answer he had probed for so patiently.
Colonel Carbury said unemotionally: "He don't like murder! Quite right! No more do I." He rose and poured himself out a stiff whisky and soda. His guests' glasses were still full. "And now," he said, returning to the subject, "let's get down to brass tacks. Is there anything to be done about it? We don't like itno! But we may have to lump it! No good making a fuss if you can't deliver the goods."
Gerard leaned forward. "What is your professional opinion, M. Poirot? You are the expert."
Poirot took a little time to speak. Methodically he arranged an ashtray or two and made a little heap of used matches. Then he said: "You desire to know, do you not, Colonel Carbury, who killed Mrs. Boynton? (That is, if she was killed and did not die a natural death.) Exactly how and when she was killedand, in fact, the whole truth of the matter?"
"I should like to know that, yes." Carbury spoke unemotionally.
Hercule Poirot said slowly: "I see no reason why you should not know it!"
Dr. Gerard looked incredulous. Colonel Carbury looked mildly interested. "Oh," he said. "So you don't, don't you? That's interestin'. How d'you propose to set about it?"
"By methodical sifting of the evidence, by a process of reasoning."
"Suits me," said Colonel Carbury.
"And by a study of the psychological possibilities."
"Suits Dr. Gerard, I expect," said Carbury. "And after that, after you've sifted the evidence and done some reasoning and paddled in psychologyhey, presto!you think you can produce the rabbit out of the hat?"
"I should be extremely surprised if I could not do so," said Poirot calmly.
Colonel Carbury stared at him over the rim of his glass. Just for a moment the vague eyes were no longer vague they measuredand appraised. He put down his glass with a grunt. "What do you say to that, Dr. Gerard?"
"I admit that I am skeptical of success . . . yet I know that M. Poirot has great powers."
"I am giftedyes," said the little man. He smiled modestly.
Colonel Carbury turned away his head and coughed.
Poirot said: "The first thing to decide is whether this is a composite murderplanned and carried out by the Boynton family as a whole, or whether it is the work of one of them only. If the latter, which is the most likely member of the family to have attempted it?"
Dr. Gerard said: "There is your own evidence. One must, I think, consider first Raymond Boynton."
"I agree," said Poirot. "The words I overheard and the discrepancy between his evidence and that of the young woman doctor puts him definitely in the forefront of the suspects. He was the last person to see Mrs. Boynton alive. That is his own story, Sarah King contradicts that. Tell me, Dr. Gerard, is thereeh?you know what I meana little tendresse, shall we saythere?"
The Frenchman nodded. "Emphatically so."
"Alas! Is she, this young lady, a brunette with hair that goes back from her foreheadsoand big hazel eyes and a manner very decided?"
Dr. Gerard looked rather surprised. "Yes, that describes her very well."
"I think I have seen herin the Solomon Hotel. She spoke to this Raymond Boynton and afterwards he remained planté lain a dreamblocking the exit from the lift. Three times I had to say 'Pardon' before he heard me and moved."
Poirot remained in thought for some moments. Then he said: "So, to begin with, we will accept the medical evidence of Miss Sarah King with certain mental reservations. She is an interested party." He pausedthen went on: "Tell me, Dr. Gerard, do you think Raymond Boynton is of the temperament that could commit murder easily?"
Gerard said slowly: "You mean deliberate, planned murder? Yes, I think it is possiblebut only under conditions of intense emotional strain."
"Those conditions were present?"
"Definitely. This journey abroad undoubtedly heightened the nervous and mental strain under which all these people were living. The contrast between their own lives and those of other people was more apparent to them. And in Raymond Boynton's case"
"Yes?"
"There was the additional complication of being strongly attracted to Sarah King."
"That would give him an additional motive? And an additional stimulus?"
"That is so."
Colonel Carbury coughed. "Like to butt in a moment. That sentence of his you overheard'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?'must have been spoken to someone."
"A good point," said Poirot. "I had not forgotten it. Yes, to whom was Raymond Boynton speaking? Undoubtedly to a member of his family. But which member? Can you tell us something, Doctor, of the mental conditions of the other members of the family?"
Gerard replied promptly. "Carol Boynton was, I should say, in very much the same state as Raymonda state of rebellion accompanied by severe nervous excitement, but uncomplicated in her case by the introduction of a sex factor. Lennox Boynton had passed the stage of revolt. He was sunk in apathy. He was finding it, I think, difficult to concentrate. His method of reaction to his surroundings was to retire further and further within himself. He was definitely an introvert."
"And his wife?"
"His wife, though tired and unhappy, showed no signs of mental conflict. She was, I believe, hesitating on the brink of a decision."
"Such a decision being?"
"Whether or not to leave her husband."
He repeated the conversation he had held with Jefferson Cope.
Poirot nodded in comprehension. "And what of the younger girl, Ginevra her name is, is it not?"
The Frenchman's face was grave. He said: "I should say that mentally she is in an extremely dangerous condition. She has already begun to display symptoms of schizophrenia. Unable to bear the suppression of her life, she is escaping into a realm of fantasy. She has advanced delusions of persecutionthat is to saw, she claims to be a Royal Personage in danger, enemies surrounding her, all the usual things!"
"And that is dangerous?"
"Very dangerous. It is the beginning of what is often homicidal mania. The sufferer killsnot for the lust of killingbut in self-defense. He or she kills in order not to be killed themselves. From their point of view it is eminently rational."
"So you think that Ginevra Boynton might have killed her mother?"
"Yes. But I doubt if she would have had the knowledge or the constructiveness to do it the way it was done. The cunning of that class of mania is usually very simple and obvious. And I am almost certain she would have chosen a more spectacular method."
"But she is a possibility?" Poirot insisted.
"Yes," admitted Gerard.
"And afterwardswhen the deed was done? Do you think the rest of the family knew who had done it?"
"They know!" said Colonel Carbury unexpectedly. "If ever I came across a bunch of people who had something to hide these are they! They're putting something over, all right."
"We will make them tell us what it is," said Poirot.
"Third degree?" said Colonel Carbury, raising his eyebrows.
"No." Poirot shook his head. "Just ordinary conversation. On the whole, you know, people tell you the truth. Because it is easier! Because it is less strain on the inventive faculties! You can tell one lieor two lies, or three or even four liesbut you cannot lie all the time. The truth becomes plain."
"Something in that," agreed Carbury. Then he said bluntly: "You'll talk to them, you say? That means you're willing to take this on?"
Poirot bowed his head. "Let us be very clear about this," he said. "What you demand, and what I undertake to supply, is the truth. But mark this, even when we have got the truth, there may be no proof. That is to say, no proof that would be accepted in a court of law. You comprehend?"
"Quite," said Carbury. "You satisfy me of what really happened, then it's up to me to decide whether action is possible or nothaving regard to the International aspects. Anyway it will be cleared upno mess. Don't like a mess."
Poirot smiled.
"One more thing," said Carbury. "I can't give you much time. Can't detain these people here indefinitely."
Poirot said quietly: "You can detain them twenty-four hours. You shall have the truth by tomorrow night."
Colonel Carbury stared hard at him. "Pretty confident, aren't you?" he asked.
"I know my own ability," murmured Poirot.
Rendered uncomfortable by this un-British attitude, Colonel Carbury looked away and fingered his untidy moustache. "Well," he mumbled. "It's up to you."
"And if you succeed, my friend," said Dr. Gerard, "you are indeed a marvel!"


4
Sarah King looked long and searchingly at Hercule Poirot. She saw the egg-shaped head, the gigantic moustaches, the dandified appearance and the suspicious blackness of his hair. A look of doubt crept into her eyes.
"Well, Mademoiselle, are you satisfied?"
Sarah flushed as he met the amused ironical glance of his eyes. "I beg your pardon," she said awkwardly.
"Du tout! To use an expression I have recently learnt, you give me the one over, is it not so?"
Sarah smiled a little. "Well, at any rate you can do the same to me," she said.
"Assuredly. I have not neglected to do so."
She glanced at him sharply. Something in his tone But Poirot was twirling his moustaches complacently and Sarah thought (for the second time), "The man's a mountebank!"
Her self-confidence restored, she sat up a little straighter and said inquiringly: "I don't think I quite understand the object of this interview?"
"The good Dr. Gerard did not explain?"
Sarah said, frowning: "I don't understand Dr. Gerard. He seems to think"
"That there is something rotten in the state of Denmark." quoted Poirot. "You see, I know your Shakespeare."
Sarah waved aside Shakespeare. "What exactly is all this fuss about?" she demanded.
"Eh bien, one wants, does one not, to get at the truth of this affair?"
"Are you talking about Mrs. Boynton's death?"
"Yes."
"Isn't it rather a fuss about nothing? You, of course, are a specialist, M. Poirot. It is natural for you"
Poirot finished the sentence for her. "It is natural for me to suspect crime whenever I can possibly find an excuse for doing so?"
"Wellyesperhaps."
"You have no doubt yourself as to Mrs. Boynton's death?"
Sarah shrugged her shoulders. "Really, M. Poirot, if you had been to Petra you would realize that the journey there is a somewhat strenuous business for an old woman whose cardiac condition was unsatisfactory."
"It seems a perfectly straightforward business to you?"
"Certainly. I can't understand Dr. Gerard's attitude. He didn't even know anything about it. He was down with fever. I'd bow to his superior medical knowledge naturally, but in this case he had nothing whatever to go on. I suppose they can have a p.m. in Jerusalem if they like, if they're not satisfied with my verdict."
Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said: "There is a fact, Miss King, that you do not yet know. Dr. Gerard has not told you of it."
"What fact?" demanded Sarah.
"A supply of a drugdigitoxinis missing from Dr. Gerard's traveling medicine case."
"Oh!" Quickly Sarah took in this new aspect of the case. Equally quickly she pounced on the one doubtful point. "Is Dr. Gerard quite sure of that?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "A doctor, as you should know, Mademoiselle, is usually fairly careful in making his statements."
"Oh, of course. That goes without saying. But Dr. Gerard had malaria at the time."
"That is so, of course."
"Has he any idea when it could have been taken?"
"He had occasion to go to his case on the night of his arrival in Petra. He wanted some phenacetin as his head was aching badly. When he replaced the phenacetin on the following morning and shut up the case he is almost certain that all the drugs were intact."
"Almost" said Sarah.
Poirot shrugged.
"Yes, there is a doubt! There is the doubt that any man, who is honest, would be likely to feel."
Sarah nodded. "Yes, I know. One always distrusts those people who are over-sure. But all the same, M. Poirot, the evidence is very slight. It seems to me" She paused.
Poirot finished the sentence for her. "It seems to you that an inquiry on my part is ill-advised!"
Sarah looked him squarely in the face. "Frankly, it does. Are you sure, M. Poirot, that this is not a case of Roman Holiday?"
Poirot smiled. "The private lives of a family upset and disturbedso that Hercule Poirot can play a little game of detection to amuse himself?"
"I didn't mean to be offensivebut isn't it a little like that?"
"You, then, are on the side of the famille Boynton, Mademoiselle?"
"I think I am. They've suffered a good deal. Theythey oughtn't to have to stand any more."
"And la Maman, she was unpleasant, tyrannical, disagreeable and decidedly better dead than alive? That alsohm?"
"When you put it like that" Sarah paused, flushed, went on: "One shouldn't, I agree, take that into consideration."
"But all the same one does! That is, you do. Mademoiselle! I do not! To me, it is all the same. The victim may be one of the good God's saintsor, on the contrary, a monster of infamy. It moves me not. The fact is the same. A life taken! I say it always, I do not approve of murder."
"Murder!" Sarah drew in her breath sharply. "But what evidence of that is there? The flimsiest imaginable! Dr. Gerard himself cannot be sure!"
Poirot said quietly: "But there is other evidence, Mademoiselle."
"What evidence?" Her voice was sharp.
"The mark of a hypodermic puncture upon the dead woman's wrist. And something more stillsome words that I overheard spoken in Jerusalem on a clear still night when I went to close my bedroom window. Shall I tell you what those words were, Miss King? They were these: I heard Mr. Raymond Boynton say: 'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?'" He saw the color drain slowly from Sarah's face.
She said: "You heard that?"
"Yes."
The girl stared straight ahead of her. She said at last: "It would be you who heard it!"
He acquiesced. "Yes, it would be me. These things happen. You see now why I think there should be an investigation?"
Sarah said quietly: "I think you are quite right."
"Ah! And you will help me?"
"Certainly."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, unemotional. Her eyes met his coolly.
Poirot bowed. "Thank you, Mademoiselle. Now, I will ask you to tell me in your own words exactly what you can remember of that particular day."
Sarah considered for a moment. "Let me see. I went on an expedition in the morning. None of the Boyntons were with us. I saw them at lunch. They were finishing as we came in. Mrs. Boynton seemed in an unusually good temper."
"She was not usually amiable, I understand."
"Very far from it," said Sarah with a slight grimace. She then described how Mrs. Boynton had released her family from attendance on her.
"That, too, was unusual?"
"Yes. She usually kept them around her."
"Do you think, perhaps, that she suddenly felt remorseful, that she had what is called un bon moment?"
"No, I don't," said Sarah bluntly.
"What did you think, then?"
"I was puzzled. I suspected it was something of the cat and mouse order."
"If you would elaborate, Mademoiselle?"
"A cat enjoys letting a mouse away and then catching it again. Mrs. Boynton had that kind of mentality. I thought she was up to some new deviltry or other."
"What happened next, Mademoiselle?"
"The Boyntons started off"
"All of them?"
"No; the youngest, Ginevra, was left behind. She was told to go and rest."
"Did she wish to do so?"
"No. But that didn't matter. She did what she was told. The others started off. Dr. Gerard and I joined them"
"When was this?"
"About half-past three."
"Where was Mrs. Boynton then?"
"Nadineyoung Mrs. Boyntonhad settled her in her chair outside her cave."
"Proceed."
When we got around the bend Dr. Gerard and I caught up with the others. We all walked together. Then, after a while Dr. Gerard turned back. He had been looking rather queer for some time. I could see he had fever. I wanted to go back with him, but he wouldn't hear of it."
"What time was this?"
"Oh, about four, I suppose."
"And the rest?"
"We went on."
"Were you all together?"
"At first. Then we split up." Sarah hurried on as though foreseeing the next question. "Nadine Boynton and Mr. Cope went one way and Carol, Lennox, Raymond and I went another."
"And you continued like that?"
"Wellno. Raymond Boynton and I separated from the others. We sat down on a slab of rock and admired the wildness of the scenery. Then he went off and I stayed where I was for some time longer. It was about half-past five when I looked at my watch and realized I had better get back. I reached the camp at six o'clock. It was just about sunset."
"You passed Mrs. Boynton on the way?"
"I noticed she was still in her chair up on the ridge."
"That did not strike you as odd, that she had not moved?"
"No, because I had seen her sitting there the night before when we arrived."
"I see. Continuez."
"I went into the marquee. The others were all thereexcept Dr. Gerard. I washed and then came back. They brought in dinner and one of the servants went to tell Mrs. Boynton. He came running back to say she was ill. I hurried out. She was sitting in her chair just as she had been, but as soon as I touched her I realized she was dead."
"You had no doubt at all as to her death being natural?"
"None whatever. I had heard that she suffered from heart trouble, though no specified disease had been mentioned."
"You simply thought she had died sitting there in her chair?"
"Yes."
"Without calling out for assistance?"
"Yes. It happens that way sometimes. She might even have died in her sleep. She was quite likely to have dozed off. In any case, all the camp was asleep most of the afternoon. No one would have heard her unless she had called very loud."
"Did you form an opinion as to how long she had been dead?"
"Well, I didn't really think very much about it. She had clearly been dead some time."
"What do you call some time?" asked Poirot.
"Wellover an hour. It might have been much longer. The refraction off the rock would keep her body from cooling quickly."
"Over an hour? Are you aware, Mademoiselle King, that Mr. Raymond Boynton spoke to her only a little over half an hour earlier and that she was then alive and well?"
Now her eyes no longer met his. But she shook her head. "He must have made a mistake. It must have been earlier than that."
"No, Mademoiselle, it was not." She looked at him point-blank. He noticed again the set of her mouth.
"Well," said Sarah. "I'm young and I haven't had much experience with dead bodies but I know enough to be quite sure of one thing: Mrs. Boynton had been dead at least an hour when I examined her body!"
"That," said Hercule Poirot unexpectedly, "is your story and you are going to stick to it!"
"It's the truth," said Sarah.
"Then can you explain why Mr. Boynton should say his mother was alive when she was, in point of fact, dead?"
"I've no idea," said Sarah. "They're probably rather vague about time, all of them! They're a very nervous family."
"On how many occasions, Mademoiselle, have you spoken with them?"
Sarah was silent a moment, frowning a little. "I can tell you exactly," she said. "I talked to Raymond Boynton in the Wagon-Lit corridor coming to Jerusalem. I had two conversations with Carol Boyntonone at the Mosque of Omar and one late that evening in my bedroom. I had a conversation with Mrs. Lennox Boynton the following morning. That's all, up to the afternoon of Mrs. Boynton's death, when we all went walking together."
"You did not have any conversation with Mrs. Boynton herself?"
Sarah flushed uncomfortably. "Yes. I exchanged a few words with her the day she left Jerusalem." She paused and then blurted out: "As a matter of fact, I made a fool of myself."
"Ah?"
The interrogation was so patent that, stiffly and unwillingly, Sarah gave an account of the conversation.
Poirot seemed interested and cross-examined her closely. "The mentality of Mrs. Boynton, it is very important in this case," he said. "And you are an outsideran unbiased observer. That is why your account of her is very significant."
Sarah did not reply. She still felt hot and uncomfortable when she thought of that interview. "Thank you, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I will now converse with the other witnesses."
Sarah rose. "Excuse me, M. Poirot, but if I might make a suggestion"
"Certainly. Certainly."
"Why not postpone all this until an autopsy can be made and you discover whether or not your suspicions are justified. I think all this is rather like putting the cart before the horse."
Poirot waved a grandiloquent hand. "This is the method of Hercule Poirot," he announced.
Pressing her lips together, Sarah left the room.


5
LADY WESTHOLME ENTERED the room with the assurance of a transatlantic liner coming into dock. Miss Annabel Pierce, an indeterminate craft, followed in the liner's wake and sat down in an inferior make of chair slightly in the background.
"Certainly, M. Poirot," boomed Lady Westholme, "I shall be delighted to assist you by any means in my power. I have always considered that in matters of this kind one has a public duty to perform"
When Lady Westholme's public duty had held the stage for some minutes, Poirot was adroit enough to get in a question.
"I have a perfect recollection of the afternoon in question," replied Lady Westholme. "Miss Pierce and I will do all we can to assist you."
"Oh, yes," sighed Miss Pierce, almost ecstatically. "So tragic, was it not? Deadjust like thatin the twinkle of an eye!"
"If you will tell me exactly what occurred on the afternoon in question?"
"Certainly," said Lady Westholme. "After we had finished lunch I decided to take a brief siesta. The morning excursion had been somewhat fatiguing. Not that I was really tiredI seldom am. I do not really know what fatigue is. One has so often, on public occasions, no matter what one really feels"
[unreadable] an adroit murmur from Poirot.
"I saw, I was in favor of a siesta. Miss Pierce agreed with me."
"Oh, yes," sighed Miss Pierce. "And I was terribly tired all the morning. Such a dangerous climband although interesting, most exhausting. I'm afraid I'm not quite as strong as Lady Westholme."
"Fatigue," said Lady Westholme, "can be conquered like everything else. I make a point of never giving in to my bodily needs."
Miss Pierce looked at her admiringly.
Poirot said: "After lunch, then, you two ladies went to your tents?"
"Yes."
"Mrs. Boynton was then sitting at the mouth of her cave?"
"Her daughter-in-law assisted her there before she herself went off."

"You could both see her?"
"Oh yes," said Miss Pierce. "She was opposite, you knowonly of course a little way along and up above."
Lady Westholme elucidated the statement. "The caves opened onto a ledge. Below that ledge were some tents. Then there was a small stream and across that stream was the big marquee and some other tents. Miss Pierce and I had tents near the marquee. She was on the right side of the marquee and I was on the left. The openings of our tents faced the ledge, but of course it was some distance away."
"Nearly two hundred yards, I understand."
"Possibly."
"I have here a plan," said Poirot, "concocted with the help of the dragoman, Mahmoud."
Lady Westholme remarked that in that case it was probably wrong! "That man is grossly inaccurate. I have checked his statements from my Baedeker. Several times his information was definitely misleading."
"According to my plan," said Poirot, "the cave next to Mrs. Boynton's was occupied by her son, Lennox, and his wife. Raymond, Carol and Ginevra Boynton had tents just below but more to the rightin fact almost opposite the marquee. On the right of Ginevra Boynton's was Dr. Gerard's tent and next to his was that of Miss King. On the other sidenext to the marquee on the leftyou and Mr. Cope had tents. Miss Pierce's, as you mentioned, was on the right of the marquee. Is that correct?"
Lady Westholme admitted grudgingly that as far as she knew it was.
"I thank you. That is perfectly clear. Pray continue, Lady Westholme."
Lady Westholme smiled graciously on him and went on: "At about a quarter to four I strolled along to Miss Pierce's tent to see if she were awake yet and felt like a stroll. She was sitting in the doorway of the tent reading. We agreed to start in about half an hour when the sun was less hot. I went back to my tent and read for about twenty-five minutes. Then I went along and joined Miss Pierce. She was ready and we started out. Everyone in the camp seemed asleep; there was no one about and, seeing Mrs. Boynton sitting up there alone, I suggested to Miss Pierce that we should ask her if she wanted anything before we left."
"Yes, you did. Most thoughtful of you, I considered it," murmured Miss Pierce.
"I felt it to be my duty," said Lady Westholme with a rich complacency.
"And then for her to be so rude about it!" exclaimed Miss Pierce.
Poirot looked inquiring.
"Our path passed just under the ledge," explained Lady Westholme, "and I called up to her, saying that we were going for a stroll and asking could we do anything for her before we went. Do you know, M. Poirot, absolutely the only answer she gave us was a grunt! A grunt! She just looked at us as though we wereas though we were dirt!"
"Disgraceful it was!" said Miss Pierce, flushing.
"I must confess," said Lady Westholme, reddening a little, "that I then made a somewhat uncharitable remark."
"I think you were quite justified," said Miss Pierce.
"Quiteunder the circumstances."
"What was this remark?" asked Poirot.
"I said to Miss Pierce that perhaps she drank! Really, her manner was most peculiar. It had been all along. I thought it possible that drink might account for it. The evils of alcoholic indulgence, as I very well know"
Dexterously Poirot steered the conversation away from the drink question.
"Had her manner been very peculiar on this particular day? At lunch time, for instance?"
"No," said Lady Westholme, considering. "No, I should say that then her manner had been fairly normalfor an American of that type, that is to say," she added condescendingly.
"She was very abusive to that servant," said Miss Pierce
"Which one?"
"Not very long before we started out."
"Oh, yes, I remember. She did seem extraordinarily annoyed with him! Of course," went on Lady Westholme "to have servants about who cannot understand a word of English is very trying, but what I say is that when one is traveling one must make allowances."
"What servant was this?" asked Poirot.
"One of the Bedouin servants attached to the camp. He went up to her. I think she must have sent him to fetch her something and I suppose he brought the wrong thing. I don't really know what it was, but she was very angry about it. The poor man slunk away as fast as he could, and she shook her stick at him and called out."
"What did she call out?"
"We were too far away to hear. At least I didn't hear anything distinctly. Did you, Miss Pierce?"
"No, I didn't. I think she'd sent him to fetch something from her younger daughter's tentor perhaps she was angry with him for going into her daughter's tentI couldn't say exactly."
"What did he look like?"
Miss Pierce, to whom the question was addressed, shook her head vaguely. "Really, I couldn't say. He was too far away. All these Arabs look alike to me."
"He was a man of more than average height," said Lady Westholme, "and wore the usual native headdress. He had on a pair of very torn and patched breechesreally disgraceful they wereand his puttees were wound most untidilyall anyhow! These men need discipline!"
"You could point the man out among the camp servants?"
"I doubt it. We didn't see his faceit was too far away. And, as Miss Pierce says, really, these Arabs all look alike."
"I wonder," said Poirot thoughtfully, "what it was he did to make Mrs. Boynton so angry?"
"They are very trying to the patience sometimes," said Lady Westholme. "One of them took my shoes away, though I had expressly told himby pantomime toothat I preferred to clean my shoes myself."
"Always I do that too," said Poirot, diverted for a moment from his interrogation. "I take everywhere my little shoe-cleaning outfit. Also, I take a duster."
"So do I." Lady Westholme sounded quite human. "Because these Arabs they do not remove the dust from one's belongings"
"Never! Of course one has to dust one's things three or four times a day"
"But it is well worth it."
"Yes, indeed. I cannot stand dirt!" Lady Westholme looked positively militant. She added with feeling: "The fliesin the bazaarsterrible!"
"Well, well," said Poirot, looking slightly guilty. "We can soon inquire from this man what it was that irritated Mrs. Boynton. To continue with your story?"
"We strolled along slowly," said Lady Westholme. "And then we met Dr. Gerard. He was staggering along and looked very ill. I could see at once he had fever."
"He was shaking," put in Miss Pierce. "Shaking all over."
"I saw at once he had an attack of malaria coming on," said Lady Westholme. "I offered to come back with him and get him some quinine but he said he had his own supply with him."
"Poor man," said Miss Pierce. "You know it always seems so dreadful to me to see a doctor ill. It seems all wrong, somehow."
"We strolled on," continued Lady Westholme. "And then we sat down on a rock."
Miss Pierce murmured: "Reallyso tired after the morning's exertionthe climbing"
"I never feel fatigue," said Lady Westholme firmly. "But there was no point in going further. We had a very good view of all the surrounding scenery."
"Were you out of sight of the camp?"
"No, we were sitting facing towards it."
"So romantic," murmured Miss Pierce. "A camp pitched in the middle of a wilderness of rose-red rocks." She sighed and shook her head.
"That camp could be much better run than it is," said Lady Westholme. Her rocking-horse nostrils dilated. "I shall take up the matter with Castle's. I am not at all sure that the drinking water is boiled as well as filtered. It should be. I shall point that out to them."
Poirot coughed and led the conversation quickly away from the subject of drinking water. "Did you see any other members of the party?" he inquired.
"Yes. The elder Mr. Boynton and his wife passed us on their way back to the camp."
"Were they together?"
"No, Mr. Boynton came first. He looked a little as though he had had a touch of the sun. He was walking as though he were slightly dizzy."
"The back of the neck," said Miss Pierce. "One must protect the back of the neck! I always wear a thick silk handkerchief."
"What did Mr. Lennox Boynton do on his return to camp?" asked Poirot.
For once Miss Pierce managed to get in first before Lady Westholme could speak. "He went right up to his mother, but he didn't stay long with her."
"How long?"
"Just a minute or two."
"I should put it at just over a minute myself," said Lady Westholme. "Then he went on into his cave and after that he went down to the marquee."
"And his wife?"
"She came along about a quarter of an hour later. She stopped a minute and spoke to usquite civilly."
"I think she's very nice," said Miss Pierce. "Very nice indeed."
"She is not so impossible as the rest of the family," allowed Lady Westholme.
"You watched her return to the camp?"
'Yes. She went up and spoke to her mother-in-law. Then she went into her cave and brought out a chair and sat by her talking for some timeabout ten minutes, I should say."
"And then?"
"Then she took the chair back to the cave and went down to the marquee where her husband was."
"What happened next?"
"That very peculiar American came along," said Lady Westholme. "Cope, I think his name is. He told us that there was a very good example of the debased architecture of the period just round the bend of the valley. He said we ought not to miss it. Accordingly we walked there. Mr. Cope had with him quite an interesting article on Petra and the Nabateans."
"It was all most interesting," declared Miss Pierce fervently.
Lady Westholme continued: "We strolled back to the camp, it being then about twenty minutes to six. It was growing quite chilly."
"Mrs. Boynton was still sitting where you had left her?"
"Yes."
"Did you speak to her?"
"No. As a matter of fact, I hardly noticed her."
"What did you do next?"
"I went to my tent, changed my shoes and got out my own packet of China tea. I then went to the marquee. The guide person was there and I directed him to make some tea for Miss Pierce and myself with the tea I had brought and to make quite sure that the water with which it was made was boiling. He said that dinner would be ready in about half an hourthe boys were laying the table at the timebut I said that made no difference."
"I always say a cup of tea makes all the difference," murmured Miss Pierce vaguely.
"Was there anyone in the marquee?"
"Oh, yes. Mr. and Mrs. Lennox Boynton were sitting at one end reading. And Carol Boynton was there too."
"And Mr. Cope?"
"He joined us at our tea," said Miss Pierce. "Though he said tea drinking wasn't an American habit."
Lady Westholme coughed. "I became just a little afraid that Mr. Cope was going to be a nuisancethat he might fasten himself upon me. It is a little difficult sometimes to keep people at arm's length when one is traveling. I find they are inclined to presume. Americans, especially, are sometimes rather dense."
Poirot murmured suavely: "I am sure. Lady Westholme, that you are quite capable of dealing with situations of that kind. When traveling acquaintances are no longer of any use to you, I am sure you are an adept at dropping them."
"I think I am capable of dealing with most situations," said Lady Westholme complacently.
The twinkle in Poirot's eye was quite lost upon her. "If you will just conclude your recital of the day's happenings?" murmured Poirot.
"Certainly. As far as I can remember, Raymond Boynton and the red-haired Boynton girl came in shortly afterwards. Miss King arrived last. Dinner was then ready to be served. One of the servants was dispatched by the dragoman to announce the fact to old Mrs. Boynton. The man came running back with one of his comrades in a state of some agitation and spoke to the dragoman in Arabic. There was some mention of Mrs. Boynton being taken ill. Miss King offered her services. She went out with the dragoman. She came back and broke the news to the members of Mrs. Boynton's family."
"She did it very abruptly," put in Miss Pierce. "Just blurted it out. I think myself it ought to have been done more gradually."
"And how did Mrs. Boynton's family take the news?" asked Poirot.
For once both Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce seemed a little at a loss. The former said at last, in a voice lacking its usual self-assurance: "Wellreallyit is difficult to say. Theythey were very quiet about it."
"Stunned," said Miss Pierce. She offered the word more as a suggestion than as a fact.
"They all went out with Miss King," said Lady Westholme. "Miss Pierce and I very sensibly remained where we were."
A faintly wistful look was observable in Miss Pierce's eye at this point.
"I detest vulgar curiosity!" continued Lady Westholme. The wistful look became more pronounced. It was clear that Miss Pierce had had perforce to hate vulgar curiosity too!
"Later," concluded Lady Westholme, "the dragoman and Miss King returned. I suggested that dinner should be served immediately to the four of us, so that the Boynton family could dine later in the marquee without the embarrassment of strangers being present. My suggestion was adopted and immediately after the meal I retired to my tent. Miss King and Miss Pierce did the same. Mr. Cope, I believe, remained in the marquee; he is a friend of the family and thought he might be of some assistance to them. That is all I know, M. Poirot."
"When Miss King had broken the news, all the Boynton family accompanied her out of the marquee?"
"Yesno, I believe, now that you come to mention it, that the red-haired girl stayed behind. Perhaps you can remember. Miss Pierce?"
"Yes, I thinkI am quite sure she did."
Poirot asked: "What did she do?"
Lady Westholme stared at him. "What did she do, M. Poirot? She did not do anything, as far as I can remember."
"I mean was she sewing, or reading, did she look anxious, did she say anything?"
"Well, really" Lady Westholme frowned. "Sheershe just sat there, as far as I can remember."
"She twiddled her fingers," said Miss Pierce suddenly. "I remember noticingpoor thing; I thought, it shows what she's feeling! Not that there was anything to show in her face, you knowjust her hands turning and twisting."
"Once," went on Miss Pierce conversationally, "I remember tearing up a pound note that waynot thinking of what I was doing. 'Shall I catch the first train and go to her?' I thought (it was a great aunt of minetaken suddenly ill), 'or shall I not?' And I couldn't make up my mind one way or the other and then I looked down, and instead of the telegram I was tearing up a pound notea pound note!into tiny pieces!" Miss Pierce paused dramatically.
Not entirely approving of this sudden bid for the limelight on the part of her satellite Lady Westholme said coldly: "Is there anything else, M. Poirot?"
With a start, Poirot seemed to come out of a brown study. "Nothing, nothing. You have been most clearmost definite."
"I have an excellent memory," said Lady Westholme with satisfaction.
"One last little demand. Lady Westholme," said Poirot. "Please continue to sit as you are sittingwithout looking around. Now, would you be so kind as to describe to me just what Miss Pierce is wearing todaythat is, if Miss Pierce does not object?"
"Oh, no, not in the least!" twittered Miss Pierce. "Really, M. Poirot, is there any object"
"Please be so kind as to do as I ask, Madame."
Lady Westholme shrugged her shoulders and then said with a rather bad grace: "Miss Pierce has on a striped brown and white cotton dress and is wearing with it a Sudanese belt of red, blue and beige leather. She is wearing beige silk stockings and brown glace strap shoes. There is a ladder in her left stocking. She has a necklace of cornelian beads and one of bright royal blue beads and is wearing a brooch with a pearl butterfly on it. She has an imitation scarab ring on the third finger of her right hand. On her head she has a double terai of pink and brown felt." She pauseda pause of quiet competence. Then: "Is there anything further?" she asked coldly.
Poirot spread out his hands in a wide gesture. "You have my entire admiration, Madame. Your observation is of the highest order."
"Details rarely escape me." Lady Westholme rose, made a slight inclination of her head and left the room. As Miss Pierce was following her, gazing down ruefully at her left leg, Poirot said: "A little moment, please, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes?" Miss Pierce looked up, a slightly apprehensive look upon her face.
Poirot leaned forward confidentially. "You see this bunch of wild flowers on the table here?"
"Yes," said Miss Pierce staring.
"And you noticed that, when you first came into the room, I sneezed once or twice?"
"Yes."
"Did you notice if I had just been sniffing those flowers?"
"WellreallynoI couldn't say."
"But you remember my sneezing?"
"Oh, yes, I remember that!"
"Ah, wellno matter. I wondered, you see, if these flowers might induce the hay fever. No matter!"
"Hay fever!" cried Miss Pierce. "I remember a cousin of mine was a martyr to it! She always said that if you sprayed your nose daily with a solution of boracic"
With some difficulty Poirot shelved the cousin's nasal treatment and got rid of Miss Pierce. He shut the door and came back into the room with his eyebrows raised.
"But I did not sneeze," he murmured. "So much for that. No, I did not sneeze."


6
Lennox Boynton came into the room with a quick resolute step. Had he been there, Dr. Gerard would have been surprised at the change in the man. The apathy was gone. His bearing was alertalthough he was plainly nervous. His eyes had a tendency to shift rapidly from point to point about the room.
"Good morning, M. Boynton." Poirot rose and bowed ceremoniously. Lennox responded somewhat awkwardly. "I much appreciate your giving me this interview."
Lennox Boynton said rather uncertainly: "ErColonel Carbury said it would be a good thing. Advised it. Some formalities he said."
"Please sit down, M. Boynton."
Lennox sat down on the chair lately vacated by Lady Westholme.
Poirot went on conversationally: "This has been a great shock to you, I am afraid."
"Yes, of course. Well, no, perhaps not . . . We always knew that my mother's heart was not strong."
"Was it wise, under those circumstances, to allow her to undertake such an arduous expedition?"
Lennox Boynton raised his head. He spoke not without a certain sad dignity. "My mother, M.er, Poirot, made her own decisions. If she had made up her mind to anything it was no good our opposing her." He drew in his breath sharply as he said the last words. His face suddenly grew rather white.
"I know well," admitted Poirot, "that elderly ladies are sometimes headstrong."
Lennox said irritably: "What is the purpose of all this? That is what I want to know. Why have all these formalities arisen?"
"Perhaps you do not realize, M. Boynton, that in cases of sudden and unexplained deaths, formalities must necessarily arise."
Lennox said sharply: "What do you mean by 'unexplained'?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "There is always the question to be considered: Is a death natural or might it perhaps be suicide?"
"Suicide?" Lennox Boynton stared.
Poirot said lightly: "You, of course, would know best about such possibilities. Colonel Carbury, naturally, is in the dark. It is necessary for him to decide whether to order an inquiryan autopsyall the rest of it. As I was on the spot and as I have much experience of these matters, he suggested that I should make a few inquiries and advise him upon the matter. Naturally, he does not wish to cause you inconvenience if it can be helped."
Lennox Boynton said angrily: "I shall wire to our Consul in Jerusalem."
Poirot said noncommittally: "You are quite within your rights in doing so, of course." There was a pause. Then Poirot said, spreading out his hands: "If you object to answering my questions"
Lennox Boynton said quickly: "Not at all. Onlyit seemsall so unnecessary."
"I comprehend. I comprehend perfectly. But it is all very simple, really. A matter, as they say, of routine. Now, on the afternoon of your mother's death, M. Boynton, I believe you left the camp at Petra and went for a walk?"
"Yes. We all went, with the exception of my mother and my younger sister."
"Your mother was then sitting in the mouth of her cave?"
"Yes, just outside it. She sat there every afternoon."
"Quite so. You startedwhen?"
"Soon after three, I should say."
"You returned from your walkwhen?"
"I really couldn't say what time it wasfour o'clockfive o'clock perhaps."
"About an hour to two hours after you set out?"
"Yesabout that, I should think."
"Did you pass anyone on your way back?"
"Did I what?"
"Pass anyone. Two ladies sitting on a rock, for instance?"
"I don't know. Yes, I think I did."
"You were, perhaps, too absorbed in your thoughts to notice?"
"Yes, I was."
"Did you speak to your mother when you got back to the camp?"
"Yesyes, I did."
"She did not then complain of feeling ill?"
"Nono, she seemed perfectly all right."
"May I ask what passed between you?"
Lennox paused a minute. "She said I had come back soon. I said, yes, I had." He paused again in an effort of concentration. "I said it was hot. Sheshe asked me the timesaid her wristwatch had stopped. I took it from her, wound it up, set it and put it back on her wrist."
Poirot interrupted gently: "And what time was it?"
"Eh?" said Lennox.
"What time was it when you set the hands of the wristwatch?"
"Oh, I see. Itit was twenty-five minutes to five."
"So you do know exactly the time you returned to the camp!" said Poirot gently.
Lennox flushed. "Yes, what a fool I am! I'm sorry, M. Poirot, my wits are all astray, I'm afraid. All this worry"
Poirot chimed in quickly: "Oh! I understandI understand perfectly! It is all of the most disquieting! And what happened next?"
"I asked my mother if she wanted anything. A drinktea, coffee, etc.. She said no. Then I went to the marquee. None of the servants seemed to be about, but I found some soda water and drank it. I was thirsty. I sat there reading some old numbers of the Saturday Evening Post. I think I must have dozed off."
"Your wife joined you in the marquee?"
"Yes, she came in not long after."
"And you did not see your mother again alive?"
"No."
"She did not seem in any way agitated or upset when you were talking to her?"
"No, she was exactly as usual."
"She did not refer to any trouble or annoyance with one of the servants?"
Lennox stared. "No, nothing at all."
"And that is all you can tell me?"
"I am afraid soyes."
"Thank you, M. Boynton." Poirot inclined his head as a sign that the interview was over.
Lennox did not seem very willing to depart. He stood hesitating by the door. "Erthere's nothing else?"
"Nothing. Perhaps you would be so good as to ask your wife to come here?"
Lennox went slowly out. On the pad beside him Poirot wrote "L. B. 4:35 P.M."


7
Poirot looked with interest at the tall dignified young woman who entered the room. He rose and bowed to her politely.
"Mrs. Lennox Boynton? Hercule Poirot, at your service."
Nadine Boynton sat down. Her thoughtful eyes were on Poirot's face.
"I hope you do not mind, Madame, my intruding on your sorrow in this way?"
Her gaze did not waver. She did not reply at once. Her eyes remained steady and grave. At last, she gave a sigh and said: "I think it is best for me to be quite frank with you, M. Poirot."
"I agree with you, Madame."
"You apologized for intruding upon my sorrow. That sorrow, M. Poirot, does not exist and it is idle to pretend that it does. I had no love for my mother-in-law and I cannot honestly say that I regret her death."
"Thank you, Madame, for your plain speaking."
Nadine went on: "Still, although I cannot pretend sorrow, I can admit to another feelingremorse."
"Remorse?" Poirot's eyebrows went up.
"Yes. Because, you see, it was I who brought about her death. For that I blame myself bitterly."
"What is this that you are saying, Madame?"
"I am saying that I was the cause of my mother-in-law's death. I was acting, as I thought, honestlybut the result was unfortunate. To all intents and purposes, I killed her."
Poirot leaned back in his chair. "Will you be so kind as to elucidate this statement, Madame?"
Nadine bent her head. "Yes, that is what I wish to do. My first reaction, naturally, was to keep my private affairs to myself, but I see that the time has come when it would be better to speak out. I have no doubt, M. Poirot, that you have often received confidences of a somewhat intimate nature?"
"That, yes."
"Then I will tell you quite simply what occurred. My married life, M. Poirot, has not been particularly happy. My husband is not entirely to blame for thathis mother's influence over him has been unfortunatebut I have been feeling for some time that my life was becoming intolerable,"
She paused and then went on: "On the afternoon of my mother-in-law's death I came to a decision. I have a frienda very good friend. He has suggested more than once that I should throw in my lot with his. On that afternoon I accepted his proposal."
"You decided to leave your husband?"
"Yes."
"Continue, Madame."
Nadine said in a lower voice: "Having once made my decision I wanted toto establish it as soon as possible. I walked home to the camp by myself. My mother-in-law was sitting alone, there was one about, and I decided to break the news to her right there. I got a chair, sat down by her and told her abruptly what I had decided."
"She was surprised?"
"Yes I am afraid it was a great shock to her. She was both surprised and angryvery angry. Sheshe worked herself into quite a state about it! Presently I refused to discuss the matter any longer. I got up and walked away." Her voice dropped. "II never saw her again alive."
Poirot nodded his head slowly. He said: "I see." Then he said: "You think her death was the result of the shock?"
"It seems to me almost certain. You see, she had already overexerted herself considerably getting to this place. My news, and her anger at it, would do the rest. . . . I feel additionally guilty because I have had a certain amount of training in illness and so I, more than anyone else, ought to have realized the possibility of such a thing happening."
Poirot sat in silence for some minutes, then he said: "What exactly did you do when you left her?"
"I took the chair I had brought out back into my cave, then I went down to the marquee. My husband was there."
Poirot watched her closely as he said: "Did you tell him of your decision? Or had you already told him?"
There was a pause, an infinitesimal pause, before Nadine said: "I told him then."
"How did he take it?"
She answered quietly: "He was very upset."
"Did he urge you to reconsider your decision?"
She shook her head. "Hehe didn't say very much. You see, we had both known for some time that something like this might happen."
Poirot said: "You will pardon me, but the other man was, of course, M. Jefferson Cope?"
She bent her head. "Yes."
There was a long pause, then, without any change of voice, Poirot asked: "Do you own a hypodermic syringe, Madame?"
"Yesno."
His eyebrows rose.
She explained. "I have an old hypodermic amongst other things in a traveling medicine chest, but it is in our big luggage which we left in Jerusalem."
"I see."
There was a pause, then she said with a shiver of uneasiness: "Why did you ask me that, M. Poirot?"
He did not answer the question. Instead he put one of his own. "Mrs. Boynton was, I believe, taking a mixture containing digitalis?"
"Yes."
He thought that she was definitely watchful now. "That was for her heart trouble?"
"Yes."
"Digitalis is, to some extent, a cumulative drug?"
"I believe it is. I do not know very much about it."
"Mrs. Boynton had taken a big overdose of digitalis"
She interrupted him quickly but with decision. "She did not. She was always most careful. So was I, if I measured the dose for her."
"There might have been an overdose in this particular bottle. A mistake of the chemist who made it up?"
"I think that is very unlikely," she replied quietly.
"Ah well, the analysis will soon tell us."
Nadine said: "Unfortunately the bottle was broken."
Poirot eyed her with sudden interest. "Indeed! Who broke it?"
"I'm not quite sure. One of the servants, I think. In carrying my mother-in-law's body into her cave, there was a good deal of confusion and the light was very poor. A table got knocked over."
Poirot eyed her steadily for a minute or two. "That," he said, "is very interesting."
Nadine Boynton shifted wearily in her chair. "You are suggesting, I think, that my mother-in-law did not die of shock, but of an overdose of digitalis?" she said and went on: "That seems to me most improbable."
Poirot leaned forward. "Even when I tell you that Dr. Gerard, the French physician who was staying in the camp, had missed an appreciable quantity of a preparation of digitoxin from his medicine chest?"
Her face grew very pale. He saw the clutch of her other hand on the table. Her eyes dropped. She sat very still. She was like a Madonna carved in stone.
"Well, Madame," said Poirot at last. "What have you say to that?"
The seconds ticked on but she did not speak. It was quite two minutes before she raised her head, and he started a little when he saw the look in her eyes.
"M. Poirot, I did not kill my mother-in-law. That you know! She was alive and well when I left her. There are many people who can testify to that! Therefore, being innocent of the crime, I can venture to appeal to you. Why must you mix yourself up in this business? If I swear to you on my honor that justice and only justice has been done. Will you not abandon this inquiry? There has been so much sufferingyou do not know. Now that at last there is peace and the possibility of happiness, must you destroy it all?"
Poirot sat up very straight. His eyes shone with a green light. "Let me be clear, Madame. What are you asking me to do?"
"I am telling you that my mother-in-law died a natural death and I am asking you to accept that statement."
"Let us be definite. You believe that your mother-in-law was deliberately killed, and you are asking me to condonemurder!"
"I am asking you to have pity!"
"Yeson someone who had no pity!"
"You don't understandit was not like that."
"Did you commit the crime yourself, Madame, that you know so well?"
Nadine shook her head. She showed no signs of guilt. "No," she said quietly. "She was alive when I left her."
"Then what happened? You knowor you suspect"
Nadine said passionately: "I have heard, M. Poirot, that once, in that affair of the Orient Express, you accepted an official verdict of what had happened?"
Poirot looked at her curiously. "I wonder who told you that."
"Is it true?"
He said slowly: "That case wasdifferent."
"No. No, it was not different! The man who was killed was evil," her voice dropped, "as she was. . . ."
Poirot said: "The moral character of the victim has nothing to do with it! A human being who has exercised the right of private judgment and taken the life of another human being is not safe to exist amongst the community. I tell you that! I, Hercule Poirot!"
"How hard you are!"
"Madame, in some ways I am adamant. I will not condone murder! That is the final word of Hercule Poirot."
She got up. Her dark eyes flashed with sudden fire. "Then go on! Bring ruin and misery into the lives of innocent people! I have nothing more to say."
"But II think, Madame, that you have a lot to say."
"No, nothing more."
"What happened, Madame, after you left your mother-in-law? Whilst you and your husband were in the marquee together?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "How should I know?"
"You do knowor you suspect."
She looked him straight in the eyes. "I know nothing, M. Poirot." Turning, she left the room.


8
After noting on his pad "N. B. 4:40," Poirot opened the door and called to the orderly whom Colonel Carbury had left at his disposal, an intelligent man with a good knowledge of English. He asked him to fetch Miss Carol Boynton.
Poirot looked with some interest at the girl as she entered: at the chestnut hair, the poise of the head on the long neck, the nervous energy of the beautifully shaped hands.
He said: "Sit down Mademoiselle."
She sat down obediently. Her face was colorless and expressionless.
Poirot began with a mechanical expression of sympathy to which the girl acquiesced without any change of expression.
"And now, Mademoiselle, will you recount to me how you spent the afternoon of the day in question?"
Her answer came promptly, raising the suspicion that it had already been well rehearsed.
"After luncheon we all went for a stroll. I returned to the camp"
Poirot interrupted. "A little minute. Were you all together until then?"
"No, I was with my brother Raymond and Miss King or most of the time. Then I strolled off on my own."
"Thank you. And you were saying you returned to the camp. Do you know the approximate time?"
"I believe it was just about ten minutes past five."
Poirot put down "C. B. 5:10."
"And what then?"
"My mother was still sitting where she had been when we set out. I went up and spoke to her and then went on to my tent."
"Can you remember exactly what passed between you?"
"I just said it was very hot and that I was going to lie down. My mother said she would remain where she was. That was all."
"Did anything in her appearance strike you as out of the ordinary?"
"No. At leastthat is" She paused doubtfully, staring at Poirot.
"It is not from me that you can get the answer, Mademoiselle," said Poirot quietly.
She flushed and looked away. "I was just considering. I hardly noticed at the time, but now, looking back"
"Yes?"
Carol said slowly: "It is trueshe was a funny colorher face was very redmore so than usual."
"She might, perhaps, have had a shock of some kind." Poirot suggested.
"A shock?" She stared at him.
"Yes, she might have had, let us say, some trouble with one of the Arab servants."
"Oh!" Her face cleared. "Yesshe might."
"She did not mention such a thing having happened?"
"No, no, nothing at all."
Poirot went on: "And what did you do next Mademoiselle?"
"I went to my tent and lay down for about half an hour. Then I went down to the marquee. My brother and his wife were there reading."
"And what did you do?"
"Oh! I had some sewing to do. And then I picked up a magazine."
"Did you speak to your mother again on your way to the marquee?"
"No, I went straight down. I don't think I even glanced in her direction."
"And then?"
"I remained in the marquee untiluntil Miss King told us she was dead."
"And that is all you know, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes."
Poirot leaned forward. His tone was the same, light and conversational. "And what did you feel, Mademoiselle?"
"What did I feel?"
"Yes, when you found that your motherpardonyour stepmother was she not?what did you feel when you learned she was dead?"
She stared at him. "I don't understand what you mean!"
"I think you understand very well."
Her eyes dropped. She said, uncertainly: "It wasa great shock."
"Was it?"
The blood rushed to her face. She stared at him helplessly.
Now he saw fear in her eyes. "Was it such a great shock, Mademoiselle? Remembering a certain conversation you had with your brother Raymond one night in Jerusalem?"
His shot proved right. He saw it in the way the color drained out of her cheeks again. "You know about that?" she whispered.
"Yes, I know."
"But howhow?"
"Part of your conversation was overheard."
"Oh!" Carol Boynton buried her face in her hands. Her sobs shook the table. Hercule Poirot waited a minute, then he said quietly: "You were planning together to bring about your stepmother's death."
Carol sobbed out brokenly: "We were madmadthat evening!"
"Perhaps."
"It's impossible for you to understand the state we were in!" She sat up, pushing back the hair from her face. "It would sound fantastic. It wasn't so bad in Americabut traveling brought it home to us so."
"Brought what home to you?" His voice was kind now, sympathetic.
"Our being different fromother people! Wewe got desperate about it. And there was Jinny."
"Jinny?"
"My sister. You haven't seen her. She was goingwellqueer. And Mother was making her worse. She didn't seem to realize. We were afraid, Ray and I, that Jinny was going quite mad! And we saw [unreadable]
Poirot nodded his head slowly. "Yes, it has seemed so, I know, to many. That is, by history."
"That's how Ray and I felt that night. . . ." She put her hand on the table. "But we didn't really do it. Of course we didn't do it! When daylight came the thing seemed absurd, melodramatic. Oh, yes, and wicked too! Indeed, indeed, M. Poirot, Mother died naturally of heart failure. Ray and I had nothing to do with it."
Poirot said quietly: "Will you swear to me, Mademoiselle, as your salvation after death, that Mrs. Boynton did not die as a result of any action of yours?"
She lifted her head. Her voice came steadily "I swear," said Carol, "as I hope for salvation I never harmed her. . . ."
Poirot leaned back in his chair. "No," he said, "that is that."
There was silence. Poirot thoughtfully caressed his moustache. Then he said: "What exactly was your plan?"
"Plan?"
"Yes, you and your brother must have had a plan."
In his mind he ticked off the seconds before her answer came. One, two, three.
"We had no plan," said Carol at last. "We never got as far as that."
Hercule Poirot got up.
"That is all, Mademoiselle. Will you be so good as to send your brother to me."
Carol rose. She stood undecidedly for a minute. "M. Poirot, you doyou do believe me?"
"Have I said," asked Poirot, "that I do not?"
"No, but" She stopped.
He said: "You will ask your brother to come here?"
"Yes."
She went slowly towards the door. She stopped as she got to it, turning around passionately. "I have told you the truthI have!"
Hercule Poirot did not answer and Carol Boynton went slowly out of the room.


9
Poirot noted the likeness between brother and sister as Raymond Boynton came into the room.
His face was stern and set. He did not seem nervous or afraid. He dropped into a chair, stared hard at Poirot and said: "Well?"
Poirot said gently: "Your sister has spoken with you?"
Raymond nodded. "Yes, when she told me to come here. Of course I realize that your suspicions are quite justified. If our conversation was overheard that night, the fact that my stepmother died rather suddenly certainly would seem suspicious! I can only assure you that that conversation was the madness of an evening! We were, at the time, under an intolerable strain. This fantastic plan of killing my stepmother didoh, how shall I put it?it let off steam somehow!"
Hercule Poirot bent his head slowly. "That," he said, "is possible."
"In the morning, of course, it all seemed rather absurd! I swear to you, M. Poirot, that I never thought of the matter again!"
Poirot did not answer.
Raymond said quickly: "Well, yes, I know that that is easy enough to say. I cannot expect you to believe me on my bare word. But consider the facts. I spoke to my mother just a little before six o'clock. She was certainly alive and well then. I went to my tent, had a wash and joined the others in the marquee. From that time onwards neither Carol nor I moved from the place. We were in full sight of everyone. You must see, M. Poirot, that my mother's death was natural, a case of heart failure. It couldn't be anything else! There were servants about, a lot of coming and going. Any other idea is absurd."
Poirot said quietly: "Do you know, M. Boynton, that Miss King is of the opinion that when she examined the bodyat six-thirtydeath had occurred at least an hour and a half and probably two hours earlier?"
Raymond stared at him. He looked dumbfounded. "Sarah said that?" he gasped.
Poirot nodded. "What have you to say now?"
"Butit's impossible!"
"That is Miss King's testimony. Now you come and tell me that your mother was alive and well only forty minutes before Miss King examined the body."
Raymond said: "But she was!"
"Be careful, M. Boynton."
"Sarah must be mistaken! There must be some factor she didn't take into account. Refraction off the rocksomething. I can assure you, M. Poirot, that my mother was alive at just before six and that I spoke to her."
Poirot's face showed nothing.
Raymond leaned forward earnestly. "M. Poirot, I know how it must seem to you, but look at it fairly. You are a biased person. You are bound to be by the nature of things. You live in an atmosphere where even sudden death must seem to you a possible murder. Can't you realize that your sense of proportion is to be relied upon? People die every dayespecially those with weak heartsand there is nothing in the least sinister about such deaths."
Poirot sighed. "So you would teach me my business, is that it?"
"No of course not. But I do think that you are prejudicedbecause of that unfortunate conversation. There is nothing really about my mother's death to awaken suspicion except that unlucky hysterical conversation between Carol and myself."
Poirot shook his head. "You are in error," he said. "There is something else. There is the poison taken from Dr. Gerard's medicine chest."
"Poison?" Ray stared at him. "Poison!" He pushed his chair back a little. He looked completely stupefied. "Is that what you suspect?"
Poirot gave him a minute or two. Then he said quietly, almost indifferently: "Your plan was differenteh?"
"Oh, yes." Raymond answered mechanically. "That's why this changes everything. . . . II can't think clearly."
"What was your plan?"
"Our plan? It was" Raymond stopped abruptly. His eyes became alert, suddenly watchful. "I don't think," he said, "that I'll say any more." He got up.
"As you please," said Poirot.
He watched the young man out of the room. He drew his pad towards him and in small neat characters made a final entry. "R. B. 5:55."
Then, taking a large sheet of paper, he proceeded to write. His task completed, he sat back with his head on one side contemplating the result. It ran as follows:
Boyntons and Jefferson Cope leave the camp 3:05 (approx.)
Dr. Gerard and Sarah King leave the camp 3:15 (approx.)
Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce leave the camp 4:15
Dr. Gerard returns to camp 4:20 (approx.)
Lennox Boynton returns to camp 4:35
Nadine Boynton returns to camp and talks to Mrs. Boynton 4:40
Nadine Boynton leaves her mother-in-law and goes to marquee 4:50 (approx.)
Carol Boynton returns to camp 5:10
Lady Westholme, Miss Pierce and M. Jefferson Cope return to camp 5:40.
Raymond Boynton returns to camp 5:50
Sarah King returns to camp 6:00
Body discovered 6:30


10
"I wonder," said Hercule Poirot. He folded up the list, went to the door and ordered Mahmoud to be brought to him. The stout dragoman was voluble. Words dripped from him in a rising flood.
"Always, always, I am blamed. When anything happens, say always my fault. Always my fault. When Lady Ellen Hunt sprain her ankle coming down from Place of Sacrifice, it my fault, though she would go high-heeled shoes and she sixty at leastperhaps seventy. My life all one misery! Ah! What with miseries and iniquities Jews do to us"
At last Poirot succeeded in stemming the flood and in getting in his question.
"Half-past five o'clock, you say? No, I not think any of servants were about then. You see, lunch it latetwo o'clock. And then to clear it away. After the lunch all afternoon sleep. Yes, Americans, they not take tea. We all settle sleep by half-past three. At five I, who am soul of efficiencyalwaysalways I watch for the comfort of ladies and gentlemen I serving, I come out knowing that time all English ladies want tea. But no one there. They all gone walking. For me, that is very wellbetter than usual. I can go back sleep. At quarter to six trouble beg. Large English ladyvery grand ladycome back and want tea although boys are now laying dinner. She makes quite fusssays water must be boilingI am see myself. Ah, my good gentleman! What a lifewhat life! I do all I canalways I blamedI"
Poirot cut short the recriminations. "There is another small matter. The dead lady was angry with one of the boys. Do you know which one it was and what it was about?"
Mahmoud's hands rose to heaven. "Should I know? But naturally not. Old lady did not complain to me."
"Could you find out?"
"No, my good gentleman, that would be impossible. None of the boys admit it for a moment. Old lady angry, you say? Then naturally boys would not tell. Abdul say it Mohammed, and Mohammed say it Aziz, and Aziz say it Aissa, and so on. They are all very stupid Bedouinunderstand nothing." He took a breath and continued: "Now I, I have advantage of Mission education. I recite to you KeatsShelleyladadoveandasweedovedied"
Poirot flinched. Though English was not his native tongue he knew it well enough to suffer from the strange enunciation of Mahmoud.
"Superb!" he said hastily. "Superb! Definitely I recommend you to all my friends." He contrived to escape from the dragoman's eloquence. Then he took his list to Colonel Carbury, whom he found in his office.
Carbury pushed his tie a little more askew and asked: "Got anything?"
Poirot sat down. "Shall I tell you a theory of mine?"
"If you like," said Colonel Carbury, and sighed. One and another he had heard a good many theories in the course of his existence.
"My theory is that criminology is the easiest science in the world! One has only to let the criminal talksooner or later he will tell you everything."
"I remember you said something of the kind before. Who's been telling you things?"
"Everybody."
Briefly, Poirot retailed the interviews he had had that morning.
"Hm," said Carbury. "Yes, you've got hold of a pointer or two, perhaps. Pity of it is, they all seem to point in opposite directions. Have we got a case, that's what I want to know?"
"No."
Carbury sighed again.
"I was afraid not."
"But before nightfall," said Poirot, "you shall have the truth!"
"Well, that's all you ever promised me," said Colonel Carbury. "And I rather doubted your getting that! Sure of it?"
"I am very sure."
"Must be nice to feel like that," commented the other. If there was a faint twinkle in his eye, Poirot appeared unaware of it. He produced his list.
"Neat," said Colonel Carbury approvingly.
He bent over it. After a minute or two he said: "Know what I think?"
"I should be delighted if you would tell me."
"Young Raymond Boynton's out of it."
"Ah! You think so?"
"Yes. Clear as a bell what he thought. We might have known he'd be out of it. Being, as in detective stories the most likely person. Since you practically overheard him saving he was going to bump off the old ladywe might have known that meant he was innocent!"
"You read the detective stories, yes?"
"Thousands of them," said Colonel Carbury. He added and his tone was that of a wistful schoolboy: "I suppose you couldn't do the things the detective does in books? Write a list of significant factsthings that don't seem to mean anything but are really frightfully importantthat sort of thing?"
"Ah," said Poirot kindly. "You like that kind of detective story? But certainly, I will do it for you with pleasure."
He drew a sheet of paper towards him and wrote quickly and neatly:


SIGNIFICANT POINTS
1. Mrs. Boynton was taking a mixture containing digitalis.
2. Dr. Gerard missed a hypodermic syringe.
3. Mrs. Boynton took definite pleasure in keeping her family from enjoying themselves with other people.
4. Mrs. Boynton, on the afternoon in question, encouraged her family to go away and leave her.
5. Mrs. Boynton was a mental sadist.
6. The distance from the marquee to the place where Mrs. Boynton was sitting is (roughly) two hundred yards. Mr Lennox Boynton said at first he did not know what time he returned to the camp, but later he admitted having set his mother's wristwatch to the right time.
8 Dr. Gerard and Miss Ginevra Boynton occupied tents next door to each other. At half-past six, when dinner was ready, a servant was dispatched to announce the fact to Mrs. Boynton.
The Colonel perused this with great satisfaction. "Capital!" he said. "Just the thing! You've made it difficultand seemingly irrelevantabsolutely the authentic touch! By the way, it seems to me there are one or two rather noticeable omissions. But that, I suppose, is what you tempt the mug with?"
Poirot's eyes twinkled a little but he did not answer.
"Point two, for instance," said Colonel Carbury tentatively. "Dr. Gerard missed a hypodermic syringeyes. He also missed a concentrated solution of digitalisor something of that kind."
"The latter point," said Poirot, "is not important in the way the absence of his hypodermic syringe is important."
"Splendid!" said Colonel Carbury, his face irradiated with smiles. "I don't get it at all. I should have said the digitalis was much more important than the syringe! And what about that servant motif that keeps cropping upa servant being sent to tell her dinner was ready. And that story of her shaking her stick at a servant earlier in the afternoon? You're not going to tell me one of my poor desert mutts bumped her off after all? Because," added Colonel Carburv sternly, "if so, that would be cheating."
Poirot smiled but did not answer. As he left the office, he murmured to himself: "Incredible! The English never grow up!"


11
Sarah King sat on a hilltop absently plucking up wild flowers. Dr. Gerard sat on a rough wall of stones near her. She said, suddenly and fiercely: "Why did you start all this? If it hadn't been for you"
Dr. Gerard said slowly: "You think I should have kept silence?"
"Yes."
"Knowing what I knew?"
"You didn't know," said Sarah.
The Frenchman sighed. "I did know. But I admit one can never be absolutely sure."
"Yes, one can," said Sarah uncompromisingly.
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "You, perhaps!"
Sarah said: "You had fevera high temperatureyou couldn't be clearheaded about the business. The syringe was probably there all the time. And you may have made a mistake about the digitoxin or one of the servants may have meddled with the case."
Gerard said cynically: "You need not worry! The evidence is almost bound to be inconclusive. You will see, your friends the Boyntons will get away with it!"
Sarah said fiercely: "I don't want that, either."
He shook his head. "You are illogical!"
"Wasn't it you"Sarah demanded"in Jerusalem who said a great deal about not interfering? And now look!"
"I have not interfered. I have only told what I know!"
"And I say you don't know it. Oh, dear, there we are back again! I'm arguing in a circle."
Gerard said gently: "I am sorry, Miss King."
Sarah said in a low voice: "You see, after all, they haven't escapedany of them! She's still there! Even from her grave she can still reach out and hold them. There was something terrible about her. She's just as terrible now she's dead! I feelI feel she's enjoying all this!"
She clenched her hands. Then she said in an entirely different tone, a light everyday voice: "That little man's coming up the hill."
Dr. Gerard looked over his shoulder, "Ah! He comes in search of us, I think."
"Is he as much of a fool as he looks?" asked Sarah.
Dr. Gerard said gravely: "He is not a fool at all."
"I was afraid of that," said Sarah King. With somber eyes she watched the uphill progress of Hercule Poirot.
He reached them at last and wiped his forehead. Then he looked sadly down at his patent leather shoes.
"Alas," he said. "This stony country! My poor shoes."
"You can borrow Lady Westholme's shoe-cleaning apparatus," said Sarah unkindly. "And her duster. She travels with a kind of patent housemaid's equipment."
"That will not remove the scratches, Mademoiselle." Poirot shook his head sadly.
"Perhaps not. Why on earth do you wear shoes like that in this sort of country?"
Poirot put his head a little on one side. "I like to have the appearance soigne," he said.
"I should give up trying for that in the desert," said Sarah.
"Women do not look their best in the desert," said Dr. Gerard dreamily. "Miss King here, yesshe always looks neat and well turned out. But that Lady Westholme in her great thick coats and skirts and those terribly unbecoming riding breeches and bootsquelle horreur de femme! And the poor Miss Pierceher clothes so limp, like faded cabbage leaves, and the chains and the beads that clink! Even young Mrs. Boynton, who is a good-looking woman, is not what you call chic! Her clothes are uninteresting."
Sarah said restively: "Well, I don't suppose M. Poirot climbed up here to talk about clothes!"
"True," said Poirot. "I came to consult Dr. Gerardhis opinion should be of value to meand yours too, Mademoiselle. You are young and up to date in your psychology. I want to know, you see, all that you can tell me of Mrs. Boynton."
"Don't you know all that by heart now?" asked Sarah.
"No. I have a feelingmore than a feelinga certainty that the mental equipment of Mrs. Boynton is very important in this case. Such types as hers are no doubt familiar to Dr. Gerard."
"From my point of view she was certainly an interesting study," said the doctor.
"Tell me."
Dr. Gerard was nothing loath. He described his interest in the family group, his conversation with Jefferson Cope, and the latter's complete misreading of the situation.
"He is a sentimentalist, then," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"Oh, essentially! He has idealsbased, really, on a deep instinct of laziness. To take human nature at its best and the world as a pleasant place is undoubtedly the easiest course in life! Jefferson Cope has, consequently, not the least idea what people are really like."
"That might be dangerous sometimes," said Poirot.
Dr. Gerard went on: "He persisted in regarding what I may describe as 'the Boynton situation' as a case of mistaken devotion. Of the underlying hate, rebellion, slavery and misery he had only the faintest notion."
"It is stupid, that," Poirot commented.
"All the same," went on Dr. Gerard, "even the most willfully obtuse of sentimental optimists cannot be quite blind. I think, on the journey to Petra, Mr. Jefferson Cope's eyes were being opened."
And he described the conversation he had had with the American on the morning of Mrs. Boynton's death.
"That is an interesting story, that story of a servant girl, said Poirot thoughtfully. "It throws light on the old woman's methods."
Gerard said: "It was altogether an odd, strange morning, that! You have not been to Petra, M. Poirot? If you go, you must certainly climb to the Place of Sacrifice. It has anhow could I say?an atmosphere!" He described the scene in detail adding: "Mademoiselle here sat like a young judge, speaking of the sacrifice of one to save many. You remember, Miss King?"
Sarah shivered. "Don't! Don't let's talk of that day."
"No, no," said Poirot. "Let us talk of events further back in the past. I am interested, Dr. Gerard, in your sketch of Mrs. Boynton's mentality. What I do not quite understand is this. Having brought her family into absolute subjection, why did she then arrange this trip abroad where surely there was danger of outside contacts and of her authority being weakened?"
Dr. Gerard leaned forward excitedly. "But, mon vieux, that is just it! Old ladies are the same all the world over. They get bored! If their specialty is placing patience, they sicken of the patience they know too well. They want to learn a new patience. And it is just the same with an old lady whose recreation (incredible as it may sound) is the dominating and tormenting of human creatures! Mrs. Boyntonto speak of her as une dompteusehad tamed her tigers. There was perhaps some excitement as they passed through the stage of adolescence. Lennox's marriage to Nadine was an adventure. But then, suddenly, all was stale. Lennox is so sunk in melancholy that it is practically impossible to wound or stress him. Raymond and Carol show no signs of rebellion."
"GinevraAh! La pauvre Ginevrashe, from her mother's point of view, gives the poorest sport of all! Ginevra has found a way of escape! She escapes from reality into fantasy. The more her mother goads her the more easily she gets a secret thrill out of being a persecuted heroine! From Mrs. Boynton's point of view it is all deadly dull. She seeks, like Alexander, new worlds to conquer. And so she plans the voyage abroad. There will be the danger of her tamed beasts rebelling, there will be opportunities for inflicting fresh pain! It sounds absurd does it not, but it was so! She wanted a new thrill."
Poirot took a deep breath. "It is perfect, that. Yes, I see exactly what you mean. It was so. It all fits in. She chose to live dangerously, la Maman Boynton and she paid the penalty!"
Sarah leaned forward, her pale intelligent face very serious.
"You mean," she said, "that she drove her victims too far andand they turned on heroror one of them did?"
Poirot bowed his head.
Sarah said, and her voice was a little breathless: "Which of them?"
Poirot looked at her, at her hands clenched fiercely on the wild flowers, at the pale rigidity of her face.
He did not answerwas indeed saved from answeringfor at that moment Gerard touched his shoulder and said: "Look."
A girl was wandering along the side of the hill. She moved with a strange rhythmic grace that somehow gave the impression that she was not quite real. The gold-red of her hair shone in the sunlight, a strange secretive smile lifted the beautiful corners of her mouth.
Poirot drew in his breath. He said: "How beautiful. . . How strangely, movingly beautiful. That is how Ophelia should be playedlike a young goddess straying from another world, happy because she has escaped out of the bondage of human joys and griefs."
"Yes, yes, you are right," said Gerard. "It is a face to dream of, is it not? I dreamt of it. In my fever I opened my eves and saw that facewith its sweet unearthly smile. . . . It was a good dream. I was sorry to wake. . . ."
Then, with a return to his commonplace manner: "That is Ginevra Boynton," he said.


12
In another minute the girl had reached them. Dr. Gerard performed the introduction.
"Miss Boynton, this is M. Hercule Poirot."
"Oh!" She looked at him uncertainly. Her fingers joined together, twined themselves uneasily in and out. The enchanted nymph had come back from the country of enchantment. She was now just an ordinary, awkward girl, slightly nervous and ill at ease.
Poirot said: "It is a piece of good fortune meeting you here, Mademoiselle. I tried to see you in the hotel."
"Did you?" Her smile was vacant. Her fingers began plucking at the belt of her dress.
He said gently: "Will you walk with me a little way?"
She moved docilely enough, obedient to his whim. Presently she said, rather unexpectedly, in a queer hurried voice: "You areyou are a detective, aren't you?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle,"
"A very well-known detective?"
"The best detective in the world," said Poirot, stating it as a simple truth, no more, no less.
Ginevra Boynton breathed very softly: "You have come here to protect me?"
Poirot stroked his moustache thoughtfully. He said: "Are you then in danger, Mademoiselle?"
"Yes. Yes!" She looked around with a quick suspicious dance. "I told Dr. Gerard about it in Jerusalem. He was very clever. He gave no sign at the time. But he followed me to that terrible place with the red rocks." She shivered. "They meant to kill me there. I have to be continually on my guard."
Poirot nodded gently and indulgently.
Ginevra Boynton said: "He is kindand good. He is in love with me!"
"Yes?"
"Oh, yes. He says my name in his sleep. . . ." Her face softenedagain a kind of trembling, unearthly beauty hovered there. "I saw him lying there turning and tossing and saying my name. . . . I stole away quietly." She paused. "I thought, perhaps, he had sent for you? I have a terrible lot of enemies, you know. They are all around me. Sometimes they are disguised."
"Yes, yes," said Poirot gently. "But you are safe herewith all your family around you."
She drew herself up proudly. "They are not my family! I have nothing to do with them. I cannot tell you who I really amthat is a great secret. It would surprise you if you knew."
He said gently: "Was your mother's death a great shock to you, Mademoiselle?"
Ginevra stamped her foot. "I tell you she wasn't my mother! My enemies paid her to pretend she was and to see I did not escape!"
"Where were you on the afternoon of her death?"
She answered readily: "I was in the tent. . . . It was hot in there, but I didn't dare come out. . . . They might have got me. . . ." She gave a little quiver. "One of them looked into my tent. He was disguised, but I knew him. I pretended to be asleep. The Sheikh had sent him. The Sheikh wanted to kidnap me, of course."
For a few moments Poirot walked in silence, then he said: "They are very pretty, these histories you recount to yourself."
She stopped. She glared at him. "They're true. They're all true." Again she stamped an angry foot.
"Yes," said Poirot, "they are certainly ingenious."
She cried out: "They are truetrue" Then, angrily, she turned from him and ran down the hillside.
Poirot stood looking after her. In a minute or two he heard a voice close behind him. "What did you say to her?"
Poirot turned to where Dr. Gerard, a little out of breath, stood beside him. Sarah was coming towards them both, but she came at a more leisurely pace.
Poirot answered Gerard's question. "I told her," he said, "that she had imagined to herself some pretty stories."
The doctor nodded his head thoughtfully. "And she was angry! That is a good sign. It shows, you see, that she has not yet completely passed through the gate. Still knows that it is not the truth! I shall cure her."
[unreadable]
"Yes. I have discussed the matter with young Mrs. Boynton and her husband. Ginevra will come to Paris and enter one of my clinics. Afterwards she will have her training for the stage."
"The stage?"
"Yes, there is a possibility there for her, of great success. And that is what she needswhat she must have! In many essentials she has the same nature as her mother."
"No!" cried Sarah, revolted.
"It seems impossible to you, but certain fundamental traits are the same. They were both born with a great yearning for importance, they both demand that their personalities shall impress! This poor child has been thwarted and suppressed at every turn, she has been given no outlet for her fierce ambition, for her love of life, for the expressing of her vivid romantic personality." He gave a little laugh. "Nous voullons changer tout pa!"
Then, with a little bow, he murmured: "You will excuse me?" And he hurried down the hill after the girl.
Sarah said: "Dr. Gerard is tremendously keen on his job."
"I perceive his keenness," said Poirot.
Sarah said with a frown: "All the same, I can't bear his comparing her to that horrible old woman although once I felt sorry for Mrs. Boynton myself."
"When was that, Mademoiselle?"
"That time I told you about in Jerusalem. I suddenly felt as though I'd got the whole business wrong. You know that feeling one has sometimes when just for a short time you see everything the other way round? I got all 'het up' about it and went and made a fool of myself!"
"Oh, nonot that!"
Sarah, as always, when she remembered her conversation with Mrs. Boynton, was blushing acutely. "I felt all exalted as though I had a mission! And then later, when Lady W. fixed a fishy eye on me and said she had seen me talking to Mrs. Boynton, I thought she had probably overheard, and I felt the most complete ass."
Poirot said: "What exactly was it that old Mrs. Boynton said to you? Can you remember the exact words?"
"I think so. They made rather an impression on me. 'I never forget.' That's what she said. 'Remember that. I've never forgotten anythingnot an action, not a name, not a face.'" Sarah shivered. "She said it so malevolentlynot even looking at me. I feelI feel as if, even now, I can hear her. . . ."
Poirot said gently: "It impressed you very much?"
"Yes. I'm not easily frightened but sometimes I dream of her saying just these words and I can see her evil, leering, triumphant face. Ugh!" She gave a quick shiver. Then she turned suddenly to him.
"M. Poirot, perhaps I ought not to ask, but have you come to a conclusion about this business? Have you found out anything definite?"
"Yes."
He saw her lips tremble as she asked: "What?"
"I have found out to whom Raymond Boynton spoke that night in Jerusalem. It was to his sister Carol."
"Carolof course!" Then she went on: "Did you tell himdid you ask him" It was no use. She could not go on. Poirot looked at her gravely and compassionately. He said quietly: "It means so much to you, Mademoiselle?"
"It means just everything!" said Sarah. Then she squared her shoulders. "But I've got to know."
Poirot said quietly: "He told me that it was a hysterical outburstno more! That he and his sister were worked up. He told me that in daylight such an idea appeared fantastic to them both."
"I see. . . ."
Poirot said gently: "Miss Sarah, will you not tell me what it is you fear?"
Sarah turned a white despairing face upon him. "That afternoon we were together. And he left me sayingsaying he wanted to do something nowwhile he had the courage. I thought he meant just toto tell her. But supposing he meant . . ." Her voice died away. She stood rigid, fighting for control.


13
NADINE BOYNTON CAME out of the hotel. As she hesitated uncertainly, a waiting figure sprang forward. Mr. Jefferson Cope was immediately at his lady's side "Shall we walk up this way? I think it's the pleasantest."
She acquiesced.
They walked along and Mr. Cope talked. His words came freely, if a trifle monotonously. It is not certain whether he perceived that Nadine was not listening. As they turned aside onto the stony flower-covered hillside she interrupted him.
"Jefferson, I'm sorry. I've got to talk to you." Her face had grown pale.
"Why, certainly, my dear. Anything you like, but don't distress yourself."
She said, "You're cleverer than I thought. You know, don't you, what I'm going to say?"
"It is undoubtedly true," said Mr. Cope, "that circumstances alter cases. I do feel, very profoundly, that in the present circumstances, decisions may have to be reconsidered." He sighed. "You've got to go right ahead, Nadine, and do just what you feel."
She said, with real emotion: "You're so good, Jefferson. So patient! I feel I've treated you very badly. I really have been downright mean to you."
"Now, look here, Nadine, let's get this right. I've always known what my limitations were where you were concerned. I've had the deepest affection and respect for you since I've known you. All I want is your happiness. That's all I've ever wanted. Seeing you unhappy has very nearly driven me crazy. And I may say that I've blamed Lennox. I've felt that he didn't deserve to keep you if he didn't value your happiness a little more than he seemed to do."
Mr. Cope took a breath and went on: "Now I'll admit that after traveling with you to Petra, I felt that perhaps Lennox wasn't quite so much to blame as I thought. He wasn't so much selfish where you were concerned, as too unselfish where his mother was concerned. I don't want to say anything against the dead, but I do think that your mother-in-law was perhaps an unusually difficult woman."
"Yes, I think you may say that," murmured Nadine.
"Anyway," went on Mr. Cope, "you came to me yesterday and told me that you'd definitely decided to leave Lennox. I applauded your decision. It wasn't rightthe life you were leading. You were quite honest with me. You didn't pretend to be more than just mildly fond of me. Well, that was all right with me. All I asked was the chance to look after you and treat you as you should be treated. I may say that afternoon was one of the happiest in my life."
Nadine cried out: "I'm sorryI'm sorry."
"No, my dear, because all along I had a kind of feeling that it wasn't real. I felt it was quite on the cards that you would have changed your mind by the next morning. Well, things are different now. You and Lennox can lead a life of your own."
Nadine said quietly: "Yes. I can't leave Lennox. Please forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive," declared Mr. Cope. "You and I will go back to being old friends. We'll just forget about that afternoon."
Nadine placed a gentle hand on his arm. "Dear Jefferson, thank you. I'm going to find Lennox now."
She turned and left him. Mr. Cope went on alone.
Nadine found Lennox sitting at the top of the Graeco-Roman Theatre. He was in such a brown study that he hardly noticed her till she sank breathless at his side. "Lennox."
"Nadine." He half turned.
She said: "We haven't been able to talk until now. But you know, don't you, that I am not leaving you?"
He said gravely: "Did you ever really mean to, Nadine?"
She nodded. "Yes. You see, it seemed to be the only possible thing left to do. I hopedI hoped that you would come after me. Poor Jefferson, how mean I have been to him."
Lennox gave a sudden curt laugh. "No, you haven't. Anyone who is as unselfish as Cope, ought to be given full scope for his nobility! And you were right, you know, Nadine. When you told me that you were going away with him you gave me the shock of my life. You know, honestly, I think I must have been going queer or something lately. Why the hell didn't I snap my fingers in Mother's face and go off with you when you wanted me to?"
She said gently: "You couldn't, my dear, you couldn't."
Lennox said musingly: "Mother was a damned queer character. . . . I believe she'd got us all half hypnotized."
"She had."
Lennox mused a minute or two longer. Then he said: "When you told me that afternoonit was just like being hit a crack on the head! I walked back half dazed, and then, suddenly I saw what a damned fool I'd been! I realized that there was only one thing to be done if I didn't want to lose you."
He felt her stiffen. His tone became grimmer. "I went and"
"Don't . . ."
He gave her a quick glance. "I went and argued with her." He spoke with a complete change of tonecareful and rather toneless. "I told her that I'd got to choose between her and youand that I chose you."
There was a pause. He repeated, in a tone of curious self-approval: "Yes, that's what I said to her."


14
Poirot met two people on his way home. The first was Mr. Jefferson Cope.
"M. Hercule Poirot? My name's Jefferson Cope."
The two men shook hands ceremoniously. Then, falling into step beside Poirot, Mr. Cope explained: "It's just got around to me that you're making a kind of routine inquiry into the death of my old friend, Mrs. Boynton. That certainly was a shocking business. Of course, mind you, the old lady ought never to have undertaken such a fatiguing journey. But she was headstrong, M. Poirot. Her family could do nothing with her. She was by way of being a household tyranthad had her own way too long, I guess. It certainly is true that what she said went! Yes, sir, that certainly was true."
There was a momentary pause.
"I'd just like to tell you, M. Poirot, that I'm an old friend of the Boynton family. Naturally, they're all a good deal upset over this business, they're a trifle nervous and highly strung too, you know, so if there are any arrangements to be made: necessary formalities, arrangements for the funeral, transport of the body to Jerusalem, why, I'll take as much trouble as I can on their hands. Just call upon me for anything that needs doing."
"I am sure the family will appreciate your offer," said Poirot. He added: "You are, I think, a special friend of young Mrs. Boynton's."
Mr. Jefferson Cope went a little pink. "Well. We won't say much about that, M. Poirot. I hear you had an interview with Mrs. Lennox Boynton this morning and she may have given you a hint how things were between us, but that's all over now. Mrs. Boynton is a very fine woman and she feels that her first duty is to her husband in his sad bereavement."
There was a pause. Poirot received the information by a delicate gesture of the head. Then he murmured: "It is the desire of Colonel Carbury to have a clear statement concerning the afternoon of Mrs. Boynton's death. Can you give me an account of that afternoon?"
"Why, certainly. After our luncheon and a brief rest we set out for a kind of informal tour around. We escaped, I'm glad to say, without that pestilential dragoman. That man's just crazy on the subject of the Jews. I don't think he's quite sane on that point. Anyway, as I was saying, we set out. It was then that I had my interview with Nadine. Afterwards, she wished to be alone with her husband to discuss matters with him. I went off on my own, working gradually back towards the camp. About half way there I met the two English ladies who had been on the morning expedition. One of them's an English peeress, I understand."
Poirot said that such was the case.
"Ah, she's a fine woman, a very powerful intellect and very well informed. The other seemed to me rather a weak sister, and she looked about dead with fatigue. That expedition in the morning was very strenuous for an elderly lady, especially when she doesn't like heights. Well, as I was saying, I met these two ladies and was able to give them some information on the subject of the Nabateans. We went around a bit and got back to the camp about six. Lady Westholme insisted on having tea and I had the pleasure of having a cup with her. The tea was kind of weak but it had an interesting flavor. Then the boys laid the table for supper and sent out for the old lady, only to find that she was sitting there dead in her chair."
"Did you notice her as you walked home?"
"I did just notice she was thereit was her usual seat in the afternoon and evening, but I didn't pay special attention. I was just explaining to Lady Westholme the conditions of our recent slump. I had to keep an eye on Miss Pierce, too. She was so tired she kept turning her ankles."
"Thank you, Mr. Cope. May I be so indiscreet as to ask if Mrs. Boynton is likely to have left a large fortune?"
"A very considerable one. That is to say, strictly speaking, it was not hers to leave. She had a life interest in it and at her death it is divided among the late Elmer Boynton's children. Yes, they will all be very comfortably off now."
"Money," murmured Poirot, "makes a lot of difference. How many crimes have been committed for it!"
Mr. Cope looked a little startled. "Why, that's so, I suppose," he admitted.
Poirot smiled sweetly and murmured: "But there are so many motives for murder, are there not? Thank you, Mr. Cope, for your kind cooperation."
"You're welcome, I'm sure," said Mr. Cope. "Do I see Miss King sitting up there? I think I'll go and have a word with her."
Poirot continued to descend the hill. He met Miss Pierce fluttering up it. She greeted him breathlessly.
"Oh M. Poirot, I'm so glad to meet you. I've been talking to that very odd Boynton girlthe youngest one, you know. She has been saying the strangest thingsabout enemies and some Sheikh who wanted to kidnap her and how she has spies all around her. Really, it sounded most romantic! Lady Westholme says it is all nonsense and that she once had a redheaded kitchen maid who told lies just like that, but I think sometimes that Lady Westholme is rather hard. And after all, it might be true, mightn't it, M. Poirot? I read some years ago that one of the Czar's daughters was not killed in the Revolution in Russia but escaped secretly to America. The Grand Duchess Tatiana, I think it was. If so, this might be her daughter, mightn't it? She did hint at something Royal. And she has a look, don't you think? Rather Slavic, those cheekbones. How thrilling it would be!"
Miss Pierce looked wistful and excited. Poirot said, somewhat sententiously: "It is true that there are many strange things in life."
"I didn't really take in this morning who you are," said Miss Pierce, clasping her hands. "Of course you are that very famous detective! I read all about the A.B.C. case. It was so thrilling. I had actually a post as governess near Doncaster at the time."
Poirot murmured something. Miss Pierce went on with growing agitation: "That is why I felt that perhaps I had been wrong this morning. One must always tell everything, must one, of even the smallest detail, however unrelated it may seem. Because, of course, if you are mixed up in this, poor Mrs. Boynton must have been murdered! I see that now. I suppose Mr. Mah MoodI cannot remember his namebut the dragoman, I meanI suppose he could not be a Bolshevik agent? Or even, perhaps, Miss King's? I believe many quite well brought up young girls of good family belong to these dreadful Communists! That's why I wondered if I ought to tell youbecause, you see, it was rather peculiar when one comes to think of it."
"Precisely," said Poirot. "And therefore you will tell me all about it."
"Well, it's not really anything very much. It's only that on the next morning after Mrs. Boynton's death I was up rather early and I looked out of my tent to see the effect of the sunrise, you know. Only of course it wasn't actually sunrise because the sun must have risen quite an hour before. But it was early"
"Yes, yes. And you saw?"
"That's the curious thingat least at the time it didn't seem much. It was only that I saw that Boynton girl come out of her tent and fling something right out into the stream. Nothing in that, of course, but it glittered in the sunlight! As it went through the air. It glittered, you know."
"Which Boynton girl was it?"
"I think it was the one they call Carola very nice-looking girlso like her brother. Really they might be twins. Or, of course, it might have been the youngest one. The sun was in my eyes so I couldn't quite see. But I don't think the hair was redjust bronze. I'm so fond or that coppery bronze hair! Red hair always says carrots to me!" She tittered.
"And she threw away a brightly glittering object?" said Poirot.
"Yes. And, of course, as I said, I didn't think much of it at the time. But later I had walked along the stream and Miss King was there. And there amongst a lot of other very unsuitable thingseven a tin or twoI 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 insidethe 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 youthat'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 itonly 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. . . ."
He nodded his head. "Mais oui," he said. "It is all clear now!"


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 tragedythere, too, the decor 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 honor to present to you what you asked me forthe 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 Carburv 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 and look on it that way," said the Colonel.
Poirot glanced at his watch, a large grotesque turnip of a watch.
"Family heirloom?" inquired Carbury interestedly.
"But, yes, indeed, it belonged to my grandfather."
"Thought it might have done."
"It is time to commence our proceedings," said Poirot. "You, mon Colonel, will sit here behind this table in an official position."
"Oh, all right," Carbury grunted. "You don't want me to put my uniform on, do you?"
"No, no. If you would permit that I straightened your tie."
He suited the action to the word. Colonel Carbury grinned again, sat down in the chair indicated and a moment later, unconsciously, tweaked his tie around under his left ear again.
"Here," continued Poirot, slightly altering the position of the chairs, "we place la famille Boynton. And over here," he went on, "we will place the three outsiders who have a definite stake in the case. Dr. Gerard, on whose evidence the case for the prosecution depends. Miss Sarah King, who has two separate interests in the case, a personal one and that of medical examiner. Also M. Jefferson Cope, who was on intimate terms with the Boyntons and so may be definitely described as an interested party."
He broke off. "Ahahere they come."
He opened the door to admit the party.
Lennox Boynton and his wife came in first. Raymond and Carol followed. Ginevra walked by herself, a faint faraway smile on her lips. Dr. Gerard and Sarah King brought up the rear. Mr. Jefferson Cope was a few minutes late and came in with an apology.
When he had taken his place, Poirot stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "this is an entirely informal gathering. It has come about through the accident of my presence in Amman. Colonel Carbury did me the honor to consult me"
Poirot was interrupted. The interruption came from what was seemingly the most unlikely quarter. Lennox Boynton said suddenly and pugnaciously: "Why? Why the devil should he bring you into this business?"
Poirot waved a hand gracefully. "Me, I am often called in cases of sudden death."
Lennox Boynton said: "Doctors send for you whenever there is a case of heart failure?"
Poirot said gently: "Heart failure is such a very loose and unscientific term."
Colonel Carbury cleared his throat. It was an official noise. He spoke in an official tone: "Best to make it quite clear. Circumstances of death reported to me. Very natural occurrence. Weather unusually hot. Journey a very trying one for an elderly lady in bad health. So far all quite clear. But Dr. Gerard came to me and volunteered a statement" He looked inquiringly at Poirot. Poirot nodded.
"Dr. Gerard is a very eminent physician with a worldwide reputation. Any statement he makes is bound to be received with attention. Dr. Gerard's statement was as follows: On the morning after Mrs. Boynton's death, he noticed that a certain quantity of a powerful drug acting on the heart was missing from his medical supplies. On the previous afternoon he had noted the disappearance of a hypodermic syringe. Syringe was returned during the night. Final pointthere was a puncture on the dead woman's wrist corresponding to the mark of a hypodermic syringe."
Colonel Carbury paused. "In these circumstances I considered that it was the duty of those in authority to inquire into the matter. M. Hercule Poirot was my guest and very considerately offered his highly specialized services. I gave him full authority to make any investigations he pleased. We are assembled here now to hear his report on the matter."
There was silence. A silence so acute that you could have heardas the saying isa pin drop. Actually, somebody in the next room did drop what was probably a shoe. It sounded like a bomb in the hushed atmosphere.
Poirot cast a quick glance at the little group of three people on his right, then turned his gaze to the five people huddled together on his lefta group of people with frightened eyes.
Poirot said quietly: "When Colonel Carbury mentioned this business to me, I gave him my opinion as an expert. I told him that it might not be possible to bring proofsuch proof as would be admissible in a court of lawbut I told him very definitely that I was sure I could arrive at the truth simply by questioning the people concerned. For let me tell you this, my friends, to investigate a crime it is only necessary to let the guilty party or parties talk. Always, in the end, they tell you what you want to know!"
He paused. "So, in this case, although you have lied to me, you have also, unwittingly, told me the truth."
He heard a faint sigh, the scrape of a chair on the floor to his right, but he did not look around. He continued to look at the Boyntons.
"First, I examined the possibility of Mrs. Boynton's having died a natural deathand I decided against it. The missing drug, the hypodermic syringe, and above all, the attitude of the dead lady's family all convinced me that that supposition could not be entertained. Not only was Mrs. Boynton killed in cold bloodbut every member of her family was aware of the fact! Collectively they reacted as guilty parties."
"But there are degrees in guilt. I examined the evidence carefully with a view to ascertaining whether the murderyes, it was murder!had been committed by the old lady's family acting on a concerted plan. There was, I may say, overwhelming motive. One and all stood to gain by her deathboth in the financial sensefor they would at once attain financial independence and indeed enjoy very considerable wealthand also in the sense of being freed from what had become an almost insupportable tyranny."
"To continue: I decided, almost immediately, that the concerted theory would not hold water. The stories of the Boynton family did not dovetail neatly into each other and no system of workable alibis had been arranged. The facts seemed more to suggest that oneor possibly two members of the family had acted in collusion and that the others were accessories after the fact."
"I next considered which particular member or members were indicated. Here, I may say, I was inclined to be biased by a certain piece of evidence known only to myself."
Here Poirot recounted his experience in Jerusalem.
"Naturally, that pointed very strongly to M. Raymond Boynton as the prime mover in the affair. Studying the family I came to the conclusion that the most likely recipient of his confidences that night would be his sister Carol. They strongly resembled each other in appearance and temperament, and so would have a keen bond of sympathy and they also possessed the nervous rebellious temperament necessary for the conception of such an act. That their motives were partly unselfishto free the whole family and particularly their younger sisteronly made the planning of the deed more plausible."
Poirot paused a minute.
Raymond Boynton half opened his lips, then shut them again. His eyes looked steadily at Poirot with a kind of dumb agony in them.
"Before I go into the case against Raymond Boynton, I would like to read to you a list of significant points which I drew up and submitted to Colonel Carbury this afternoon:


SIGNIFICANT POINTS
1. Mrs. Boynton was taking a mixture containing digitalis.
2. Dr. Gerard missed a hypodermic syringe.
3. Mrs. Boynton took definite pleasure in keeping her family from enjoying themselves with other people.
4. Mrs. Boynton, on the afternoon in question, encouraged her family to go away and leave her.
5. Mrs. Boynton was a mental sadist.
6. The distance from the marquee to the place where Mrs. Boynton was sitting is (roughly) two hundred yards.
7. M. Lennox Boynton said at first he did not know what time he returned to the camp, but later he admitted having set his mother's wristwatch to the right time.
8. Dr. Gerard and Miss Ginevra Boynton occupied tents next door to each other.
9. At half-past six, when dinner was ready, a servant was dispatched to announce the fact to Mrs. Boynton.
10. Mrs. Boynton, in Jerusalem, used these words: 'I never forget. Remember that. I've never forgotten anything.'
Although I have numbered the points separately, occasionally they can be bracketed in pairs. That is the case, for instance, with the first two. Mrs. Boynton was taking a mixture containing digitalis. Dr. Gerard had missed a hypodermic syringe. Those two points were the first thing that struck me about the case, and I may say to you that I found them most extraordinaryand quite irreconcilable. You do not see what I mean? No matter. I will return to the point presently. Let it suffice that I noted those two points as something that had definitely got to be explained satisfactorily."
"I will conclude now with my study of the possibility of Raymond Boynton's guilt. The following are the facts: He had been heard to discuss the possibility of taking Mrs. Boynton's life. He was in a condition of great nervous excitement. He hadMademoiselle will forgive me"he bowed apologetically to Sarah"just passed through a moment of great emotional crisis. That is, he had fallen in love. The exaltation of his feelings might lead him to act in one of several ways. He might feel mellowed and softened towards the world in general, including his stepmother, he might feel the courage at last to defy her and shake off her influence or he might find just the additional spur to turn his crime from theory to practice. That is the psychology! Let us now examine the facts."
"Raymond Boynton left the camp with the others about three-fifteen. Mrs. Boynton was then alive and well. Before long Raymond and Sarah King had a tête-à-tête interview. Then he left her. According to him, he returned to the camp at ten minutes to six. He went up to his mother, exchanged a few words with her, then went to his tent and afterwards down to the marquee. He says that at ten minutes to six Mrs. Boynton was alive and well."
"But we now come to a fact which directly contradicts that statement. At half-past six Mrs. Boynton's death was discovered by a servant. Miss King, who holds a medical degree, examined her body and she swears definitely that at that time, though she did not pay any special attention to the time when death had occurred, it had most certainly and decisively taken place at least an hour (and probably a good deal more) before six o'clock."
"We have here, you see, two conflicting statements. Setting aside the possibility that Miss King may have made a mistake"
Sarah interrupted him. "I don't make mistakes. That is, if I had, I would admit to it." Her tone was hard and clear.
Poirot bowed to her politely.
"Then there are only two possibilitieseither Miss King or M. Boynton is lying! Let us examine Raymond Boynton's reasons for so doing. Let us assume that Miss King was not mistaken and not deliberately lying. What then was the sequence of events? Raymond Boynton returns to the camp, sees his mother sitting at the mouth of her cave, goes up to her and finds she is dead. What does he do? Does he call for help? Does he immediately inform the camp of what has happened? No, he waits a minute or two, then passes on to his tent and joins his family in the marquee and says nothing. Such conduct is exceedingly curious, is it not?"
Raymond said, in a nervous sharp voice: "It would be idiotic, of course. That ought to show you that my mother was alive and well, as I've said. Miss King was flustered and upset and made a mistake."
"One asks oneself," said Poirot, calmly sweeping on, whether there could possibly be a reason for such conduct? It seems, on the face of it, that Raymond Boynton cannot be guilty, since at the only time he was known to approach his stepmother that afternoon, she had already been dead for some time. Now, supposing, therefore, that Raymond Boynton is innocent, can we explain his conduct?"
"And I say, that on the assumption that he is innocent we can! For I remember that fragment of conversation I overheard. 'You do see, don't you, that she's got to be killed?' He comes back from his walk and finds her dead and at once his guilty memory envisages a certain possibility. The plan has been carried out, not by him, but by his fellow planner. Tout simplement he suspects that his sister, Carol Boynton, is guilty."
"It's a lie," said Raymond in a low, trembling voice.
Poirot went on: "Let us now take the possibility of Carol Boynton being the murderess. What is the evidence against her? She has the same highly-strung temperamentthe kind of temperament that might see such a deed colored with heroism. It was she to whom Raymond Boynton was talking that night in Jerusalem. Carol Boynton returned to the camp at ten minutes past five. According to her own story, she went up and spoke to her mother. No one saw her do so. The camp was desertedthe boys were asleep. Lady Westholme, Miss Pierce and M. Cope were exploring caves out of sight of the camp. There was no witness to Carol Boynton's possible action. The time would agree well enough. The case, then, against Carol Boynton, is a perfectly possible one."
He paused. Carol had raised her head. Her eyes looked steadily and sorrowfully into his.
"There is one other point. The following morning, very early, Carol Boynton was seen to throw something into the stream. There is reason to believe that that 'something' was a hypodermic syringe."
"Comment?" Dr. Gerard looked up surprised. "But my hypodermic was returned. Yes, yes, I have it now."
Poirot nodded vigorously.
"Yes, yes. This second hypodermic, it is very curiousvery interesting. I have been given to understand that this hypodermic belonged to Miss King. Is that so?"
Sarah paused for a fraction of a second.
Carol spoke quickly: "It was not Miss King's syringe," she said. "It was mine."
"Then you admit throwing it away, Mademoiselle?"
She hesitated just a second. "Yes, of course. Why shouldn't I?"
"Carol!" It was Nadine. She leaned forward, her eyes wide and distressed. "Carol. . . Oh, I don't understand. . . ."
Carol turned and looked at her. There was something hostile in her glance. "There's nothing to understand! I threw away an old hypodermic. I never touched thethe poison."
Sarah's voice broke in. "It is quite true what Miss Pierce told you, M. Poirot. It was my syringe."
Poirot smiled.
"It is very confusing, this affair of the hypodermicand yet, I think, it could be explained. Ah, well, we have now two cases made outthe case for the innocence of Raymond Boyntonthe case for the guilt of his sister Carol. But me, I am scrupulously fair. I look always on both sides. Let us examine what occurred if Carol Boynton was innocent."
"She returns to the camp, she goes up to her stepmother, and she finds hershall we saydead! What is the first thing she will think? She will suspect that her brother Raymond may have killed her. She does not know what to do. So she says nothing. And presently, about an hour later, Raymond Boynton returns and, having presumably spoken to his mother, says nothing of anything being amiss. Do you not think that then her suspicions would become certainties? Perhaps she goes to his tent and finds there a hypodermic syringe. Then, indeed she is sure! She takes it quickly and hides it. Early in the morning she flings it as far away as she can."
"There is one more indication that Carol Boynton is innocent. She assures me, when I question her, that she and her brother never seriously intended to carry out their plan. I ask her to swearand she swears immediately and with the utmost solemnity that she is not guilty of the crime! You see, that is the way she puts it. She does not swear that they are not guilty. She swears for herself, not her brotherand thinks that I will not pay special attention to the pronoun."
"Eh bien, that is the case for the innocence of Carol Boynton. And now let us go back a step and consider not the innocence but the possible guilt of Raymond. Let us suppose that Carol is speaking the truth, that Mrs. Boynton was alive at five-ten. Under what circumstances can Raymond be guilty? We can suppose that he killed his mother at ten minutes to six when he went up to speak to her. There were boys about the camp, true, but the light was failing. It might have been managed but it then follows that Miss King lied. Remember, she came back to the camp only five minutes after Raymond. From the distance she would see him go up to his mother. Then, when later she is found dead, Miss King realizes that Raymond has killed her. To save him, she liesknowing that Dr. Gerard is down with fever and cannot expose her lie!"
"I did not lie!" said Sarah clearly.
"There is yet another possibility. Miss King, as I have said, reached the camp a few minutes after Raymond. If Raymond Boynton found his mother alive, it may have been Miss King who administered the fatal injection. She believed that Mrs. Boynton was fundamentally evil. She may have seen herself as a just executioner. That would equally well explain her lying about the time of death."
Sarah had grown very pale. She spoke in a low steady voice: "It is true that I spoke of the expediency of one person dying to save many. It was the Place of Sacrifice that suggested the idea to me. But I can swear to you that I never harmed that disgusting old womannor would the idea of doing so ever have entered my head!"
"And yet," said Poirot softly, "one of you two must be lying."
Raymond Boynton shifted in his chair. He cried out impetuously: "You win, M. Poirot! I'm the liar. Mother was dead when I went up to her. Itit quite knocked me out. You see, I'd been going to have it out with her. To tell her that from henceforth I was a free agent. I was all set, you understand. And there she wasdead! Her hand all cold and flabby. And I thoughtjust what you said. I thought maybe Carolyou see, there was the mark on her wrist"
Poirot said quickly: "That is the one point on which I am not yet completely informed. What was the method you counted on employing? You had a methodand it was connected with a hypodermic syringe. That much I know. If you want me to believe you, you must tell me the rest."
Raymond said hurriedly: "It was a way I read in a bookan English detective story. You stuck an empty hypodermic syringe into someone and it did the trick. It sounded perfectly scientific. II thought we'd do it that way."
"Ah," said Poirot. "I comprehend. And you purchased a syringe?"
"No. As a matter of fact, we pinched Nadine's."
Poirot shot a quick look at her. "The syringe that is in your baggage in Jerusalem?" he murmured.
A faint color showed in the young woman's face. "II wasn't sure what had become of it," she said,
Poirot murmured: "You are so quick-witted, Madame."


16
There was a pause. Then, clearing his throat with a slightly affected sound, Poirot went on: "We have now solved the mystery of what I might term the second hypodermic. That belonged to Mrs. Lennox Boynton, was taken by Raymond Boynton before leaving Jerusalem, was taken from Raymond by Carol after the discovery' of Mrs. Boynton's dead body, was thrown away by her, found by Miss Pierce, and claimed by Miss King as hers. I presume Miss King has it now."
"I have," said Sarah.
"So that when you said it was yours just now, you were doing what you told us you do not doyou told a lie."
Sarah said calmly: "That's a different kind of lie. It isn'tit isn't a professional lie."
Gerard nodded appreciation. "Yes, it is a point that. I understand you perfectly Mademoiselle."
"Thanks," said Sarah.
Again Poirot cleared his throat: "Let us now review our time table: Thus:
Boyntons and Jefferson Cope leave the camp 3:05 (approx.)
Dr. Gerard and Sarah King leave the camp 3:15 (approx.)
Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce leave the camp 4:15
Dr. Gerard returns to camp 4:20 (approx.)
Lennox Boynton returns to camp 4:35
Nadine Boynton returns to camp and talks to Mrs. Boynton 4:40 (approx.)
Nadine Boynton leaves her mother-in-law and goes to marquee 4:50 (approx.)
Carol Boynton returns to camp 5:10
Lady Westholme, Miss Pierce and M. Jefferson Cope return to camp 5:40
Raymond Boynton returns to camp 5:50
Sarah King returns to camp 6:00
Body discovered 6:30
"There is, you will notice, a gap of twenty minutes between four-fifty, when Nadine Boynton left her mother-in-law, and five-ten when Carol returned. Therefore, if Carol is speaking the truth, Mrs. Boynton must have been killed in that twenty minutes."
"Now who could have killed her? At that time Miss King and Raymond Boynton were together. Mr. Cope (not that he had any perceivable motive for killing her) has an alibi. He was with Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce. Lennox Boynton was with his wife in the marquee. Dr. Gerard was groaning with fever in his tent. The camp is deserted, the boys are asleep. It is a suitable moment for a crime! Was there a person who could have committed it?"
His eyes went thoughtfully to Ginevra Boynton.
"There was one person. Ginevra Boynton was in her tent all the afternoon. That is what we have been toldbut actually there is evidence that she was not in her tent all the time: Ginevra Boynton made a very significant remark. She said that Dr. Gerard spoke her name in his fever. And Dr. Gerard has also told us that he dreamt in his fever of Ginevra Boynton's face. But it was not a dream! It was actually her face he saw, standing there by his bed. He thought it an effect of feverbut it was the truth. Ginevra was in Dr. Gerard's tent. Is it not possible that she had come to put back the hypodermic syringe after using it?"
Ginevra Boynton raised her head with its crown of red-gold hair. Her wide beautiful eyes stared at Poirot. They were singularly expressionless. She looked like a vague saint.
"Ah! Me non!" cried Dr. Gerard.
"Is it then so psychologically impossible?" inquired Poirot.
The Frenchman's eyes dropped.
Nadine Boynton said sharply: "It's quite impossible!"
Poirot's eyes came quickly round to her. "Impossible, Madame?"
"Yes." She paused, bit her lip, then went on: "I will not hear of such a disgraceful accusation against my young sister-in-law. Weall of usknow it to be impossible."
Ginevra moved a little on her chair. The lines of her mouth relaxed into a smilethe touching, innocent, half-unconscious smile of a very young girl.
Nadine said again: "Impossible."
Her gentle face had hardened into lines of determination. The eyes that met Poirot's were hard and unflinching.
Poirot leaned forward in what was half a bow. "Madame is very intelligent," he said.
Nadine said quietly: "What do you mean by that, M. Poirot?"
"I mean, Madame, that all along I have realized you have what I believe is called an 'excellent headpiece.'"
"You flatter me."
"I think not. All along you have envisaged the situation calmly and collectedly. You have remained on outwardly good terms with your husband's mother, deeming that the best thing to be done, but inwardly you have judged and condemned her. I think that some time ago you realized that the only chance for your husband's happiness was for him to make an effort to leave homestrike out on his own, no matter how difficult and penurious such a life might be. You were willing to take all risks and you endeavored to influence him to exactly that course of action. But you failed, Madame. Lennox Boynton had no longer the will to freedom. He was ******* to sink into a condition of apathy and melancholy."
"Now, I have no doubt at all, Madame, but that you love your husband. Your decision to leave him was not actuated by a greater love for another man. It was, I think, a desperate venture undertaken as a last hope. A woman in your position could only try three things. She could try appeal. That, as I have said, failed. She could threaten to leave her husband. But it is possible that even that threat would not have moved Lennox Boynton. It would plunge him deeper in misery but it would not cause him to rebel. There was one last desperate throw. You could go away with another man. Jealousy and the instinct of possession are two of the most deeply rooted fundamental instincts in man. You showed your wisdom in trying to reach that deep, underground, savage instinct. If Lennox Boynton would let you go to another man without an effortthen he must indeed be beyond human aid, and you might as well then try to make a new life for yourself elsewhere."
"But let us suppose that even that last desperate remedy failed. Your husband was terribly upset at your decision, but in spite of that he did not, as you had hoped, react as a primitive man might have done, with an uprush of the possessive instinct. Was there anything at all that could save your husband from his own rapidly failing mental condition? Only one thing. If his stepmother were to die, it might not be too late. He might be able to start life anew as a free man, building up in himself independence and manliness once more."
Poirot paused, then repeated gently: "If your mother-in-law were to die . . ."
Nadine's eyes were still fixed on his. In an unmoved gentle voice she said: "You are suggesting that I helped to bring that event about, are you not? But you cannot do so, M. Poirot. After I had broken the news of my impending departure to Mrs. Boynton, I went straight to the marquee and joined Lennox. I did not leave there again until my mother-in-law was found dead. Guilty of her death I may be, in the sense that I gave her a shockthat of course presupposes a natural death. But if, as you say(though so far you have no direct evidence of it and cannot have until an autopsy has taken place)she was deliberately killed, then I had no opportunity of doing so."
Poirot said: "You did not leave the marquee again until your mother-in-law was found dead? That is what you have just said. That, Mrs. Boynton, was one of the points I found curious about this case."
"What do you mean?"
"It is here on my list. Point 9. At half-past six, when dinner was ready, a servant was dispatched to announce the fact to Mrs. Boynton."
Raymond said: "I don't understand."
Carol said: "No more do I."
Poirot looked from one to the other of them. "You do not, eh? 'A servant was sent'. Why a servant? Were you not, all of you, most assiduous in your attendance on the old lady as a general rule? Did not one or another of you always escort her to meals? She was infirm. It was difficult for her to rise from a chair without assistance. Always one or another of you was at her elbow. I suggest then, that on dinner being announced, the natural thing would have been for one or another of her family to go out and help her. But not one of you offered to do so. You all sat there, paralyzed, watching each other, wondering perhaps, why no one went."
Nadine said sharply: "All this is absurd, M. Poirot! We were all tired that evening. We ought to have gone, I admit, buton that eveningwe just didn't!"
"Preciselypreciselyon that particular evening! You, Madame, did perhaps more waiting on her than anyone else. It was one of the duties that you accepted mechanically. But that evening you did not offer to go out to help her in. Why? That is what I asked myselfwhy? And I tell you my answer. Because you knew quite well that she was dead. . . ."
"No, no, do not interrupt me, Madame." He raised an impassioned hand. "You will now listen to meHereule Poirot! There were witnesses to your conversation with your mother-in-law. Witnesses who could see but who could not hear! Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce were a long way off. They saw you apparently having a conversation with your mother-in-law, but what actual evidence is there of what occurred? I will propound to you instead a little theory. You have brains, Madame. If in your quiet, unhurried fashion you have decided onshall we say the elimination of your husband's mother?you will carry it out with intelligence and with due preparation. You have access to Dr. Gerard's tent during his absence on the morning excursion. You are fairly sure that you will find a suitable drug. Your nursing training helps you there. You choose digitoxinthe same kind of drug that the old lady is taking. You also take his hypodermic syringe since, to your annoyance, your own has disappeared. You hope to replace the latter before the doctor notices its absence."
"Before proceeding to carry out your plan, you make one last attempt to stir your husband into action. You tell him of your intention to marry Jefferson Cope. Though your husband is terribly upset, he does not react as you had hoped so you are forced to put your plan of murder into action. You return to the camp, exchanging a pleasant natural word with Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce as you pass. You go up to where your mother-in-law is sitting. You have the syringe with the drug in it ready. It is easy to seize her wrist andproficient as you are with your nurse's trainingforce home the plunger. It is done before your mother-in-law realizes what you are doing. From far down the valley the others only see you talking to her, bending over her. Then, deliberately, you go and fetch a chair and sit there, apparently engaged in an amicable conversation for some minutes. Death must have been almost instantaneous. It is a dead woman to whom you sit talking, but who shall guess that? Then you put away the chair and go down to the marquee where you find your husband reading a book. And you are careful not to leave that marquee! Mrs. Boynton's death, you are sure, will be put down to heart trouble. (It will, indeed, be due to heart trouble.) In only one thing have your plans gone astray. You cannot return the syringe to Dr. Gerard's tent because the doctor is in there shivering with malariaand although you do not know it, he has already missed the syringe. That, Madame, was the flaw in an otherwise perfect crime."
There was silencea moment's dead silencethen Lennox Boynton sprang to his feet.
"No!" he shouted. "That's a damned lie. Nadine did nothing. She couldn't have done anything. My mothermy mother was already dead."
"Ah!" Poirot's eyes came gently around to him. "So, after all, it was you who killed her, M. Boynton?"
Again a moment's pausethen Lennox dropped back into his chair and raised trembling hands to his face.
"Yesthat's rightI killed her."
"You took the digitoxin from Dr. Gerard's tent?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Asasyou saidin the morning."
"And the syringe?"
"The syringe? Yes."
"Why did you kill her?"
"Can you ask?"
"I am asking, M. Boynton!"
"But you know my wife was leaving mewith Cope"
"Yes, but you only learned that in the afternoon!"
Lennox stared at him.
"Of course. When we were out"
"But you took the poison and the syringe in the morningbefore you knew?"
"Why the hell do you badger me with questions?" He paused and passed a shaking hand across his forehead. "What does it matter, anyway?"
"It matters a great deal. I advise you, M. Lennox Boynton, to tell me the truth."
"The truth?" Lennox stared at him.
Nadine suddenly turned abruptly in her chair and gazed into her husband's face.
"That is what I saidthe truth."
"By God, I will," said Lennox suddenly. "But I don't know whether you will believe me." He drew a deep breath. "That afternoon, when I left Nadine, I was absolutely all to pieces. I'd never dreamed she'd go from me to someone else. I wasI was nearly mad! I felt as though I was drunk or recovering from a bad illness."
Poirot nodded. He said: "I noted Lady Westholme's description of your gait when you passed her. That is why I knew your wife was not speaking the truth when she said she told you after you were both back at the camp. Continue, M. Boynton."
"I hardly knew what I was doing. . . . But as I got near, my brain seemed to clear. It flashed over me that I had only myself to blame! I'd been a miserable worm! I ought to have defied my stepmother and cleared out years ago. And it came to me that it mightn't be too late even now. There she was, the old devil, sitting up like an obscene idol against the red cliffs. I went right up to have it out with her. I meant to tell her just what I thought and to announce that I was clearing out. I had a wild idea I might get away at once that eveningclear out with Nadine and get as far as Ma'an anyway that night."
"Oh, Lennoxmy dear" It was a long soft sigh.
He went on: "And then, my Godyou could have struck me down with a touch! She was dead. Sitting theredead. . . . II didn't know what to do. I was dumbdazed. Everything I was going to shout out at her bottled up inside meturning to leadI can't explain. . . . Stonethat's what it felt likebeing turned to stone. I did something mechanically. I picked up her wristwatch (it was lying in her lap) and put it around her wristher horrid, limp, dead wrist. . . ."
He shuddered.
"God! It was awful! Then I stumbled down, went into the marquee. I ought to have called someone, I suppose but I couldn't. I just sat there, turning the pageswaiting. . . ."
He stopped.
"You won't believe thatyou can't. Why didn't I call someone? Tell Nadine? I don't know."
Dr. Gerard cleared his throat. "Your statement is perfectly plausible, M. Boynton," he said. "You were in a bad nervous condition. Two severe shocks administered in rapid succession would be quite enough to put you in the condition you have described It is the Weissenhalter reactionbest exemplified in the case of a bird that has dashed its head against a window. Even after its recovery it refrains instinctively from all actiongiving itself time to readjust the nerve centers. I do not express myself well in English, but what I mean is this: You could not have acted any other way. Any decisive action of any kind would have been quite impossible for you! You passed through a period of mental paralysis."
He turned to Poirot. "I assure you, my friend, that is so!"
"Oh, I do not doubt it," said Poirot. "There was a little fact I had already notedthe fact that M. Boynton had replaced his mother's wristwatch. That was capable of two explanationsit might have been a cover for the actual deed, or it might have been observed and misinterpreted by young Mrs. Boynton. She returned only five minutes after her husband. She must therefore have seen that action. When she got up to her mother-in-law and found her dead, with the mark of a hypodermic syringe on her wrist, she would naturally jump to the conclusion that her husband had committed the deedthat her announcement of her decision to leave him had produced a reaction in him different from that for which she had hoped. Briefly. Nadine Boynton believed that she had inspired her husband to commit murder."
He looked at Nadine. "That is so, Madame?"
She bowed her head. Then she asked: "Did you really suspect me, M. Poirot?"
"I thought you were a possibility, Madame."
She leaned forward. "And now? What really happened, M. Poirot?"


17
"What really happened?" Poirot repeated.
He reached behind him, drew forward a chair and sat down. His manner was now friendlyinformal. "It is a question, is it not? For the digitoxin was taken, the syringe was missing. There was the mark of a hypodermic on Mrs. Boynton's wrist."
"It is true that in a few days' time we shall know definitelythe autopsy will tell uswhether Mrs. Boynton died of an overdose of digitalis or not. But then it may be too late! It would be better to reach the truth tonightwhile the murderer is here under our hand."
Nadine raised her head sharply. "You mean that you still believe that one of us here in this room" Her voice died away.
Poirot was slowly nodding to himself. "The truththat is what I promised Colonel Carbury. And so, having cleared our path we are back again where I was earlier in the day, writing down a list of printed facts and being faced straight away with two glaring inconsistencies."
Colonel Carbury spoke for the first time.
"Suppose, now, we hear what they are?" he suggested.
Poirot said with dignity: "I am about to tell you. We will take once more those first two facts on my list. Mrs. Boynton was taking a mixture of digitalis and Dr. Gerard missed a hypodermic syringe. Take those facts and set them against the undeniable fact with which I was immediately confronted: that the Boynton family showed unmistakably guilty reactions. It would seem therefore certain that one of the Boynton family must have committed the crime! And yet those two facts I mentioned were all against that theory. For, see you, to take a concentrated solution of digitalisthat, yes, it is a clever idea, because Mrs. Boynton was already taking the drug. But what would a member of her family do then? Ah, ma foi! There was only one sensible thing to do. Put the poison into her bottle of medicine! That is what anyoneanyone with a grain of sense and who had access to the medicinewould certainly do!"
"Sooner or later Mrs. Boynton takes a dose and diesand even if the digitoxin is discovered in the bottle it may be set down as a mistake of the chemist who made it up. Certainly nothing can be proved!"
"Why, then, the theft of the hypodermic needle?"
"There can be only two explanations of that. Either Dr. Gerard overlooked the syringe and it was never stolen, or else the syringe was taken because the murderer had not got access to the medicinethat is to say, the murderer was not a member of the Boynton family. The two first facts point overwhelmingly to an outsider as having committed the crime!"
"I saw that but I was puzzled, as I say, by the strong evidences of guilt displayed by the Boynton family. Was it possible that, in spite of that consciousness of guilt, the Bovntons were innocent? I set out to prove, not the guilt, but the innocence of those people!"
"That is where we stand now. The murder was committed by an outsiderthat is, by someone who was not sufficiently intimate with Mrs. Boynton to enter her tent or to handle her medicine bottle."
He paused.
"There are three people in this room who are, technically, outsiders, but who have a definite connection with the case."
"M. Cope whom we will consider first, has been closely associated with the Boynton family for some time. Can we discover motive and opportunity on his part? It seems not. Mrs. Boynton's death has affected him adverselysince it has brought about the frustration of certain hopes. Unless M. Cope's motive was an almost fanatical desire to benefit others, we can find no reason for his desiring Mrs. Boynton's death. Unless, of course, there is a motive about which we are entirely in the dark. We do not know exactly what M. Cope's dealings with the Boynton family have been."
Mr. Cope said, with dignity: "This seems to me a little far-fetched, M. Poirot. You must remember, I had absolutely no opportunity for committing this deed, and in any case. I hold very strong views as to the sanctity of human life."
"Your position certainly seems impeccable," said Poirot with gravity. "In a work of fiction you would be strongly suspected on that account."
He turned a little in his chair. "We now come to Miss King. Miss King had a certain amount of motive and she had the necessary medical knowledge and is a person of character and determination, but since she left the camp before three-thirty with the others and did not return to it until six o'clock, it seems difficult to see where she could have had an opportunity."
"Next we must consider Dr. Gerard. Now, here we must take into account the actual time that the murder was committed. According to M. Lennox Boynton's last statement, his mother was dead at four thirty-five. According to Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce she was alive at four-fifteen, when they started on their walk. That leaves exactly twenty minutes unaccounted for. Now, as these two ladies walked away from the camp Dr. Gerard passed them going to it. There is no one to say what Dr. Gerard's movements were when he reached the camp because the two ladies' backs were towards it. They were walking away from it. Therefore it is perfectly possible for Dr. Gerard to have committed the crime. Being a doctor, he could easily counterfeit the appearance of malaria. There is, I should say, a possible motive. Dr. Gerard might have wished to save a certain person whose reason (perhaps more vital a loss than a loss of life) was in danger and he may have considered the sacrifice of an old and worn out life worth it!"
"Your ideas," said Dr. Gerard, "are fantastic!" He smiled amiably.
Without taking any notice, Poirot went on. "But if so, why did Gerard call attention to the possibility of foul play? It is quite certain that, but for his statement to Colonel Carbury, Mrs. Boynton's death would have been put down to natural causes. It was Dr. Gerard who first pointed out the possibility of murder. That, my friends," said Poirot, "does not make common sense!"
"Doesn't seem to," said Colonel Carbury gruffly. He looked curiously at Poirot.
"There is one more possibility," said Poirot. "Mrs. Lennox Boynton just now negated strongly the possibility of her young sister-in-law being guilty. The force of her objection lay in the fact that she knew her mother-in-law to be dead at the time. But remember this: Ginevra Boynton was at the camp all the afternoon. And there was a momenta moment when Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce were walking away from the camp and before Dr. Gerard had returned to it . . ."
Ginevra stirred. She leaned forward, staring into Poirot's face with a strange, innocent, puzzled stare. "I did it? You think I did it?" Then suddenly, with a movement of swift, incomparable beauty, she was up from her chair and had flung herself across the room and down on her knees beside Dr. Gerard, clinging to him, gazing up passionately into his face.
"No! No! Don't let them say it! They're making the walls close around me again! It's not true! I never did anything! They are my enemiesthey want to put me in prisonto shut me up. You must help me! You must help me!"
"There, there, my child." Gently the doctor patted her head. Then he addressed Poirot. "What you say is nonsenseabsurd."
"Delusions of persecution?" murmured Poirot.
"Yesbut she could never have done it that way. She would have done it, you must perceive, dramaticallya dagger, something flamboyant, spectacularnever this cool, calm logic! I tell you, my friends, it is so. This was a reasoned crimea sane crime."
Poirot smiled. Unexpectedly he bowed. "Je suis entierement de votre avis," he said smoothly.


18
"Come," said Hercule Poirot. "We have still a little way to go! Dr. Gerard has invoked the psychology. So let us now examine the psychological side of the case. We have taken the facts, we have established a chronological sequence of events, we have heard the evidence. There remainsthe psychology. And the most important psychological evidence concerns the dead woman. It is the psychology of Mrs. Boynton herself that is the most important thing in this case."
"Take from my list of specified facts points three and four. Mrs. Boynton took definite pleasure in keeping her family from enjoying themselves with other people. Mrs. Boynton, on the afternoon in question, encouraged her family to go away and leave her."
"These two facts, they contradict each other flatly! Why, on this particular afternoon, should Mrs. Boynton suddenly display a complete reversal of her usual policy? Was it that she felt a sudden warmth of the heartan instinct of benevolence? That, it seems to me from all I have heard, was extremely unlikely! Yet there must have been a reason. What was that reason?"
"Let us examine closely the character of Mrs. Boynton. There have been many different accounts of her. She was a tyrannical old martinet, she was a mental sadist, she was an incarnation of evil, she was crazy. Which of these views is the true one?"
"I think myself that Sarah King came nearest to the truth when in a flash of inspiration in Jerusalem she saw the old lady as intensely pathetic. But not only patheticfutile!"
"Let us, if we can, think ourselves into the mental condition of Mrs. Boynton. A human creature born with immense ambition, with a yearning to dominate and to impress her personality on other people. She neither sublimated that intense craving for power nor did she seek to master it. No, mes dames and messieurs, she fed it! But in the endlisten well to thisin the end, what did it amount to? She was not a great power! She was not feared and hated over a wide area! She was the petty tyrant of one isolated family! And as Dr. Gerard said to meshe became bored like any other old lady with her hobby and she sought to extend her activities and to amuse herself by making her dominance more precarious! But that led to an entirely different aspect of the case! By coming abroad, she realized for the first time how extremely insignificant she was!"
"And now we come directly to point number tenthe words spoken to Sarah King in Jerusalem. Sarah King, you see, had put her finger on the truth. She had revealed fully and uncompromisingly the pitiful futility of Mrs. Boynton's scheme of existence! And now listen very carefullyall of youto what her exact words to Miss King were. Miss King has said that Mrs. Boynton spoke 'so malevolently, not even looking at me.' And this is what she actually said: 'I've never forgotten anything, not an action, not a name, not a face.'"
"Those words made a great impression on Miss King. Their extraordinary intensity and the loud hoarse tone in which they were uttered! So strong was the impression they left on her mind I think that she quite failed to realize their extraordinary significance!"
"Do you see that significance, any of you?" He waited a minute. "It seems not. . . . But, mes amis, does it escape you that those words were not a reasonable answer at all to what Miss King had just been saying. 'I've never forgotten anything, not an action, not a name, not a face.' It does not make sense! If she had said: 'I never forget impertinence'something of that kindbut noa face is what she said. . . ."
"Ah!" cried Poirot, beating his hands together. "But it leaps to the eye! Those words, ostensibly spoken to Miss King, were not meant for Miss King at all! They were addressed to someone else standing behind Miss King."
He paused, noting their expressions.
"Yes, it leaps to the eye! That was, I tell you, a psychological moment in Mrs. Boynton's life! She had been exposed to herself by an intelligent young woman! She was full of baffled fury and at that moment she recognized someonea face from the pasta victim delivered bound into her hands!"
"We are back, you see, to the outsider! And now the meaning of Mrs. Boynton's unexpected amiability on the afternoon of her death is clear. She wanted to get rid of her family becauseto use a vulgarityshe had other fish to fry! She wanted the field left clear for an interview with a new victim. . . ."
"Now, from that new standpoint, let us consider the events of the afternoon! The Boynton family goes off. Mrs. Boynton sits up by her cave. Now, let us consider very carefully the evidence of Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce. The latter is an unreliable witness, she is unobservant and very suggestible. Lady Westholme, on the other hand, is perfectly clear as to her facts and meticulously observant. Both ladies agree on one fact! An Arab, one of the servants, approaches Mrs. Boynton, angers her in some way and retires hastily. Lady Westholme states definitely that the servant had first been into the tent occupied by Ginevra Boynton but you may remember that Dr. Gerard's tent was next door to Ginevra's. It is possible that it was Dr. Gerard's tent the Arab entered. . . ."
Colonel Carbury said: "D'you mean to tell me that one of those Bedouin fellows of mine murdered an old lady by sticking her with a hypodermic? Fantastic!"
"Wait, Colonel Carbury; I have not yet finished. Let us agree that the Arab might have come from Dr. Gerard's tent and not Ginevra Boynton's. What is the next thing? Both ladies agree that they could not see his face clearly enough to identify him and that they did not hear what was said. That is understandable. The distance between the marquee and the ledge is about two hundred yards. Lady Westholme gave a clear description of the man otherwise, describing in detail his ragged breeches and the untidiness with which his puttees were rolled."
Poirot leaned forward. "And that, my friends, was very odd indeed! Because, if she could not see his face or hear what was said, she could not possibly have noticed the state of his breeches and puttees! Not at two hundred yards!"
"It was an error, that, you see! It suggested a curious idea to me. Why insist so on the ragged breeches and untidy puttees. Could it be because the breeches were not torn and the puttees were non-existent? Lady Westholme and Miss Pierce both saw the manbut from where they were sitting they could not see each other. That is shown by the fact that Lady Westholme came to see if Miss Pierce was awake and found her sitting in the entrance of her tent."
"Good Lord," said Colonel Carbury, suddenly sitting up very straight. "Are you suggesting"
"I am suggesting that having ascertained just what Miss Pierce (the only witness likely to be awake) was doing, Lady Westholme returned to her tent, put on her riding breeches, boots and khaki-colored coat, made herself an Arab headdress with her checked duster and a skein of knitting wool and that, thus attired, she went boldly up to Dr. Gerard's tent, looked in his medicine chest, selected a suitable drug, took the hypodermic, filled it and went boldly up to her victim."
"Mrs. Boynton may have been dozing. Lady Westholme was quick. She caught her by the wrist and injected the stuff. Mrs. Boynton half cried outtried to risethen sank back. The 'Arab' hurried away with every evidence of being ashamed and abashed. Mrs. Boynton shook her stick, tried to rise, then fell back into her chair."
"Five minutes later Lady Westholme rejoins Miss Pierce and comments on the scene she has just witnessed, impressing her own version of it on the other. Then they go for a walk, pausing below the ledge where Lady Westholme shouts up to the old lady. She receives no answer for Mrs. Boynton is dead but she remarks to Miss Pierce: 'Very rude just to snort at us like that!' Miss Pierce accepts the suggestion. She has often heard Mrs. Boynton receive a remark with a snortshe will swear quite sincerely if necessary that she actually heard it. Lady Westholme has sat on committees often enough with women of Miss Pieree's type to know exactly how her own eminence and masterful personality can influence them. The only point where her plan went astray was the replacing of the syringe. Dr. Gerard returning so soon upset her scheme. She hoped he might not have noticed its absence, or might think he had overlooked it, and she put it back during the night."
He stopped.
Sarah said: "But why? Why should Lady Westholme want to kill old Mrs. Boynton?"
"Did you not tell me that Lady Westholme had been quite near you in Jerusalem when you spoke to Mrs. Boynton? It was to Lady Westholme that Mrs. Boynton's words were addressed. 'I've never forgotten anything, not an action, not a name, not a face.' Put that with the fact that Mrs. Boynton had been a wardress in a prison and you can get a very shrewd idea of the truth. Lord Westholme met his wife on a voyage back from America. Lady Westholme, before her marriage, had been a criminal and had served a prison sentence."
"You see the terrible dilemma she was in? Her career, her ambitions, her social positionall at stake! What the crime was for which she served a sentence in prison we do not yet know (though we soon shall) but it must have been one that would effectually blast her political career if it was made public. And remember this, Mrs. Boynton was not an ordinary blackmailer. She did not want money. She wanted the pleasure of torturing her victim for a while and then she would have enjoyed revealing the truth in the most spectacular fashion! No; while Mrs. Boynton lived Lady Westholme was not safe. She obeyed Mrs. Boynton's instructions to meet her at Petra (I thought it strange all along that a woman with such a sense of her own importance as Lady Westholme should have preferred to travel as a mere tourist), but in her own mind she was doubtless revolving ways and means of murder. She saw her chance and carried it out boldly. She only made two slips. One was to say a little too muchthe description of the torn breecheswhich first drew my attention to her, and the other was when she mistook Dr. Gerard's tent and looked first into the one where Ginevra was lying half asleep. Hence the girl's storyhalf make-believe, half trueof a Sheikh in disguise. She put it the wrong way around, obeying her instinct to distort the truth by making it more dramatic, but the indication was quite significant enough for me."
He paused. "But we shall soon know. I obtained Lady Westholme's fingerprints today without her being aware of the fact. If these are sent to the prison where Mrs. Boynton was once a wardress, we shall soon know the truth when they are compared with the files."
He stopped. In the momentary stillness a sharp sound was heard.
"What's that?" asked Dr. Gerard.
"Sounded like a shot to me," said Colonel Carbury, rising to his feet quickly. "In the next room. Who's got that room, by the way?"
Poirot murmured: "I have a little ideait is the room of Lady Westholme. . . ."


Epilogue
Extract from the Evening Shout.
We regret to announce the death of Lady Westholme, M.P., the result of a tragic accident. Lady Westholme, who was fond of traveling in out-of-the-way countries, always took a small revolver with her.
She was cleaning this when it went off accidentally and killed her. Death was instantaneous. The deepest sympathy will be felt for Lord Westholme, etc. etc.
On a warm June evening five years later Sarah Boynton and her husband sat in the stalls of a London theatre. The play was Hamlet. Sarah gripped Raymond's arm as Ophelia's words came floating over the footlights:
How should I your true love know
From another one?
By his cockle hat and staff,
And his sandal shoon.
He is dead and gone, lady,
He is dead and gone;
At his head a grass-green turf;
At his heels a stone.
O, ho!
A lump rose in Sarah's throat. That exquisite, witless beauty, that lovely, unearthly smile of one gone beyond trouble and grief to a region where only a floating mirage was truth. . . .
Sarah said to herself: "She's lovelylovely . . ."
That haunting, lilting voice, always beautiful in tone, but now disciplined and modulated to be the perfect instrument.
Sarah said with decision, as the curtain fell at the end of the act: "Jinny's a great actressa greatgreat actress!"
Later, they sat around a supper table at the Savoy.
Ginevra, smiling, remote, turned to the bearded man by her side.
"I was good, wasn't I, Theodore?"
"You were wonderful, cherie."
A happy smile floated on her lips.
She murmured: "You always believed in meyou always knew I could do great thingssway multitudes. . . ."
At a table not far away, the Hamlet of the evening was saying gloomily: "Her mannerisms! Of course people like it just at first but what I say is, it's not Shakespeare. Did you see how she ruined my exit?. . . ."
Nadine, sitting opposite Ginevra, said: "How exciting it is, to be here in London with Jinny acting Ophelia and being so famous!"
Ginevra said softly: "It was nice of you to come over."
"A regular family party," said Nadine, smiling, as she looked around. Then she said to Lennox: "I think the children might go to the matinee, don't you? They're quite old enough, and they do so want to see Aunt Jinny on the stage!"
Lennox, a sane, happy-looking Lennox with humorous eyes, lifted his glass. "To the newly-weds, Mr. and Mrs. Cope!"
Jefferson Cope and Carol acknowledged the toast.
"The unfaithful swain!" said Carol, laughing. "Jeff, you'd better drink to your first love as she's sitting right opposite you."
Raymond said gaily: "Jeff's blushing. He doesn't like being reminded of the old days."
His face clouded suddenly. Sarah touched his hand with hers, and the cloud lifted. He looked at her and grinned.
"Seems just like a bad dream!"
A dapper figure stopped by their table. Hercule Poirot, faultlessly and beautifully appareled, his moustaches proudly twisted, bowed regally.
"Mademoiselle," he said to Ginevra, "mes homages. You were superb!"
They greeted him affectionately, made a place for him beside Sarah. He beamed on them all and when they were all talking, he leaned a little sideways and said softly to Sarah: "Eh bien, it seems that all marches well now with la famille Boynton?"
"Thanks to you." said Sarah.
"He becomes very eminent, your husband. I read today an excellent review of his last book."
"It's really rather goodalthough I do say it! Did you know that Carol and Jefferson Cope had made a match of it at last? And Lennox and Nadine have got two of the nicest childrencute, Raymond calls them. As for Jinnywell, I rather think Jinny's a genius."
She looked across the table at the lovely face and the red-gold crown of hair, and then she gave a tiny start. For a moment her face was grave. She raised her glass slowly to her lips.
"You drink a toast, Madame?" asked Poirot.
Sarah said slowly: "I thoughtsuddenlyof Her. Looking at Jinny I sawfor the first timethe likeness. The same thingonly Jinny is in lightwhere She was in darkness. . . ."
And from opposite, Ginevra said unexpectedly: "Poor Mother . . . She was queer. . . . Now that we're all so happy I feel kind of sorry for her. She didn't get what she wanted out of life. It must have been tough for her."
Almost without a pause, her voice quivered softly into the lines from Cymbeline while the others listened spellbound to the music of them:
Fear no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winters rages;
Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages . . .

 
 

 

عرض البوم صور Lovely Rose   رد مع اقتباس

قديم 30-03-10, 07:35 PM   المشاركة رقم: 2
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الرواية (2)

agatha christie - the mystery of the blue train

Chapter 1
The Man with the White Hair
it was close on midnight when a man
crossed the Place de la Concorde. In spite of
the handsome fur coat which garbed his
meagre form, there was something essentially
weak and paltry about him.
A little man with a face like a rat. A man, one would say, who could never play a conspicuous
part, or rise to prominence in any
sphere. And yet, in leaping to such a conclusion, an onlooker would have been
wrong. For this man, negligible and inconspicuous
as he seemed, played a prominent
part in the destiny of the world. In an Empire
where rats ruled, he was the king of the rats.
Even now, an Embassy awaited his return.
But he had business to do first--business of
which the Embassy was not officially cognizant.
His face gleamed white and sharp in
the moonlight. There was the least hint of a
curve in the thin nose. His father had been
a Polish Jew, a journeyman tailor. It was
business such as his father would have loved
that took him abroad tonight.
He came to the Seine, crossed it, and entered
one of the less reputable quarters of
Paris. Here he stopped before a tall, dilapidated
house and made his way up to an
apartment on the fourth floor. He had barely
time to knock before the door was opened
by a woman who had evidently been awaiting
his arrival. She gave him no greeting, but
helped him off with his overcoat and then
led the way into the tawdrily furnished sitting-room.
The electric light was shaded
with dirty pink festoons, and it softened, but
could not disguise, the girl's face with its
mask of crude paint. Could not disguise, either, the broad Mongolian cast of her countenance.
There was no doubt of Olga
Demiroffs profession, nor of her nationality.

"All is well, little one?"
"All is well, Boris Ivanovitch."
He nodded murmuring: "I do not think
I have been followed."
But there was anxiety in his tone. He ^vent
to the window, drawing the curtains aside
slightly, and peering carefully out. He
started awav violently.
"There are two men--on the opposite
pavement. It looks to me----" He broke off
and began gnawing at his nails--a habit he
had when anxious.
The Russian girl was shaking her head
with a slow, reassuring action.
"They were here before you came."
"All the same, it looks to me as though
they were watching this house."
"Possibly," she admitted indifferently.
"But then----"
"What of it? Even if they know--it will
not be you they will follow from here."
A thin, cruel smile came to his lips.
"No," he admitted, "that is true."
He mused for a minute or two and then
observed.
"This damned American--he can look after
himself as well as anybody."
"I suppose so."
He went again to the window.
"Tough customers," he muttered, with a
chuckle. "Known to the police, I fear. Well, well, I wish Brother Apache good hunting."
Olga Demiroff shook her head.
"If the American is the kind of man they
say he is, it will take more than a couple of
cowardly apaches to get the better of him."
She paused. "I wonder----"
"Well?"
"Nothing. Only twice this evening a man
has passed along this street--a man with
white hair."
"What of it?"
"This. As he passed those two men, he
dropped his glove. One of them picked it up
and returned it to him. A threadbare device."
"You mean--that the white-haired man
is--their employer?"
"Something of the kind."
The Russian looked alarmed and uneasy.
"You are sure--the parcel is safe? It has
not been tampered with? There has been too
much talk . . . much too much talk."
He gnawed his nails again.
"Judge for yourself."
She bent to the fireplace, deftly removing
the coals. Underneath, from amongst the
crumpled balls of newspaper, she selected
from the very middle an oblong package
wrapped round with grimy newspaper, and
handed it to the man.
"Ingenious," he said, with a nod of approval.

"The apartment has been searched twice.
The mattress on my bed was ripped open."
"It is as I said," he muttered. "There has
been too much talk. This haggling over the
price--it was a mistake."
He had unwrapped the newspaper. Inside
was a small brown paper parcel. This in turn
he unwrapped, verified the *******s, and
quickly wrapped it up once more. As he did
so, an electric bell rang sharply.
"The American is punctual," said Olga,
with a glance at the clock.
She left the room. In a minute she returned
ushering in a stranger, a big, broadshouldered
man whose transatlantic origin
was evident. His keen glance went from one
to the other.
"M. Krassnine?" he inquired politely.
"I am he," said Boris. "I must apologize
for--for the unconventionality of this meeting-place.
But secrecy is urgent. I--I cannot
afford to be connected with this business in
any way."
"Is that so?" said the American politely.
"I have your word, have I not, that no
details of this transaction will be made public?
That is one of the conditions of--sale."
The American nodded.
"That has already been agreed upon," he
said indifferently. "Now, perhaps, you will
produce the goods."
"You have the money--in notes?"
"Yes," replied the other.
He did not, however, make any attempt
to produce it. After a moment's hesitation, Krassnine gestured towards the small parcel
on the table.
The American took it up and unrolled the
wrapping paper. The *******s he took over
to a small electric lamp and submitted them
to a very thorough examination. Satisfied, he drew from his pocket a thick leather wallet
and extracted from it a wad of notes.
These he handed to the Russian, who
counted them carefully.
"All right?"
"I thank you. Monsieur. Everything is
correct."
"Ah!" said the other. He slipped the
brown paper parcel negligently into his
pocket. He bowed to Olga. "Good evening, Mademoiselle. Good evening, M. Krass
nine."
He
went out, shutting the door behind
him. The eyes of the two in the room met.
The man passed his tongue over his dry lips.
"I wonder--will he ever get back to his
hotel?" he muttered.
By common accord, they both turned to
the window. They were just in time to see
the American emerge into the street below.
He turned to the left and marched along at
a good pace without once turning his head.
Two shadows stole from a doorway and followed
noiselessly. Pursuers and pursued
vanished into the night. Olga Demiroff
spoke.
"He will get back safely," she said. "You
need not fear--or hope--whichever it is."
"Why do you think he will be safe?" asked
Krassnine curiously.
"A man who has made as much money as
he has could not possibly be a fool," said
Olga. "And talking of money----"
She looked significantly at Krassnine.
"Eh?"
"My share, Boris Ivanovitch."
With some reluctance, Krassnine handed
over two of the notes. She nodded her
thanks, with a complete lack of emotion, and
tucked them away in her stocking.
"That is good," she remarked, with satisfaction.

He looked at her curiously.
"You have no regrets, Olga Vassilovna?"
"Regrets? For what?"
"For what has been in your keeping.
There are women--most women, I believe, who go mad over such things."
She nodded reflectively.
"Yes, you speak truth there. Most women
have that madness. I--have not. I wonder
now----" She broke off.
"Well?" asked the other curiously.
"The American will be safe with them--
yes, I am sure of that. But afterwards----"
"Eh? What are you thinking of?"
"He will give them, of course, to some
woman," said Olga thoughtfully. "I wonder
what will happen then. ..."
She shook herself impatiently and went
over to the window. Suddenly she uttered
an exclamation and called to her companion.
"See, he is going down the street now--
the man I mean."
They both gazed down together. A slim,
elegant figure was progressing along at a leisurely
pace. He wore an opera hat and a
cloak. As he passed a street lamp, the light
illumined a thatch of thick white hair.
~^r
Chapter 2
M. Le Marquis
the man with the white hair continued on
his course 5 unhurried, and seemingly indifferent
to his surroundings. He took a side
turning to the right and another one to the
left. Now and then he hummed a little air
to himself.
Suddenly he stopped dead and listened
intently. He had heard a certain sound. It
might have been the bursting of a tyre or it
might have been--a shot. A curious smile
played round his lips for a minute. Then
he resumed his leisurely walk.
On turning a corner he came upon a scene
of some activity. A representative of the law
was making notes in a pocket-book, and one
or two late passers-by had collected on the
spot. To one of these the man with the
white hair made a polite request for information.

"Something has been happening, yes?"
"Mais out. Monsieur. Two apaches set
upon an elderly American gentleman."
"They did him no injury?"
"No, indeed." The man laughed. "The
American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired
shots so closely round them that they took
alarm and fled. The police, as usual, arrived
too late."
"Ah!" said the inquirer.
He displayed no emotion of any kind.
Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed
his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed
the Seine and came into the richer areas of
the city. It was some twenty minutes later
that he came to a stop before a certain house
in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.
The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained
and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer
in antiques, was so known to fame that he
needed no advertisement, and indeed most
of his business was not done over a counter.
M. Papopolous had a very handsome apartment
of his own overlooking the Champs
Ely sees, and it might reasonably be supposed
that he would have been found there
and not at his place of business at such
an hour, but the man with the white hair
seemed confident of success as he pressed
10
the obscurely placed bell, having first given
a quick glance up and down the deserted
street.
His confidence was not misplaced. The
door opened and a man stood in the aperture.
He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a
swarthy cast of countenance.
"Good evening," said the stranger. "Your
master is within?"
"The master is here, but he does not see
chance visitors at this time of night,"
growled the other.
"I think he will see me. Tell him that his
friend M. Ie Marquis is here."
The man opened the door a little wider
and allowed the visitor to enter.
The man who gave his name as M. Ie Marquis
had shielded his face with his hand as
he spoke. When the man-servant returned
with the information that M. Papopolous
would be pleased to receive the visitor a further
change had taken place in the stranger's
appearance. The man-servant must have
I been very unobservant or very well trained
for he betrayed no surprise at the small black
satin mask which hid the other's features.
Leading the way to a door at the end of the
I hall, he opened it and announced in a reI1
spectful murmur: "M. Ie Marquis."
n
The figure which rose to receive this
strange guest was an imposing one. There
was something venerable and patriarchal
about M. Papopolous. He had a high domed
forehead and a beautiful white beard. His
manner had in it something ecclesiastical and
benign.
"My dear friend," said M. Papopolous.
He spoke in French and his tones were
rich and unctuous.
"I must apologize," said the visitor, "for
the lateness of the hour."
"Not at all. Not at all," said M.
Papopolous--"an interesting time of night.
You have had, perhaps, an interesting evening?"

"Not personally," said M. Le Marquis.
"Not personally," repeated M. Papopolous, "no, no, of course not. And there is
news, eh?"
He cast a sharp glance sideways at the
other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or
benign in the least.
"There is no news. The attempt failed. I
hardly expected anything else."
"Quite so," said M. Papopolous; "anything
crude----"
He waved his hand to express his intense
distaste for crudity in any form. There was
indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous
nor about the goods he handled. He was well
known in most European courts, and kings
called him Demetrius in a friendly manner.
He had the reputation for the most exquisite
discretion. That, together with the nobility
of his aspect, had carried him through several
very questionable transactions.
"The direct attack----" said M. Papopolous.
He shook his head. "It answers
sometimes--but very seldom."
The other shrugged his shoulders.
"It saves time," he remarked, "and to fail
costs nothing--or next to nothing. The other
plan--will not fail."
"Ah," said M. Papopolous, looking at him
keenly.
The other nodded slowly.
"I have great confidence in your--er--
reputation," said the antique dealer.
M. Ie Marquis smiled gently.
"I think I may say," he murmured, "that
your confidence will not be misplaced."
"You have unique opportunities," said
the other, with a note of envy in his voice.
"I make them," said M. Ie Marquis.
He rose and took up the cloak which he
had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.
"I will keep you informed, M. PapopoyTr'.,
lous, through the usual channels, but there
must be no hitch in your arrangements."
M. Papopolous was pained.
"There is never a hitch in my arrangements,"
he complained.
The other smiled, and without any further
word of adieu he left the room, closing the
door behind him.
M. Papopolous remained in thought for a
moment stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door
which opened inwards. As he turned the
handle, a young woman, who only too clearly
had been leaning against it with her ear to
the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the
room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise
nor concern. It was evidently all quite
natural to him.
"Well, Zia?" he asked.
"I did not hear him go," explained Zia.
She was a handsome young woman, built
on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes
and such a general air of resemblance to M.
Papopolous that it was easy to see they were
father and daughter.
"It is annoying," she continued vexedly, "that one cannot see through a keyhole and
hear through it at the same time."
"It has often annoyed me," said M. Papopolous,
with great simplicity.
"So that is M. Ie Marquis," said Zia
slowly. "Does he always wear a mask, father?"

"Always."
There was a pause.
"It is the rubies, I suppose?" asked Zia.
Her father nodded.
"What do you think, my little one?" he
inquired, with a hint of amusement in his
beady black eyes.
"Of M. Ie Marquis?"
"Yes."
"I think," said Zia slowly, "that it is a
very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman
who speaks French as well as that."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, "so that is
what you think."
As usual, he did not commit himself, but
he regarded Zia with benign approval.
"I thought, too," said Zia, "that his head
was an odd shape."
"Massive," said her father--"a trifle massive.
But then that effect is always created
by a wig."
They both looked at each other and
smiled.
i e
Chapter 3
Heart of F/re
rufus van aldin passed through the revolving
doors of the Savoy, and walked to
the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a
respectful greeting.
"Pleased to see you back again, Mr. Van
Aldin," he said.
The American millionaire nodded his
head in a casual greeting.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in
the suite now."
Van Aldin nodded again.
"Any mail?" he vouchsafed.
"They have all been sent up, Mr. Van
Aldin. Oh! wait a minute."
He dived into a pigeon hole, and produced
a letter.
"Just come this minute," he explained.
Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the handwriting, a woman's
flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed.
The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth relaxed. He
looked a different man. He walked across to
the lift with the letter in his hand and the
smile still still on his lips.
In the drawing-room of his suite, a young
man was sitting at a desk nimbly sorting
correspondence with the ease born of long
practice. He sprang up as Van Aldin entered.
"Hallo, Knighton!"
"Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good
time?"
"So so!" said the millionaire unemotionally.
"Paris is rather a one-horse citynowadays.
Still--I got what I went over for."
He smiled to himself rather grimly.
"You usually do, I believe," said the secretary, laughing.
"That's so," agreed the other.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact. Throwing
off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the
desk.
"Anything urgent?"
"I don't think so, sir. Mostly the usual ^uff. I have not quite finished sorting it
out."
Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man
who seldom expressed either blame or
praise. His methods with those he employed
were simple; he gave them a fair trial and
dismissed promptly those who were inefficient.
His selections of people were unconventional.
Knighton, for instance, he had
met casually at a Swiss resort two months
previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record, and found in it
the explanation of the limp with which he
walked. Knighton had made no secret of the
fact that he was looking for a job, and indeed
diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew
of any available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement, the
young man's complete astonishment when
he had been offered the post of secretary to
the great man himself.
"But--but I have no experience of business,"
he had stammered.
"That doesn't matter a cuss," Van Aldin
had replied. "I have got three secretaries already
to attend to that kind of thing. But I
am likely to be in England for the next six
months, and I want an Englishman who--
well, knows the ropes--and can attend to
the social side of things for me."
So far. Van Aldin had found his judgment
confirmed. Knighton had proved quick, in telligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct
charm of manner.
The secretary indicated three or four letters
placed by themselves on the top of the
desk.
"It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you
glanced at these," he suggested. "The top
one is about the Colton agreement----"
But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting
hand.
"I am not going to look at a durned thing
to-night," he declared. "They can all wait
till the morning. Except this one," he added, looking down at the letter he held in his
hand. And again that strange transforming
smile stole over his face.
Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.

"Mrs. Kettering?" he murmured. "She
rang up yesterday and to-day. She seems
very anxious to see you at once, sir."
"Does she, now!"
The smile faded from the millionaire's
face. He ripped open the envelope which he
held in his hand and took out the enclosed
sheet. As he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which Wall
Street knew so well, and his brows knit
themselves ominously. Knighton turned
tactfully away, and went on opening letters
and sorting them. A muttered oath escaped
the millionaire, and his clenched fist hit the
table sharply.
"I'll not stand for this," he muttered to
himself. "Poor little girl, it's a good thing
she has her old father behind her."
He walked up and down the room for
some minutes, his brows drawn together in
a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over
the desk. Suddenly Van Aldin came to an
abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from
the chair where he had thrown it.
"Are you going out again, sir?"
"Yes, I'm going round to see my daughter."

"If Colton's people ring up----"
"Tell them to go to the devil," said Van
Aldin.
"Very well," said the secretary unemotionally.

Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now.
Cramming his hat upon his head, he went
towards the door. He paused with his hand
upon the handle.
"You are a good fellow, Knighton," he
said. "You don't worry me when I am rattled."

Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.

"Ruth is my only child," said Van Aldin,
"and there is no one on this earth who knows
quite what she means to me."
A faint smile irradiated his face. He
slipped his hand into his pocket.
"Care to see something, Knighton?"
He came back towards the secretary.
From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly
wrapped in brown paper. He tossed
off the wrapping and disclosed a big, shabby, red velvet case. In the centre of it were some
twisted initials surmounted by a crown. He
snapped the case open, and the secretary
drew in his breath sharply. Against the
slightly dingy white of the interior, the
stones glowed like blood.
"My God! sir," said Knighton. "Are
they--are they real?"
Van Aldin laughed a quiet little cackle of
amusement.
"I don't wonder at your asking that.
Amongst these rubies are the three largest in the world. Catherine of Russia wore them, Knighton. That centre one there is known
as Heart of Fire. It's perfect--not a flaw in
it.55
"But," the secretary murmured, "they
must be worth a fortune."
"Four or five hundred thousand dollars,"
said Van Aldin nonchalantly, "and that is
apart from the historical interest."
"And you carry them about—like that,
loose in your pocket ?"
Van Aldin laughed amusedly.
"I guess so. You see, they are my little
present for Ruthie."
The secretary smiled discreetly.
"I can understand now Mrs. Kettering's
anxiety over the telephone," he murmured.
But Van Aldin shook his head. The hard
look returned to his face.
"You are wrong there," he said. "She
doesn't know about these; they are my little
surprise for her."
He shut the case, and began slowly to wrap
it up again.
"It's a hard thing, Knighton," he said,
"how little one can do for those one loves.
I can buy a good portion of the earth for
Ruth, if it would be any use to her, but it
isn't. I can hang these things round her neck
and give her a moment or two's pleasure,
maybe, but——"
He shook his head.
"When a woman is not happy in her
home----"
He left the sentence unfinished. The secretary
nodded discreetly. He knew, none
better, the reputation of the Hon. Derek
Kettering. Van Aldin sighed. Slipping the
parcel back in his coat pocket, he nodded to
Knighton and left the room.
Chapter 4
In Curzon Street
the hon. mrs derek kettering lived in
Curzon Street. The butler who opened the
door recognized Rufus Van Aldin at once
and permitted himself a discreet smile of
greeting. He led the way upstairs to the big
double drawing-room on the first floor.
A woman who was sitting by the window
started up with a cry.
"Why, Dad, if that isn't too good for anything!
I've been telephoning Major Knighton
all day to try and get hold of you, but
he couldn't say for sure when you were expected
back."
Ruth Kettering was twenty-eight years of
age. Without being beautiful, or in the real
sense of the word even pretty, she was striking
looking because of her colouring. Van
Aldin had been called Carrots and Ginger in
his time, and Ruth's hair was almost pure
auburn. With it went dark eyes and very
black lashes--the effect somewhat enhanced
by art. She was tall and slender, and moved
well. At a careless glance it was the face of
a Raphael Madonna. Only if one looked
closely did one perceive the same line of jaw
and chin as in Van Aldin's face, bespeaking
the same hardness and determination. It
suited the man, but suited the woman less
well. From her childhood upward Ruth Van
Aldin had been accustomed to having her
own way, and any one who had ever stood
up against her soon realized that Rufus Van
Aldin's daughter never gave in.
"Knighton told me you'd 'phoned him,"
said Van Aldin. "I only got back from Paris
half an hour ago. What's all this about Derek?"
Ruth
Kettering flushed angrily.
"It's unspeakable. It's beyond all limits,"
she cried. "He--he doesn't seem to listen to
anything I say."
There was bewilderment as well as anger
in her voice.
"He'll listen to me," said the millionaire
grimly.
Ruth went on.
"I've hardly seen him for the last month.
He goes about everywhere with that woman."

"With what woman?"
"Mirelle. She dances at the Parthenon,
you know."
Van Aldin nodded.
"I was down at Leconbury last week. I—
I spoke to Lord Leconbury. He was awfully
sweet to me, sympathized entirely. He said
he'd give Derek a good talking to."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin.
"What do you mean by 'Ah!5, Dad?"
"Just what you think I mean, Ruthie,
Poor old Leconbury is a wash-out. Of course
he sympathized with you, of course he tried
to soothe you down. Having got his son and
heir married to the daughter of one of the
richest men in the States, he naturally
doesn't want to mess the thing up. But he's
got one foot in the grave already, every one
knows that, and anything he may say will
cut darned little ice with Derek."
"Can't you do anything. Dad?" urged
Ruth, after a minute or two.
"I might," said the millionaire. He waited
a second reflectively, and then went on.
"There are several things I might do, but
there's only one that will be any real good.
How much pluck have you got, Ruthie?"
She stared at him. He nodded back at her.
"I mean just what I say. Have you got the
^
grit to admit to all the world that you've
made a mistake. There's only one way out
of this mess, Ruthie. Cut your losses and
start afresh."
"You mean----"
"Divorce."
"Divorce!"
Van Aldin smiled drily.
"You say that word, Ruth, as though
you'd never heard it before. And yet your
friends are doing it all round you every day."
"Oh! I know that. But----"
She stopped, biting her lip. Her father
nodded comprehendingly.
"I know, Ruth. You're like me, you can't
bear to let go. But I've learnt, and you've
got to learn, that there are times when it's
the only way. I might find ways of whistling
Derek back to you, but it would all come to
the same in the end. He's no good, Ruth; he's
rotten through and through. And mind you, I blame myself for ever letting you marry
him. But you were kind of set on having
him, and he seemed in earnest about turning
over a new leaf--and well, I'd crossed you
once, honey ..."
He did not look at her as he said the last
words. Had he done so, he might have seen
the swift colour that came up in her face.
"You did," she said in a hard voice.
"I was too durned soft hearted to do it a
second time. I can't tell you how I wish I
had, though. You've led a poor kind of life
for the last few years, Ruth."
"It has not been very—agreeable," agreed
Mrs. Kettering.
"That's why I say to you that this thing
has got to stop!" He brought his hand down
with a bang on the table. "You may have a
hankering after the fellow still. Cut it out.
Face facts. Derek Kettering married you for
your money. That's all there is to it. Get rid
of him, Ruth."
Ruth Kettering looked down at the
ground for some moments, then she said,
without raising her head:
"Supposing he doesn't consent?"
Van Aldin looked at her in astonishment.
"He won't have a say in the matter."
She flushed and bit her lip.
"No—no—of course not. I only
meant——"
She stopped. Her father eyed her keenly.
"What did you mean?"
"I meant——" She paused, choosing her
words carefully. "He mayn't take it lying
down."
The millionaire's chin shot out grimly.
"You mean he'll fight the case? Let him!
But, as a matter of fact, you're wrong. He
won't fight. Any solicitor he consults will
tell him he hasn't a leg to stand upon."
"You don't think"--she hesitated--"I
mean--out of sheer spite against me--he
might, try to make it awkward?"
Her father looked at her in some astonishment.

"Fight the case, you mean?"
He shook his head.
"Very unlikely. You see, he would have
to have something to go upon."
Mrs. Kettering did not answer. Van Aldin
looked at her sharply.
"Come, Ruth, out with it. There's something
troubling you--what is it?"
"Nothing, nothing at all."
But her voice was unconvincing.
"You are dreading the publicity, eh? Is
that it? You leave it to me. I'll put the whole
thing through so smoothly that there will be
no fuss at all."
"Very well. Dad, if you really think it's
the best thing to be done."
"Got a fancy for the fellow still, Ruth? Is
that it?"
"No."
The word came with no uncertain em phasis. Van Aldin seemed satisfied. He patted
his daughter on the shoulder.
"It will be all right, little girl. Don't you
worry any. Now let's forget all about this. I
have brought you a present from Paris."
"For me? Something very nice?"
"I hope you'll think so," said Van Aldin, smiling.
He took the parcel from his coat pocket
and handed it to her. She unwrapped it
eagerly, and snapped open the case. A longdrawn
"Oh!" came from her lips. Ruth Kettering
loved jewels--always had done so.
"Dad, how--how wonderful!"
"Rather in a class by themselves, aren't
they?" said the millionaire, with satisfaction.
"You like them, eh?"
"Like them? Dad, they're unique. How
did you get hold of them?"
Van Aldin smiled.
"Ah! that's my secret. They had to be
bought privately, of course. They are rather
well known. See that big stone in the middle?
You have heard of it, maybe, that's the historic
'Heart of Fire.'"
"Heart of Fire!" repeated Mrs. Kettering. *
She had taken the stones from the case
and was holding them against her breast.
The millionaire watched her. He was think ing of the series of women who had worn the
jewels. The heartaches, the despairs, the
jealousies. "Heart of Fire," like all famous
stones, had left behind it a trail of tragedy
and violence. Held in Ruth Kettering's assured
hand, it seemed to lose its potency of
evil. With her cool, equable poise, this
woman of the western world seemed a negation
to tragedy or heart-burnings. Ruth
returned the stones to their case, then, jumping
up, she flung her arms round her father's
neck.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you. Dad!
They are wonderful! You do give me the
most marvelous presents always."
"That's all right," said Van Aldin, patting
her shoulder. "You are all I have, you know,
Ruthie."
"You will stay to dinner, won't you, father?"

"I don't think so. You were going out,
weren't you?"
"Yes, but I can easily put that off. Nothing
very exciting."
"No," said Van Aldin. "Keep your engagement.
I have got a good deal to attend
to. See you to-morrow, my dear. Perhaps if
I 'phone you, we can meet at Galbraiths'?"
Messrs. Galbraith, Galbraith, Cuthbert-
son, & Galbraith were Van Aldin's London
solicitors.
"Very well. Dad." She hesitated. "I suppose
it--this--won't keep me from going to
the Riviera?"
"When are you off?"
"On the fourteenth."
"Oh, that will be all right. These things
take a long time to mature. By the way, Ruth, I shouldn't take those rubies abroad
if I were you. Leave them at the bank."
Mrs. Kettering nodded.
"We don't want to have you robbed and
murdered for the sake of 'Heart of Fire,'"
said the millionaire jocosely.
"And yet you carried it about in your
pocket loose," retorted his daughter, smiling.

"Yes----"
Something, some hesitation, caught her
attention.
"What is it. Dad?"
"Nothing." He smiled. "Thinking of a
little adventure of mine in Paris."
"An adventure?"
"Yes, the night I bought these things."
He made a gesture towards the jewel case.
"Oh, do tell me."
"Nothing to tell, Ruthie. Some apache fel lows got a bit fresh and I shot at them and
they got off. That's all."
She looked at him with some pride.
"You're a tough proposition. Dad."
"You bet I am, Ruthie."
He kissed her affectionately and departed.
On arriving back at the Savoy, he gave a curt
order to Knighton.
"Get hold of a man called Goby; you'll
find his address in my private book. He's to
be here to-morrow morning at half-past
nine."
"Yes, sir."
"I also want to see Mr. Kettering. Run
him to earth for me if you can. Try his
Club--at any rate, get hold of him somehow, and arrange for me to see him here to-morrow
morning. Better make it latish, about
twelve. His sort aren't early risers."
The secretary nodded in comprehension
of these instructions. Van Aldin gave himself
into the hands of his valet. His bath was
prepared, and as he lay luxuriating in the
hot water, his mind went back over the conversation
with his daughter. On the whole
he was well satisfied. His keen mind had long
since accepted the fact that divorce was the
only possible way out. Ruth had agreed to
the proposed solution with more readiness
than he had hoped for. Yet, in spite of her
acquiescence, he was left with a vague sense
of uneasiness. Something about her manner, m
he felt, had not been quite natural. He I
frowned to himself.
"Maybe I'm fanciful," he muttered, "and
yet—I bet there's something she has not told
K &
me."
Chapter 5
A Useful Gentleman
rufus van aldin had just finished the
sparse breakfast of coffee and dry toast, which was all he ever allowed himself 3 when
Knighton entered the room.
"Mr. Goby is below, sir, waiting to see
you."
The millionaire glanced at the clock. It
was just half-past nine.
"All right," he said curtly. "He can come
up."
A minute or two later, Mr. Goby entered
the room. He was a small, elderly man, shabbily
dressed, with eyes that looked carefully
all round the room, and never at the person
he was addressing.
"Good morning. Goby," said the millionaire.
"Take a chair."
"Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin."
Mr. Goby sat down with his hands on his
knees, and gazed earnestly at the radiator.
"I have got a job for you." "Yes, Mr. Van Aldin?"
"My daughter is married to the Hon. Derek
Kettering, as you may perhaps know."
Mr. Goby transferred his gaze from the
radiator to the left-hand drawer of the desk, and permitted a deprecating smile to pass
over his face. Mr. Goby knew a great many
things, but he always hated to admit the fact.
"By my advice, she is about to file a pe~ tition for divorce. That, of course, is a solicitor's
business. But, for private reasons, I
want the fullest and most complete information."

Mr. Goby looked at the cornice and murmured:

^ "About Mr. Kettering?"
"About Mr. Kettering." ^y good, sir."
by rose to his feet.
^ you have it ready for me?" ^urry, sir?"
^rry," said the million-
-.tandingly at the
Jlock this afternoon,
"Excellent," approved the other. "Good
morning. Goby."
"Good morning, Mr. Van Aldin."
"That's a very useful man," said the millionaire
as Goby went out and his secretary
came in. "In his own line he's a specialist."
"What is his line?"
"Information. Give him twenty-four
hours and he would lay the private life of the
Archbishop of Canterbury bare for you."
"A useful sort of chap," said Knighton, with a smile.
"He has been useful to me once or twice,"
said Van Aldin. "Now then, Knighton, I'm
ready for work."
The next few hours saw a vast quantity of
business rapidly transacted. It was half-past
twelve when the telephone bell rang, and
Mr. Van Aldin was informed that Mr. Kettering
had called. Knighton looked at Van
Aldin, and interpreted his brief nod.
"Ask Mr. Kettering to come up, please."
The secretary gathered up his papers and
departed. He and the visitor passed each
other in the doorway, and Derek Kettering
stood aside to let the other go out. Then he
came in, shutting the door behind him.
"Good morning, sir. You are very anxious
^ see me, I hear. "
BE
The lazy voice with its slightly ironic inflection
roused memories in Van Aldin.
There was charm in it--there had always
been charm in it. He looked piercingly at his
son-in-law. Derek Kettering was thirty-four, lean of build, with a dark, narrow face, which had even now something indescribabiy
boyish in it.
"Come in," said Van Aldin curtly. "Sit
down."
Kettering flung himself lightly into an
arm-chair. He looked at his father-in-law
with a kind of tolerant amusement.
"Not seen you for a long time, sir," he
remarked pleasantly. "About two years, I
should say. Seen Ruth yet?"
"I saw her last night," said Van Aldin.
"Looking very fit, isn't she?" said the
other lightly.
"I didn't know you had had much opportunity
of judging," said Van Aldin drily.
Derek Kettering raised his eyebrows.
"Oh, we sometimes meet at the same night
club, you know," he said airily.
"I am not going to beat about the bush,"
Van Aldin said curtly. "I have advised Ruth
to file a petition for divorce."
Derek Kettering seemed unmoved.
"How drastic!" he murmured. "Do you
mind if I smoke, sir?"
He lit a cigarette, and puffed out a cloud
of smoke as he added nonchalantly:
"And what did Ruth say?"
"Ruth proposes to take my advice," said
her father.
"Does she really?"
"Is that all you have got to say?" demanded
Van Aldin sharply.
Kettering flicked his ash into the grate.
"I think, you know," he said, with a detached
air, "that she's making a great mistake."

"From your point of view she doubtless
is," said Van Aldin grimly.
"Oh, come now," said the other; "don't
let's be personal. I really wasn't thinking of
myself at the moment. I was thinking of
Ruth. You know my poor old Governor
really can't last much longer; all the doctors
say so. Ruth had better give it a couple more
years, then I shall be Lord Leconbury, and
she can be chatelaine of Leconbury, which
is what she married me for."
"I won't have any of your darned impudence,"
roared Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering smiled at him quite unloved.

"I agree with you. It's an obsolete idea,"
he said. "There's nothing in a title nowadays.
Still, Leconbury is a very fine old
place, and, after all, we are one of the oldest
families in England. It will be very annoying
for Ruth if she divorces me to find me marrying
again, and some other woman queening
it at Leconbury instead of her."
"I am serious, young man," said Van Aldin.
"Oh,
so am I," said Kettering. "I am in
very low water financially; it will put me in
a nasty hole if Ruth divorces me, and, after
all, if she has stood it for ten years, why not
stand it a little longer? I give you my word
of honour that the old man can't possibly
last out another eighteen months, and, as I
said before, it's a pity Ruth shouldn't get
what she married me for."
"You suggest that my daughter married
you for your title and position?"
Derek Kettering laughed a laugh that was
not all amusement.
"You don't think it was a question of a
love match?" he asked.
"I know," said Van Aldin slowly, "that
you spoke very differently in Paris ten years
ago."
"Did I? Perhaps I did. Ruth was very
beautiful, you know--rather like an angel
or a saint, or something that had stepped
down from a niche in a church. I had fine
ideas, I remember, of turning over a new
leaf, of settling down and living up to the
highest traditions of English home-life with
a beautiful wife who loved me."
He laughed again, rather more discordantly.

"But you don't believe that, I suppose?"
he said.
"I have no doubt at all that you married
Ruth for her money," said Van Aldin unemotionally.

"And that she married me for love?"
asked the other ironically.
"Certainly," said Van Aldin.
Derek Kettering stared at him for a minute
or two, then he nodded reflectively.
"I see you believe that," he said. "So did
I at the time. I can assure you, my dear
father-in-law, I was very soon undeceived."
"I don't know what you are getting at,"
said Van Aldin, "and I don't care. You have
treated Ruth darned badly."
"Oh, I have," agreed Kettering lightly, "but she's tough, you know. She's your
daughter. Underneath the pink-and-white
softness of her she's as hard as granite. You
have always been known as a hard man, so
I have been told, but Ruth is harder than
you are. You, at any rate, love one person
better than yourself. Ruth never has and
never will."
"That is enough," said Van Aldin. "I
asked you here so that I could tell you fair
and square what I meant to do. My girl has
got to have some happiness, and remember
this, I am behind her."
Derek Kettering got up and stood by the
mantelpiece. He tossed away his cigarette.
When he spoke, his voice was very quiet.
"What exactly do you mean by that, I
wonder?" he said.
"I mean," said Van Aldin, "that you had
better not try to defend the case."
"Oh," said Kettering. "Is that a threat?"
"You can take it any way you please," said
Van Aldin.
Kettering drew a chair up to the table. He
sat down fronting the millionaire.
"And supposing," he said softly, "that,
just for argument's sake, I did defend the
case?"
Van Aldin shrugged his shoulders.
"You have not got a leg to stand upon,
you young fool. Ask your solicitors, they will
soon tell you. Your conduct has been notorious, the talk of London."
"Ruth has been kicking up a row about
Mirelle, I suppose. Very foolish of her. I
don't interfere with her friends."
"What do you mean?" said Van Aldin
sharply.
Derek Kettering laughed.
"I see you don't know everything, sir,"
he said. "You are, perhaps naturally, prejudiced."

He took up his hat and stick and moved
towards the door.
"Giving advice is not much in my line."
He delivered his final thrust. "But, in this
case, I should advise most strongly perfect
frankness between father and daughter."
He passed quickly out of the room and
shut the door behind him just as the millionaire
sprang up.
"Now, what the hell did he mean by
that?" said Van Aldin as he sank back into
his chair again.
All his uneasiness returned in full force.
There was something here that he had not
yet got to the bottom of. The telephone was by his elbow; he seized it, and asked for the
number of his daughter's house.
"Hallo! Hallo! Is that Mayfair 81907?
Mrs. Kettering in? Oh, she's out, is she?
Yes, out to lunch. What time will she be in?
You don't know? Oh, very good; no, there's
no message."
He slammed the receiver down again angrily.
At two o'clock he was pacing the floor
of his room waiting expectantly for Goby.
The latter was ushered in at ten minutes past
two.
"Well?" barked the millionaire sharply.
But the little Mr. Goby was not to be hurried.
He sat down at the table, produced a
very shabby pocketbook, and proceeded to
read from it in a monotonous voice. The
millionaire listened attentively, with an increasing
satisfaction. Goby came to a full
stop, and looked attentively at the wastepaper-basket.
"Urn!"
said Van Aldin. "That seems
pretty definite. The case will go through like
winking. The hotel evidence is all right, I
suppose?"
"Cast iron," said Mr. Goby, and looked
malevolently at a gilt armchair.
"And financially he's in very low water.
He's trying to raise a loan now, you say?
Has already raised practically all he can upon
his expectations from his father. Once the
news of the divorce gets about, he won't be |
able to raise another cent, and not only that, his obligations can be bought up and pressure
can be put upon him from that quarter. We have got him. Goby; we have got him
in a cleft stick."
He hit the table a bang with his fist. His
face was grim and triumphant.
"The information," said Mr. Goby in a
thin voice, "seems satisfactory."
"I have got to go round to Curzon Street
now," said the millionaire. "I am much
obliged to you. Goby. You are the goods all
right."
A pale smile of gratification showed itself
on the little man's face.
"Thank you, Mr. Van Aldin," he said; "I
try to do my best."
Van Aldin did not go direct to Curzon
Street. He went first to the City, where he
had two interviews which added to his satisfaction.
From there he took the tube to Down Street. As he was walking along Cur- zon Street, a figure came out of No. 160, and turned up the street towards him, so that
they passed each other on the pavement. For a moment, the millionaire had fancied it "light be Derek Kettering himself; the height and build were not unlike. But as
they came face to face, he saw that the man
was a stranger to him. At least--no, not a
stranger; his face awoke some call of recognition
in the millionaire's mind, and it was
associated definitely with something unpleasant.
He cudgelled his brains in vain, but the
thing eluded him. He went on, shaking his
head irritably. He hated to be baffled.
Ruth Kettering was clearly expecting him.
She ran to him and kissed him when he entered.

"Well, Dad, how are things going?"
"Very well," said Van Aldin; "but I have
got a word or two to say to you, Ruth."
Almost insensibly he felt the change in
her, something shrewd and watchful replaced
the impulsiveness of her greeting. She
sat down in a big armchair.
"Well, Dad?" she asked. "What is it?"
"I saw your husband this morning," said
Van Aldin.
"You saw Derek?"
"I did. He said a lot of things, most of
which were darned cheek. Just as he was
leaving, he said something that I didn't understand.
He advised me to be sure that there
was perfect frankness between father and
daughter. What did he mean by that,
Ruthie?"
Mrs. Kettering moved a little in her chair.
"rr
- «I_I don't know. Dad. How should I?"
"Of course you know," said Van Aldin.
"He said something else, about his having
his friends and not interfering with yours. What did he mean by that?"
"I don't know," said Ruth Kettering
again.
Van Aldin sat down. His mouth set itself
in a grim line.
"See here, Ruth. I am not going into this
with my eyes closed. I am not at all sure that that husband of yours doesn't mean to make
trouble. Now, he can't do it, I am sure of
that. I have got the means to silence him, to
shut his mouth for good and all, but I have
got to know if there's any need to use those
means. What did he mean by your having
your own friends?"
Mrs. Kettering shrugged her shoulders.
"I have got lots of friends," she said uncertainly.
"I don't know what he meant, I
am sure."
"You do," said Van Aldin.
He was speaking now as he might have
spoken to a business adversary.
"I will put it plainer. Who is the man?"
"What man?"
"The man. That's what Derek was driving ^. Some special man who is a friend of
^.- * 11
yours. You needn't worry, honey, I know
there is nothing in it, but we have got to look
at everything as it might appear to the Court.
They can twist these things about a good
deal, you know. I want to know who the
man is, and just how friendly you have been
with him."
Ruth didn't answer. Her hands were
kneading themselves together in intense nervous
absorption.
"Come, honey," said Van Aldin in a softer
voice. "Don't be afraid of your old Dad. I
was not too harsh, was I, even that time in
Paris?--By gosh'"
He stopped, thunderstruck.
"That's who it was," he murmured to
himself. "I thought I knew his face."
"What are you talking about. Dad? I don't
understand."
The millionaire strode across to her and
took her firmly by the wrist.
"See here, Ruth, have you been seeing
that fellow again?"
"What fellow?"
"The one we had all that fuss about years
ago. You know who I mean well enough."
"You mean"--she hesitated--"you mean
the Comte de la Roche?"
"Comte de la Roche!" snorted Van Aldin. |
<<I told you at the time that the man was no
better than a swindler. You had entangled
yourself with him then very deeply, but I
got you out of his clutches."
"Yes, you did," said Ruth bitterly. "And
I married Derek Kettering."
"You wanted to," said the millionaire
sharply.
She shrugged her shoulders.
"And now," said Van Aldin slowly, "you
have been seeing him again--after all I told
you. He has been in the house to-day. I met
him outside, and couldn't place him for the
moment."
Ruth Kettering had recovered her composure.

"I want to tell you one thing. Dad; you
are wrong about Armand--the Comte de la
Roche, I mean. Oh, I know there were several
regrettable incidents in his youth--he
has told me about them; but--well, he has
cared for me always. It broke his heart when
you parted us in Paris, and now----"
She was interrupted by the snort of indignation
her father gave.
"So you fell for that stuff, did you? You, a daughter of mine! My God!"
He threw up his hands.
"That women can be such darned fools!"
Af\
mured. "I shall put all the passion of the
desert into it. I shall dance hung over with
jewels--ahl and, by the way, mon ami, there
is a pearl that I saw yesterday in Bond
Street--a black pearl."
She paused, looking at him invitingly.
"My dear girl," said Kettering, "it's no
use talking of black pearls to me. At the
present minute, as far as I am concerned, the fat is in the fire."
She was quick to respond to his tone. She
sat up, her big black eyes widening.
"What is that you say, Dereek? What has
happened?"
"My esteemed father-in-law," said Kettering, "is preparing to go off the deep-end."
"Eh?"
"In other words, he wants Ruth to divorce
me."
"How stupid!" said Mirelle. "Why should
she want to divorce you?"
Derek Kettering grinned.
"Mainly because of you, cherie!" he said.
Mirelle shrugged her shoulders.
"That is foolish," she observed in a matter-of-fact
voice.
"Very foolish," agreed Derek.
"What are you going to do about it?" demanded
Mirelle.
52
^My dear girl, what can 1 do? On the one
side, the man with unlimited money; on the
other side, the man with unlimited debts.
There is no question as to who will come out
on top."
"They are extraordinary, these Americans,"
commented Mirelle. "It is not as
though your wife were fond of you."
"Well," said Derek, "what are we going
to do about it?"
She looked at him inquiringly. He came
over and took both her hands in his.
"Are you going to stick to me?"
"What do you mean? After——"
"Yes," said Kettering. "After, when the
creditors come down like wolves on the fold.
I am damned fond of you, Mirelle; are you
going to let me down?"
She pulled her hands away from him.
"You know I adore you, Dereek."
He caught the note of evasion in her voice.
"So that's that, is it? The rats will leave
the sinking ship."
"Ah, Dereek!"
"Out with it," he said violently. "You will
fling me over; is that it?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"I am fond of you, mon ami—indeed I am
53
fond of you. You are very charming—un
beau gargon, but ce n'est pas pratique."
"You are a rich man's luxury, eh? Is that
it?"
"If you like to put it that way."
She leaned back on the cushions, her head
flung back.
"All the same, I am fond of you, Dereek."
He went over to the window and stood
there some time looking out, with his back
to her. Presently the dancer raised herself
on her elbow and stared at him curiously.
"What are you thinking of, mon ami?'9
He grinned at her over his shoulder, a
curious grin, that made her vaguely uneasy.
"As it happened, I was thinking of a
woman, my dear."
"A woman, eh?"
Mirelle pounced on something that she
could understand.
"You are thinking of some other woman,
is that it?" I
"Oh, you needn't worry, it is purely a
fancy portrait. 'Portrait of a lady with grey
eyes.5"
Mirelle said sharply, "When did you meet
her?"
Derek Kettering laughed, and his laughter
had a mocking, ironical sound. |
"I ran into the lady in the corridor of the
Savoy Hotel."
"Well! what did she say?"
"As far as I can remember, I said, <I beg
your pardon,5 and she said, 'It doesn't matter.? or words to that effect."
"And then?" persisted the dancer.
Kettering shrugged his shoulders.
"And then--nothing. That was the end
of the incident."
"I don't understand a word of what you are talking about," declared the dancer.
"Portrait of a lady with grey eyes," murmured
Derek reflectively. "Just as well I am
never likely to meet her again."
"Why?"
"She might bring me bad luck. Women
do."
Mirelle slipped quickly from her couch, and came across to him, laying one long, snake-like arm round his neck.
"You are foolish, Dereek," she murmured.
"You are very foolish. You are beau gargon, and I adore you, but I am not made
to be poor--no, decidedly I am not made to be poor. Now listen to me; everything is very ^mple. You must make it up with your
wife."
"I am afraid that's not going to be actually
in the sphere of practical politics," said Derek
drily.
"How do you say? I do not understand."
"Van Aldin, my dear, is not taking any.
He is the kind of man who makes up his
mind and sticks to it."
"I have heard of him," nodded the dancer.
"He is very rich, is he not? Almost the richest
man in America. A few days ago, in Paris, he bought the most wonderful ruby in the
world--'Heart of Fire5 it is called."
Kettering did not answer. The dancer
went on musingly:
"It is a wonderful stone--a stone that
should belong to a woman like me. I love
jewels, Dereek, they say something to me.
Ah! to wear a ruby like 'Heart of Fire.""
She gave a little sigh, and then became
practical once more.
"You don't understand these thing. Dereek,
you are only a man. Van Aldin will
give these rubies to his daughter, I suppose.
Is she his only child?"
"Yes."
"Then when he dies, she will inherit all
his money. She will be a rich woman."
"She is a rich woman already," said Kettering
drily. "He settled a couple of millions
on her at her marriage."
"A couple of million! But that is immense.
And if she died suddenly, eh? That would
all come to you?"
"As things stand at present," said Kettering
slowly, "it would. As far as I know
she has not made a will."
"Mon Dieu!" said the dancer. "If she were
to die, what a solution that would be."
There was a moment's pause, and then
Derek Kettering laughed outright.
"I like your simple, practical mind, Mirelle,
but I am afraid what you desire won't
come to pass. My wife is an extremely
healthy person."
"Eh, bien!" said Mirelle; "there are accidents."

He looked at her sharply but did not answer.

She went on.
"But you are right, mon ami, we must not
dwell on possibilities. See now, my little Dereek,
there must be no more talk of this
divorce. Your wife must give up the idea."
"And if she won't?"
The dancer's eyes widened to slits.
"I think she will, my friend. She is one
of those who would not like the publicity. There are one or two pretty stories that she
would not like her friends to read in the
newspapers."
"What do you mean?" asked Kettering
sharply.
Mirelle laughed, her head thrown back.
"Parbleu! I mean the gentleman who calls
himself the Comte de la Roche. I know all
about him. I am Parisienne, you remember.
He was her lover before she married you, was he not?"
Kettering took her sharply by the shoulders.

"That is a damned lie," he said, "and
please remember that, after all, you are
speaking of my wife."
Mirelle was a little sobered.
"You are extraordinary, you English," she
complained. "All the same, I dare say that
you may be right. The Americans are so
cold, are they not? But you will permit me
to say, mon ami, that she was in love with him before she married you, and her father
stepped in and sent the Comte about his
business. And the little Mademoiselle, she
wept many tears! But she obeyed. Still, you
must know as well as I do, Dereek, that it
is a very different story now. She sees him
nearly every day, and on the fourteenth she
goes to Paris to meet him."
"How do you know all this?" demanded
Kettering.
"Me? I have friends in Paris, my dear Dereek,
who know the Comte intimately. It is
all arranged. She is going to the Riviera, so
she says, but in reality the Comte meets her
in Paris and--who knows! Yes, yes, you can
take my word for it, it is all arranged."
Derek Kettering stood motionless.
"You see," purred the dancer, "if you are
clever, you have her in the hollow of your
hand. You can make things very awkward
for her."
"Oh, for God's sake be quiet," cried Kettering.
"Shut your cursed mouth!"
Mirelle flung herself down again on the
divan with a laugh. Kettering caught up his
hat and coat and left the flat, banging the
door violently. And still the dancer sat on
the divan and laughed softly to herself. She
was not displeased with her work.
Chapter 7
Letters
"mrs. samuel harfield presents her
compliments to Miss Katherine Grey
and wishes to point out that under the
circumstances Miss Grey may not be
aware----"
Mrs. Harfield, having written so far fluently, came to a dead stop, held up by what has
proved an insuperable difficulty to many other
people--namely, the difficulty of expressing
oneself fluently in the third person.
After a minute or two of hesitation, Mrs.
Harfield tore up the sheet of notepaper and
started afresh.
"dear Miss grey,--Whilst fully appreciating
the adequate way you discharged
your duties to my Cousin Emma (whose
recent death has indeed been a severe
blow to us all), I cannot but feel----"
Again Mrs. Harfield came to a stop. Once more the letter was consigned to the wastepaper-basket.
It was not until four false
starts had been made that Mrs. Harfield at
last produced an epistle that satisfied her. It
was duly sealed and stamped and addressed
to Miss Katherine Grey, Little Crampton, St. Mary Mead, Kent, and it lay beside that
lady's plate on the following morning at
breakfast-time in company with a more important
looking communication in a long
blue envelope.
Katherine Grey opened Mrs. Harfield5 s
letter first. The finished production ran as
follows:
"dear Miss grey,--My husband and I
wish to express our thanks to you for
your services to my poor cousin, Emma.
Her death has been a great blow to us, though we were, of course, aware that
her mind has been failing for some time
past. I understand that her latter testamentary
dispositions have been of a most peculiar character, and they would
not hold good, of course, in any court of
law. I have no doubt that, with your
usual good sense, you have already real- ^ed this fact. If these matters can be ar ranged privately it is always so much
better, my husband says. We shall be
pleased to recommend you most highly
for a similar post and hope that you will
also accept a small present. Believe me,
dear Miss Grey, yours cordially,
mary anne harfield."
Katherine Grey read the letter through, smiled a little, and read it a second time. Her
face as she laid the letter down after the second
reading was distinctly amused. Then she
took up the second letter. After one brief
perusal she laid it down and stared very
straight in front of her. This time she did
not smile. Indeed, it would have been hard
for any one watching her to guess what emotions
lay behind that quiet, reflective gaze.
Katherine Grey was thirty-three. She
came of good family, but her father had lost
all his money, and Katherine had had to
work for her living from an early age. She
had been just twenty-three when she had
come to old Mrs. Harfield as companion.
It was generally recognized that old Mrs.
Harfield was "difficult." Companions came
and went with startling rapidity. They arrived
full of hope and they usually left in
tears. But from the moment Katherine Grey
set foot in Little Crampton, ten years ago, perfect peace had reigned. No one knows
how these things come about. Snake-charmers, they say, are born, not made. Katherine
Grey was born with the power of managing
old ladies, dogs, and small boys, and she did
it without any apparent sense of strain.
At twenty-three she had been a quiet girl
with beautiful eyes. At thirty-three she was
a quiet woman, with those same grey eyes, shining steadily out on the world with a kind
of happy serenity that nothing could shake.
Moreover, she had been born with, and still
possessed, a sense of humour.
As she sat at the breakfast-table, staring
in front of her, there was a ring at the bell, accompanied by a very energetic rat-a-tat-tat
at the knocker. In another minute the little
maid-servant opened the door and announced
rather breathlessly:
"Dr. Harrison."
The big, middle-aged doctor came bussing
in with the energy and breeziness that
had been foreshadowed by his onslaught on
the knocker.
"Good morning. Miss Grey."
"Good morning. Dr. Harrison." ^ "I dropped in early," began the doctor,
^ case you should have heard from one of
those Harfield cousins. Mrs. Samuel, she
calls herself--a perfectly poisonous person. '
Without a word, Katherine picked up Mrs. Harfield5 s letter from the table and
gave it to him. With a good deal of amusement
she watched his perusal of it, the drawing
together of the bushy eyebrows, the
snorts and grunts of violent disapproval. He
dashed it down again on the table.
"Perfectly monstrous," he fumed. "Don't
you let it worry you, my dear. They're talking
through their hat. Mrs. Harfield's intellect
was as good as yours or mine, and you
won't get any one to say the contrary. They
wouldn't have a leg to stand upon, and they
know it. All that talk of taking it into court
is pure bluff. Hence this attempt to get
round you in a hole-and-corner way. And
look here, my dear, don't let them get round
you with soft soap either. Don't get fancying
it's your duty to hand over the cash, or any
tomfoolery of conscientious scruples."
"I'm afraid it hasn't occurred to me to
have scruples," said Katherine. "All these
people are distant relatives of Mrs. Harfield's
husband, and they never came near her or
took any notice of her in her lifetime."
"You're a sensible woman," said the doctor.
"I know, none better, that you've had
a hard life of it for the last ten years. You're
fully entitled to enjoy the old lady's savings, such as they were."
Katherine smiled thoughtfully.
"Such as they were," she repeated.
"You've no idea of the amount, doctor?"
"Well--enough to bring in five hundred
a year or so, I suppose."
Katherine nodded.
"That's what I thought," she said. "Now
read this."
She handed him the letter she had taken
from the long blue envelope. The doctor
read and uttered an exclamation of utter astonishment.

"Impossible," he muttered. "Impossible."

"She was one of the original shareholders
in Mortaulds. Forty years ago she must have
had an income of eight or ten thousand a
year. She has never, I am sure, spent more
than four hundred a year. She was always
terribly careful about money. I always believed
that she was obliged to be careful about every penny."
"And all the time the income has accumulated
at compound interest. My dear,
You're going to be a very rich woman."
Katherine Grey nodded.
"Yes," she said, "I am."
She spoke in a detached, impersonal tone,
as though she were looking at the situation
from outside.
"Well," said the doctor, preparing to depart, "you have all my congratulations." He
flicked Mrs. Samuel Harfield's letter with
his thumb. "Don't worry about that woman
and her odious letter."
"It really isn't an odious letter," said Miss
Grey tolerantly. "Under the circumstances, I think it's really quite a natural thing to
do."
"I have the gravest suspicions of you
sometimes," said the doctor.
"Why?"
"The things that you find perfectly natural."

Katherine Grey laughed.
Doctor Harrison retailed the great news
to his wife at lunch-time. She was very excited
about it.
"Fancy old Mrs. Harfield--with all that
money. I'm glad she left it to Katherine
Grey. That girl's a saint."
The doctor made a wry face.
"Saints I always imagine must have been
difficult people. Katherine Grey is too human
for a saint."
"She's a saint with a sense of humour,"
said the doctor's wife, twinkling. "And, though I don't suppose you've ever noticed
the fact, she's extremely good looking."
"Katherine Grey?" The doctor was honestly
surprised. "She's got very nice eyes, I
know."
"Oh, you men!" cried his wife. "Blind as
bats. Katherine's got all the makings of a
beauty in her. All she wants is clothes!"
"Clothes? What's wrong with her clothes?
She always looks very nice."
Mrs. Harrison gave an exasperated sigh, and the doctor rose preparatory to starting
on his rounds.
"You might look in on her, Polly," he
suggested.
"I'm going to," said Mrs. Harrison
promptly.
She made her call about three o'clock.
"My dear, I'm so glad," she said warmly, as she squeezed Katherine's hand. "And ^ery one in the village will be glad too."
"It's very nice of you to come and tell me," ^aid Katherine. "I hoped you would come ^ because I wanted to ask about Johnnie."
"Oh! Johnnie. Well----"
Johnnie was Mrs. Harrison's youngest s01!. In another minute she was off, retailing
a long history in which Johnnie's adenoids
and tonsils bulked largely. Katherine Its' tened sympathetically. Habits die hard. Listening
had been her portion for ten years
now. "My dear, I wonder if I ever told you
about that naval ball at Portsmouth? When
Lord Charles admired my gown?" And composedly,
kindly, Katherine would reply: "I
rather think you have, Mrs. Harfield, but
I've forgotten about it. Won't you tell it me
again?" And then the old lady would start
off full swing, with numerous details. And
half of Katherine's mind would be listening, saying the right things mechanically when
the old lady paused. . . .
Now, with that same curious feeling of
duality to which she was accustomed, she
listened to Mrs. Harrison.
At the end of half an hour, the latter recalled
herself suddenly.
"I've been talking about myself all this
time," she exclaimed. "And I came here to
talk about you and your plans."
"I don't know that I've got any yet."
"My dear--you're not going to stay on here."
Katherine smiled at the horror in the other's
tone.
"No; I think I want to travel. I've never
seen much of the world, you know."
"I should think not. It must have been an
awful life for you cooped up here all these
years."
"I don't know," said Katherine. "It gave
me a lot of freedom."
She caught the other's gasp, and reddened
a little.
"It must sound foolish--saying that. Of
course, I hadn't much freedom in the downright
physical sense----"
"I should think not," breathed Mrs. Harrison, remembering that Katherine had seldom
had that useful thing as a "day off."
"But, in a way, being tied physically
gives you lots of scope mentally. You're always
free to think. I've had a lovely feeling
always of mental freedom."
Mrs. Harrison shook her head.
"I can't understand that."
"Oh! you would if you'd been in my place. ^ut, all the same, I feel I want a change. I
Want--well, I want things to happen. Oh! ^t to me--I don't mean that. But to be in ^e midst of things, exciting things--even if 1 tn only the looker-on. You know, things ^°n't happen in St. Mary Mead."
"They don't indeed," said Mrs. Harrison,
with fervour.
"I shall go to London first," said Katherine.
"I have to see the solicitors, anyway.
After that, I shall go abroad, I think." |
"Very nice."
"But, of course, first of all----"
"Yes?"
"I must get some clothes."
"Exactly what I said to Arthur this morning,"
cried the doctor's wife. "You know, Katherine, you could look possibly positively
beautiful if you tried."
Miss Grey laughed unaffectedly.
"Oh' I don't think you could ever make
a beauty out of me," she said sincerely. "But
I shall enjoy having some really good clothes.
I'm afraid I'm talking about myself an awful
lot."
Mrs. Harrison looked at her shrewdly.
"It must be quite a novel experience for
you," she said drily.
Katherine went to say good-bye to old
Miss Viner before leaving the village. Miss
Viner was two years older than Mrs. Harfield,
and her mind was mainly taken up with |
her own success in outliving her dead friend.
"You wouldn't have thought I'd have outlasted
Jane Harfield, would you?" she de manded triumphantly of Katherine. "We were at school together, she and I. And here
we are, she taken, and I left. Who would
have thought it?"
"You've always eaten brown bread for
supper, haven't you?" murmured Katherine
mechanically.
"Fancy your remembering that, my dear.
Yes; if Jane Harfield had had a slice of brown
bread every evening and taken a little stimulant
with her meals she might be here today."

The old lady paused, nodding her head
triumphantly, then added in sudden remembrance:

"And so you've come into a lot of money, I hear? Well, well. Take care of it. And
you're going up to London to have a good
time? Don't think you'll get married, though, my dear, because you won't. You're
not the kind to attract the men. And, besides,
you're getting on. How old are you
now?"
"Thirty-three," Katherine told her.
"Well," remarked Miss Viner doubtfully, 'that's not so very bad. You've lost your first freshness, of course."
"I'm afraid so," said Katherine, much en- ^rtained.
"But you're a very nice girl," said Miss
Viner kindly. "And I'm sure there's many a
man might do worse than take you for a wife
instead of one of these flibbertigibbets running
about nowadays showing more of their
legs than the Creator ever intended them to.
Good-bye, my dear, and I hope you'll enjoy
yourself, but things are seldom what they
seem in this life."
Heartened by these prophecies, Katherine
took her departure. Half the village came to
see her off at the station, including the little
maid of all work, Alice, who brought a stiff
wired nosegay and cried openly.
"There ain't a many like her," sobbed Alice
when the train had finally departed. "I'm
sure when Charlie went back on me with that
girl from the Dairy, nobody could have been
kinder than Miss Grey was, and though particular
about the brasses and the dust, she
was always one to notice when you'd give a
thing an extra rub. Cut myself in little pieces
for her, I would, any day. A real lady, that's
what I call her."
Such was Katherine's departure from St.
Mary Mead.
Chapter 8
Lady Tamplin Writes a Letter
"well," said Lady Tamplin, "well."
She laid down the continental Daily Mail and stared out across the blue waters of the
Mediterranean. A branch of golden mimosa, hanging just above her head, made an effective
frame for a very charming picture. A
golden-haired, blue-eyed lady in a very becoming
negligee. That the golden hair owed
something to art, as did the pink-and-white
complexion, was undeniable, but the blue of
the eyes was Nature's gift, and at forty-four
Lady Tamplin could still rank as a beauty.
Charming as she looked. Lady Tamplin
was, for once, not thinking of herself. That ^ to say, she was not thinking of her appearance.
She was intent on graver matters.
Lady Tamplin was a well-known figure
°n the Riviera, and her parties at the Villa Marguerite were justly celebrated. She was a Woman of considerable experience, and had
had four husbands. The first had been
merely an indiscretion, and so was seldom
referred to by the lady. He had had the good
sense to die with commendable promptitude, and his widow thereupon espoused a
rich manufacturer of buttons. He too had
departed for another sphere after three years
of married life--it was said after a congenial
evening with some boon companions. After
him came Viscount Tamplin, who had
placed Rosalie securely on those heights
where she wished to tread. She had retained
her title when she married for a fourth time.
This fourth venture had been undertaken for
pure pleasure. Mr. Charles Evans, an extremely
good-looking young man of twentyseven,
with delightful manners, a keen love
of sport, and an appreciation of this world's
goods, had no money of his own whatsoever.
Lady Tamplin was very pleased and satisfied
with life generally, but she had occasional
faint preoccupations about money.
The button manufacturer had left his widow
a considerable fortune, but, as Lady Tamplin
was wont to say, "what with one thing
and another----" (one thing being the depreciation
of stocks owing to the War, and
the other the extravagances of the late Lord
TarnDlin"). She was still comfortably off. But
to be merely comfortably off is hardly satisfactory
to one of Rosalie Tamplin's temperament.

So, on this particular January morning, she opened her blue eyes extremely wide as
she read a certain item of news and uttered
that noncommittal monosyllable "Well."
The only other occupant of the balcony was
her daughter, the Hon. Lenox Tamplin. A
daughter such as Lenox was a sad thorn in
Lady Tamplin's side, a girl with no kind of
tact, who actually looked older than her age, and whose peculiar sardonic form of humour
was, to say the least of it, uncomfortable.
"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "just
fancy."
"What is it?"
Lady Tamplin picked up the Daily Mail, handed it to her daughter, and indicated
with an agitated forefinger the paragraph of interest.
Lenox read it without any of the signs of agitation shown by her mother. She handed back the paper.
"What about it?" she asked. "It is the sort
°f thing that is always happening. Cheeseparing
old women are always dying in vilbges
and leaving fortunes of millions to their bumble companions."
"Yes, dear, I know," said her mother,
"and I dare say the fortune is not anything
like as large as they say it is; newspapers are
so inaccurate. But even if you cut it down
by half----"
"Well," said Lenox, "it has not been left
to us."
"Not exactly, dear," said Lady Tamplin;
"but this girl, this Katherine Grey, is actually
a cousin of mine. One of the Worcestershire
Greys, the Edgeworth lot. My very
own cousin! Fancy!"
"Ah-ha," said Lenox.
"And I was wondering----" said her
mother.
"What there was in it for us," finished
Lenox, with that sideways smile that her
mother always found difficult to understand.
"Oh, darling," said Lady Tamplin, on a
faint note of reproach.
It was very faint, because Rosalie Tamplin
was used to her daughter's outspokenness
and to what she called Lenox's uncomfortable
way of putting things.
"I was wondering," said Lady Tamplin? again drawing her artistically pencilled
brows together, "whether--oh, good morning,
Chubby darling; are you going to play
tennis? How nice!"
Chubby, thus addressed, smiled kindly at her, remarked perfunctorily, "How topping
you look in that peach-coloured thing," and
drifted past them and down the steps.
"The dear thing," said Lady Tamplin, looking affectionately after her husband.
"Let me see, what was I saying? Ah!" She
switched her mind back to business once
more. "I was wondering----"
"Oh, for God's sake get on with it. That
is the third time you have said that."
"Well, dear," said Lady Tamplin, "I was
thinking that if would be very nice if I wrote
to dear Katherine and suggested that she
should pay us a little visit out here. Naturally, she is quite out of touch with Society.
It would be nicer for her to be launched by
one of her own people. An advantage for her
and an advantage for us."
"How much do you think you would get
her to cough up?" asked Lenox.
Her mother looked at her reproachfully snd murmured.
"We should have to come to some financial
arrangement, of course. What with one
thing and another--the War--your poor father__"
'And Chubby now," said Lenox. "He is ar! expensive luxury if you like."
"She was a nice girl as I remember her,'
murmured Lady Tamplin, pursuing her own
line of thought--"quiet, never wanted to
shove herself forward, not a beauty, and
never a man-hunter."
"She will leave Chubby alone, then?" said
Lenox.
Lady Tamplin looked at her in protest.
"Chubby would never----" she began.
"No," said Lenox, "I don't believe he
would; he knows a jolly sight too well which
way his bread is buttered."
"Darling," said Lady Tamplin, "you have
such a coarse way of putting things."
"Sorry," said Lenox.
Lady Tamplin gathered up the Daily Mail and her negligee, a vanity-bag, and various
odd letters.
"I shall write to dear Katherine at once,"
she said, "and remind her of the dear old
days at Edgeworth."
She went into the house, a light of purpose
shining in her eyes.
Unlike Mrs. Samuel Harfield, correspondence
flowed easily from her pen. She covered
four sheets without pause or effort, and
on re-reading it found no occasion to alter a
word.
Katherine received it on the morning of ^
^er arrival in London. Whether she read between
the lines of it or not is another matter.
She put it in her handbag and started out to keep the appointment she had made with ^irs. Harfield's lawyers.
The firm was an old-established one in
Lincoln's Inn Fields, and after a few minutes' delay Katherine was shown into the
presence of the senior partner, a kindly, elderly
man with shrewd blue eyes and a fatherly
manner.
They discussed Mrs. HarfiekTs will and
various legal matters for some minutes, then
Katherine handed the lawyer Mrs. Samuel's
letter.
"I had better show you this, I suppose,"
she said, "though it is really rather ridiculous."

He read it with a slight smile.
"Rather a crude attempt. Miss Grey. I
need hardly tell you, I suppose, that these
people have no claim of any kind upon the estate, and if they endeavour to contest the will no court will uphold them."
"I thought as much."
"Human nature is not always very wise. h Mrs. Samuel Harfield's place, I should Have been more inclined to make an appeal to your generosity."
"That is one of the things I wanted to
speak to you about. I should like a certain
sum to go to these people."
"There is no obligation."
"I know that."
"And they will not take it in the spirit it
is meant. They will probably regard it as an
attempt to pay them off, though they will not refuse it on that account."
"I can see that, and it can't be helped."
"I should advise you, Miss Grey, to put
that idea out of your head."
Katherine shook her head. "You are quite
right, I know, but I should like it done all
the same."
"They will grab at the money and abuse
you all the more afterwards."
"Well," said Katherine, "let them if they
like. We all have our own ways of enjoying
ourselves. They were, after all, Mrs. Harfield's
only relatives, and though they despised
her as a poor relation and paid no
attention to her when she was alive, it seems
to me unfair that they should be cut off with
nothing."
She carried her point, though the lawyer
was still unwilling, and she presently went
out into the streets of London with a comfortable
assurance that she could spend
T|
money freely and make what plans she liked
for the future. Her first action was to visit
the establishment of a famous dressmaker.
A slim, elderly Frenchwoman, rather like
a dreaming duchess, received her, and Katherine
spoke with a certain nawete.
"I want, if I may, to put myself in your
hands. I have been very poor all my life and
know nothing about clothes, but now I have
come into some money and want to look
really well dressed."
The Frenchwoman was charmed. She had
an artist's temperament, which had been
soured earlier in the morning by a visit from
an Argentine meat queen, who had insisted
on having those models least suited to her
flamboyant type of beauty. She scrutinized
Katherine with keen, clever eyes. "Yes--
yes, it will be a pleasure. Mademoiselle has
a very good figure; for her the simple lines
will be best. She is also tres anglaise. Some
People it would offend them if I said that,
out Mademoiselle, no. Une belle Anglaise, ^ere is no style more delightful."
The demeanour of a dreaming duchess ^s suddenly put off. She screamed out di^ction
to various mannequins. "Clothilde,
^ginie, quickly, my little ones, the little ^illeur gris clair and the robe de soiree 'soupir
d'automne.9 Marcelle, my child, the little mimosa
suit of crepe de chine."
It was a charming morning. Marcelle,
Clothilde, Virginie, bored and scornful,
passed slowly round, squirming and wriggling
in the time-honoured fashion of mannequins.
The Duchess stood by Katherine
and made entries in a small notebook.
"An excellent choice. Mademoiselle. Mademoiselle
has great gout. Yes, indeed. Mademoiselle
cannot do better than those little
suits if she is going to the Riviera, as I suppose, this winter."
"Let me see that evening dress once
more," said Katherine--"the pinky mauve
one."
Virginie appeared, circling slowly.
"That is the prettiest of all," said Katherine, as she surveyed the exquisite draperies
of mauve and grey and blue. "What do you
call it?"
^Soupir d'automne; yes, yes, that is truly
the dress of Mademoiselle."
What was there in these words that came back to Katherine with a faint feeling of sadness
after she had left the dressmaking es'
tablishment.
c< 'Soupir d'automne; that is truly the dress
of Mademoiselle.'" Autumn, yes, it was au

tuinn for her. She who had never known
spring or summer, and would never know
them now. Something she had lost never
could be given to her again. These years of
servitude in St. Mary Mead--and all the
while life passing by.
"I am an idiot," said Katherine. "I am an
idiot. What do I want? Why, I was more
*******ed a month ago than I am now."
She drew out from her handbag the letter
she had received that morning from Lady
Tamplin. Katherine was no fool. She understood
the nuances of that letter as well as
anybody and the reason of Lady Tamplin's
sudden show of affection towards a longforgotten
cousin was not lost upon her. It
was for profit and not for pleasure that Lady
Tamplin was so anxious for the company of
her dear cousin. Well, why not? There
would be profit on both sides.
"I will go," said Katherine.
She was walking down Piccadilly at the moment, and turned into Cook's to clinch
the matter then and there. She had to wait for a few minutes. The man with whom the
clerk was engaged was also going to the Riv- ^ra. Every one, she felt, was going. Well,
^r the first time in her life, she, too, would ^ doing what "everybody did."
k. H I ^ The man in front of her turned abruptly, and she stepped into his place. She made her
demand to the clerk, but at the same time
half of her mind was busy with something
else. That man's face--in some vague way
it was familiar to her. Where had she seen
him before? Suddenly she remembered. It
was in the Savoy outside her room that morning.
She had collided with him in the passage.
Rather an odd coincidence that she
should run into him twice in a day. She
glanced over her shoulder, rendered uneasy
by something, she knew not what. The man
was standing in the doorway looking back at
her. A cold shiver passed over Katherine;
she had a haunting sense of tragedy, of doom
impending. . . .
Then she shook the impression from her
with her usual good sense and turned her
whole attention to what the clerk was saying.
Chapter 9
An Offer Refused
it was rarely that Derek Kettering allowed
his temper to get the better of him. An easygoing
insouciance was his chief characteristic
5 and it had stood him in good stead in
more than one tight corner. Even now, by
the time he had left Mirelle's flat, he had
cooled down. He had need of coolness. The
corner he was in now was a tighter one than
he had ever been in before, and unforeseen
factors had arisen with which, for the moment, he did not know how to deal.
He strolled along deep in thought. His
brow was furrowed, and there was none of
the easy, jaunty manner which sat so well ^on him. Various possibilities floated
~Trough
his mind. It might have been said
°f Derek Kettering that he was less of a fool Jhan he looked. He saw several roads that ue might take--one in particular. If he ^rank from it, it was for the moment only.
Desperate ills need desperate remedies. He
had gauged his father-in-law correctly. A war
between Derek Kettering and Rufus Van Aldin
could end only one way. Derek damned
money and the power of money vehemently
to himself. He walked up St. James's Street, across Piccadilly, and strolled along it in the
direction of Piccadilly Circus. As he passed
the offices of Messrs. Thomas Cook & Sons
his footsteps slackened. He walked on, however, still turning the matter over in his
mind. Finally, he gave a brief nod of his
head, turned sharply--so sharply as to collide
with a couple of pedestrians who were
following in his footsteps, and went back the
way he had come. This time he did not pass
Cook's, but went in. The office was comparatively
empty, and he got attended to at
once.
"I want to go to Nice next week. Will you
give me particulars?"
"What date, sir?"
"The 14th. What is the best train?"
"Well, of course, the best train is what
they call The Blue Train.' You avoid the
tiresome Customs business at Calais."
Derek nodded. He knew all this, none
better.
"The 14th," murmured the clerk; "thai
FR1;is rather soon. The Blue Train is nearly always
all booked up."
"See if there is a berth left," said Derek.
"If there is not----" He left the sentence
unfinished^ with a curious smile on his face.
The clerk disappeared for a few minutes, and presently returned. "That is all right, sir; still three berths left. I will book you
one of them. What name?"
"Pavett," said Derek. He gave the address
of his rooms in Jermyn Street.
The clerk nodded, finished writing it
down, wished Derek good morning politely, and turned his attention to the next client.
"I want to go to Nice--on the 14th. Isn't
there a train called the Blue Train?"
Derek looked round sharply.
Coincidence--a strange coincidence. He
remembered his own half-whimsical words
to Mirelle, "Portrait of a lady with grey eyes. I don't suppose I shall ever see her again." But
he had seen her again, and, what was more,
^e proposed to travel to the Riviera on the ^me day as he did.
Just for a moment a shiver passed over
It'
^m; in some ways he was superstitious. He ^sd said, half-laughingly, that this woman ^ight bring him bad luck. Suppose--supP°se
that should prove to be true. From the
doorway he looked back at her as she stood
talking to the clerk. For once his memory
had not played him false. A lady—a lady in
every sense of the word. Not very young,
not singularly beautiful. But with something—grey
eyes that might perhaps see too
much. He knew as he went out of the door
that in some way he was afraid of this
woman. He had a sense of fatality.
He went back to his rooms in Jermyn
Street and summoned his man.
"Take this cheque, Pavett, cash it first
thing in the morning, and go around to
Cook's in Piccadilly. They will have some
tickets there booked in your name, pay for
them, and bring them back."
"Very good, sir."
Pavett withdrew.
Derek strolled over to a side-table and
picked up a handful of letters. They were of
a type only too familiar. Bills, small bills and
large bills, one and all pressing for payment.
The tone of the demands was still polite.
Derek knew how soon that polite tone would
change if—if certain news became public
property.
He flung himself moodily into a large?
leather-covered chair. A damned hole—that
was what he was in. Yes, a damned hole1
^
And ways of getting out of that damned hole were not too promising.
pavett appeared with a discreet cough.
"A gentleman to see you--sir--Major
Knighton."
"Knighton, eh?"
Derek sat up, frowned, became suddenly
alert. He said in a softer tone, almost to himself:
"Knighton--I wonder what is in the
wind now?"
"Shall I--er--show him in, sir?"
His master nodded. When Knighton entered
the room he found a charming and
genial host awaiting him.
"Very good of you to look me up," said
Derek.
Knighton was nervous.
The other's keen eyes noticed that at once.
The errand on which the secretary had come
was clearly distasteful to him. He replied
almost mechanically to Derek's easy flow of
conversation. He declined a drink, and, if snything, his manner became stiffer than before.
Derek appeared at last to notice it.
"Well," he said cheerfully, "what does my ^teemed father-in-law want with me? You We come on his business, I take it?"
Knighton did not smile in reply.
"I have, yes," he said carefully. "I--I
wish Mr. Van Aldin had chosen some one
else."
Derek raised his eyebrows in mock dismay.

"Is it as bad as all that? I am not very thin
skinned, I can assure you 5 Knighton."
"No," said Knighton; "but this----"
He paused.
Derek eyed him keenly.
"Go on, out with it," he said kindly. "I
can imagine my dear father-in-law's errands
might not always be pleasant ones."
Knighton cleared his throat. He spoke formally
in tones that he strove to render free
of embarrassment.
"I am directed by Mr. Van Aldin to make
you a definite offer."
"An offer?" For a moment Derek showed
his surprise. Knighton's opening words were
clearly not what he had expected. He offered
a cigarette to Knighton, lit one himself, and
sank back in his chair, murmuring in a
slightly sardonic voice:
"An offer? That sounds rather interesting."

"Shall I go on?"
"Please. You must forgive my surprise,
but it seems to me that my dear father-in" law has rather climbed down since our chat
this morning. And climbing down is not
what one associates with strong men. Napoleons
of finance, etc. It shows--I think it
shows that he finds his position weaker than
he thought it."
Knighton listened politely to the easy, mocking voice, but no sign of any kind
showed itself on his rather stolid countenance.
He waited until Derek had finished, and then he said quietly.
"I will state the proposition in the fewest
possible words."
«/~'/v /^,»» "
LrO On.
Knighton did not look at the other. His
voice was curt and matter-of-fact.
"The matter is simply this. Mrs. Kettering, as you know, is about to file a petition
for divorce. If the case goes undefended you
will receive one hundred thousand on the
day that the decree is made absolute."
Derek, in the act of lighting his cigarette, suddenly stopped dead.
"A hundred thousand!" he said sharply. "Dollars?"
"Pounds."
There was dead silence for at least two Minutes. Kettering had his brows together Linking. A hundred thousand pounds. It ^eant Mirelle and a continuance of his pleas ant, carefree life. It meant that Van Aldin
knew something. Van Aldin did not pay for
nothing. He got up and stood by the chimney-piece.

"And in the event of my refusing his handsome
offer?" he asked, with a cold, ironical
politeness.
Knighton made a deprecating gesture.
"I can assure you, Mr. Kettering," he said
earnestly, "that it is with the utmost unwillingness
that I came here with this message."

"That's all right," said Kettering. "Don't
distress yourself; it's not your fault. Now
then--I asked you a question, will you answer
it?"
Knighton also rose. He spoke more reluctantly
than before.
"In the event of your refusing this proposition,"
he said, "Mr. Van Aldin wished
me to tell you in plain words that he proposes
to break you. Just that."
Kettering raised his eyebrows, but he retained
his light, amused manner.
"Well, well!" he said, "I suppose he can
do it. I certainly should not be able to put
up much of a fight against America's man
of millions. A hundred thousand! If you are
going to bribe a man there is nothing like
doing it thoroughly. Supposing I were to tell
you that for two hundred thousand I'd do
what he wanted, what then?"
a! would take your message back to Mr.
Van Aldin," said Knighton unemotionally.
"Is that your answer?"
"No," said Derek; "funnily enough it is
not. You can go back to my father-in-law
and tell him to take himself and his bribes
to hell. Is that clear?"
"Perfectly," said Knighton. He got up,
hesitated, and then flushed. "I—you will
allow me to say, Mr. Kettering, that I am
glad you have answered as you have."
Derek did not reply. When the other had
left the room he remained for a minute or
two lost in thought. A curious smile came
to his lips.
"And that is that," he said softly.
Chapter 10
On the Blue Train
"dad!"
Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her
nerves were not completely under control
this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a
long mink coat and a little hat of Chinese
lacquer red, she had been walking along the
crowded platform of Victoria deep in
thought, and her father's sudden appearance
and hearty greeting had an unlooked-for effect
upon her.
"Why, Ruth, how you jumped!"
"I didn't expect to see you, I suppose,
Dad. You said good-bye to me last night
and said you had a conference this morning."
"So I have," said Van Aldin, "but you are
more to me than any number of darned conferences.
I came to take a last look at you,
since I am not going to see you for some
time."
"That is very sweet of you. Dad. I wish
you were coming too."
"What would you say if I did?"
The remark was merely a joking one. He was surprised to see the quick colour flame
in Ruth's cheeks. For a moment he almost
thought he saw dismay flash out of her eyes.
She laughed uncertainly and nervously.
"Just for a moment I really thought you
meant it," she said.
"Would you have been pleased?"
"Of course." She spoke with exaggerated
emphasis.
"Well," said Van Aldin, "that's good."
"It isn't really for very long. Dad," continued
Ruth; "you know, you are coming
out next month."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin unemotionally, "sometimes I guess I will go to one of these ^g guys in Harley Street and have him tell n^ that I need sunshine and change of air
right away."
"Don't be so lazy," cried Ruth; "next ^onth is ever so much nicer than this month
°Ut there. You have got all sorts of things You can't possibly leave just now."
"Well, that's so, I suppose," said Van Al^ with a sigh. "You had better be getting
on board this train of yours, Ruth. Whe e
is your seat?"
Ruth Kettering looked vaguely up at the
train. At the door of one of the Pullman cars
a thin, tall woman dressed in black was
standing--Ruth Kettering's maid. She drew
aside as her mistress came up to her.
"I have put your dressing-case under your seat. Madam, in case you should need it.
Shall I take the rugs, or will you require
one?"
"No, no, I shan't want one. Better go and
find your own seat now. Mason."
"Yes, Madam."
The maid departed.
Van Aldin entered the Pullman car with
Ruth. She found her seat, and Van Aldin
deposited various papers and magazines on
the table in front of her. The seat opposite
to her was already taken, and the American
gave a cursory glance at its occupant. He had
a fleeting impression of attractive grey eyes
and a neat travelling costume. He indulged
in a little more desultory conversation with
Ruth, the kind of talk peculiar to those
seeing other people off by train.
Presently, as whistles blew, he glanced at
his watch.
"I had best be clearing out of here. Good bye? nlv ^ear* ^)on?t worry, I will attend to
things."
^Oh, father!"
He turned back sharply. There had been
something in Ruth's voice, something so entirely
foreign to her usual manner, that he
was startled. It was almost a cry of despair.
She had made an impulsive movement towards
him, but in another minute she was
mistress of herself once more.
"Till next month," she said cheerfully.
Two minutes later the train started.
Ruth sat very still, biting her under lip
and trying hard to keep the unaccustomed
tears from her eyes. She felt a sudden sense
of horrible desolation. There was a wild
longing upon her to jump out of the train
and to go back before it was too late. She, so calm, so self-assured, for the first time in
her life felt like a leaf swept by the wind. If
her father knew--what would he say?
Madness! Yes, just that, madness! For the
first time in her life she was swept away by lotion, swept away to the point of doing a
thing which even she knew to be incredibly
C i
Polish and reckless. She was enough Van Odin's daughter to realize her own folly, and level headed enough to condemn her own ^tion. But she was his daughter in another
sense also. She had that same iron determination
that would have what it wante^ and once it had made up its mind would not
be balked. From her cradle she had been
self-willed; the very circumstances of her life
had developed that self-will in her. It drove
her now remorselessly. Well, the die was
cast. She must go through with it now.
She looked up, and her eyes met those of
the woman sitting opposite. She had a sudden
fancy that in some way this other woman
had read her mind. She saw in those grey
eyes understanding and--yes--compassion.
It was only a fleeting impression. The
faces of both women hardened to well-bred
impassiveness. Mrs. Kettering took up a
magazine, and Katherine Grey looked out of
the window and watched a seemingly endless
vista of depressing streets and suburban
houses.
Ruth found an increasing difficulty in fixing
her mind on the printed page in front of
her. In spite of herself, a thousand apprehensions
preyed on her mind. What a fool
she had been! What a fool she wasi Like all
cool and self-sufficient people, when she did
lose her self-control she lost it thoroughly- It was too late. . . . Was it too late? Oh, for
some one to speak to, for some one to advise
her. She had never before had such a wish;
she would have scorned the idea of relying
on any judgment other than her own, but
now--what was the matter with her? Panic. Yes, that would describe it best--panic.
She, Ruth Kettering, was completely and
utterly panic stricken.
She stole a covert glance at the figure opposite.
If only she knew some one like that, some nice, cool, calm, sympathetic creature.
That was the sort of person one could talk
to. But you can't, of course, confide in a
stranger. And Ruth smiled to herself a little
at the idea. She picked up the magazine
again. Really she must control herself. After
all, she had thought all this out. She had
decided of her own free will. What happiness
had she ever had in her life up to now? She
said to herself restlessly: "Why shouldn't I
be happy? No one will ever know."
It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She disliked Ae cold, and was glad to reach the shelter
of the private cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the ^ct, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom co- ^cidence appeals. After disembarking at Ca- lais and settling herself down with her maid
in her double compartment in the Blue
Train, she went along to the luncheon car.
It was with a little shock of surprise that she
found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been
her vis-a-vis in the Pullman. A faint smile
came to the lips of both women.
"This is quite a coincidence," said Mrs.
Kettering.
"I know," said Katherine; "it is odd the
way things happen."
A flying attendant shot up to them with
the wonderful velocity always displayed by
the Compagnie Internationale des WagonsLits
and deposited two cups of soup. By the
time the omelette succeeded the soup they
were chatting together in friendly fashion.
"It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine,"
sighed Ruth.
"I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling."
"You know the Riviera well?"
"No; this is my first visit."
"Fancy that."
"You go every year, I expect?"
"Practically. January and February in
London are horrible."
"I have always lived in the country. They
are not very inspiring months there either.
Mostly mud."
"What made you suddenly decide to
travel?"
"Money," said Katherine. "For ten years
I have been a paid companion with just
enough money of my own to buy myself
strong country shoes; now I have been left
what seems to me a fortune, though I dare
say it would not seem so to you."
"Now I wonder why you say that--that
it would not seem so to me."
Katherine laughed. "I don't really know.
I suppose one forms impressions without
thinking of it. I put you down in my own
mind as one of the very rich of the earth. It
was just an impression. I dare say I am
wrong."
"No," said Ruth, "you are not wrong."
She had suddenly become very grave. "I
wish you would tell me what other impressions
you formed about me?"
"T___??
Ruth swept on disregarding the other's ^barrassment.
'Oh, please, don't be conventional. I want ^ know. As we left Victoria I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that
you--well, understood what was going on in my mind."
"I can assure you I am not a mind reader,"
said Katherine, smiling.
"No; but will you tell me, please, just
what you thought." Ruth's eagerness was so
intense and so sincere that she carried her
point.
"I will tell you if you like, but you must
not think me impertinent. I thought that for
some reason you were in great distress of
mind, and I was sorry for you."
"You are right. You are quite right. I am
in terrible trouble. I—I should like to tell
you something about it, if I may."
"Oh, dear," Katherine thought to herself,
"how extraordinarily alike the world seems
to be everywhere! People were always telling
me things in St. Mary Mead, and it is just
the same thing here, and I don't really want
to hear anybody's troubles!"
She replied politely:
"Do tell me."
They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth
gulped down her coffee, rose from her seat,
and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine
had not begun to sip her coffee, said: "Come
to my compartment with me."
They were two single compartments with
a communicating door between them. In the
second of them a thin maid, whom Kath-
erine had noticed at Victoria, was sitting very
upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on
it. Mrs. Kettering pulled the communicating
door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine
sat down beside her.
"I am in trouble and I don't know what
to do. There is a man whom I am fond of --very fond of indeed. We cared for each
other when we were young, and we were
thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now
we have come together again."
"Yes?"
"I--I am going to meet him now. Oh! I
dare say you think it is all wrong, but you
don't know the circumstances. My husband
is impossible. He has treated me disgracefully."

"Yes," said Katherine again.
"What I feel so badly about is this. I have
deceived my father--it was he who came to ^e me off at Victoria to-day. He wishes me ^ divorce my husband, and, of course, he ^as no idea--that I am going to meet this ^her man. He would think it extraordinarily
foolish."
"Well, don't you think it is?" L- '^--I suppose it is."
Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands;
they were shaking violently.
"But I can't draw back now."
"Why not?"
"I--it is all arranged, and it would break
his heart."
"Don't you believe it," said Katherine robustly;
"hearts are pretty tough."
"He will think I have no courage, no
strength of purpose."
"It seems to me an awfully silly thing that
you are going to do," said Katherine. "I
think you realize that yourself."
Ruth Kettering buried her face in her
hands. "I don't know--I don't know. Ever
since I left Victoria I have had a horrible
feeling of something--something that is
coming to me very soon--that I can't escape."

She clutched convulsively at Katherine's
hand.
"You must think I am mad talking to you
like this, but I tell you I know something
horrible is going to happen."
"Don't think it," said Katherine; "try to
pull yourself together. You could send your
father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he
would come to you at once."
The other brightened.
"Yes, I could do that. Dear old Dad. It
is queer--but I never knew until to-day how
terribly fond of him I am." She sat up and
dried her eyes with a handkerchief. "I have
been very foolish. Thank you so much for
letting me talk to you. I don't know why I
got into such a queer, hysterical state."
She got up. "I am quite all right now. I
suppose, really, I just needed some one to
talk to. I can't think now why I have been
making such an absolute fool of myself."
{Catherine got up too.
"I am so glad you feel better," she said, trying to make her voice sound as conventional
as possible. She was only too well
aware that the aftermath of confidences is
embarrassment. She added tactfully:
"I must be going back to my own compartment."

She emerged into the corridor at the same
time as the maid was also coming out from
the next door. The latter looked towards
Katherine, over her shoulder, and an expression
of intense surprise showed itself on her face. Katherine turned also, but by that time Whoever it was who had aroused the maid's Merest had retreated into his or her compartment, and the corridor was empty. ytherine walked down it to regain her own
place, which was in the next coach. As she
passed the end compartment the door
opened and a woman's face looked out for a
moment and then pulled the door to sharply.
It was a face not easily forgotten, as Katherine
was to know when she saw it again. A
beautiful face, oval and dark, very heavily
made up in a bizarre fashion. Katherine had
a feeling that she had seen it before somewhere.

She regained her own compartment without
other adventure and sat for some time
thinking of the confidence which had just
been made to her. She wondered idly who
the woman in the mink coat might be, wondered
also how the end of her story would
turn out.
"If I have stopped any one from making
an idiot of themselves, I suppose I have done
good work," she thought to herself. "But
who knows? That is the kind of woman who
is hard-headed and egotistical all her life, and
it might be good for her to do the other sort
of thing for a change. Oh, well--I don't suppose
I shall ever see her again. She certainly
won't want to see me again. That is the worst
of letting people tell you things. They never
do."
She hoped that she would not be given the
san^ pl^6 ^ dinner. She reflected, not without
humour, that it might be awkward for both of them. Leaning back with her head
against a cushion she felt tired and vaguely
depressed. They had reached Paris, and the
slow journey round the ceinture, with its interminable
stops and waits, was very wearisome.
When they arrived at the Gare de
Lyon she was glad to get out and walk up
and down the platform. The keen cold air
was *******ing after the steam-heated train.
She observed with a smile that her friend of
the mink coat was solving the possible awkwardness
of the dinner problem in her own
way. A dinner basket was being handed up
and received through the window by the
maid.
When the train started once more, and
dinner was announced by a violent ringing
of bells, Katherine went along to it much
relieved in mind. Her vis-a-vis to-night was
°t an entirely different kind--a small man,
distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly
waxed moustache and an egg-shaped
h^d which he carried rather on one side. Catherine had taken in a book to dinner with ^r. She found the little man's eyes fixed ^PPn it with a kind of twinkling amusement.
B i i r\1^
"I see, Madame, that you have a Roman
Policier. You are fond of such things?"
"They amuse me," Katherine admitted.
The little man nodded with the air of complete
understanding.
"They have a good sale always, so I am
told. Now why is that, eh. Mademoiselle? I
ask it of you as a student of human nature
--why should that be?"
Katherine felt more and more amused.
"Perhaps they give one the illusion of living
an exciting life," she suggested.
He nodded gravely.
"Yes, there is something in that." /
"Of course, one knows that such things
don't really happen," Katherine was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.
"Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I
who speak to you--they have happened to
me."
She threw him a quick, interested glance.
"Some day, who knows, you might be in
the thick of things," he went on. "It is all I
chance." '
"I don't think it is likely," said Katherine;
"Nothing of that kind ever happens to me.
He leaned forward.
"Would you like it to?"
I
^rr
The question startled her, and she drew ^ her breath sharply.
^It is my fancy, perhaps," said the little
man, as he dexterously polished one of the
forks, "but I think that you have a yearning
in you for interesting happenings. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, all through my life I have observed
one thing--'All one wants one gets!5 Who knows?" His face screwed itself up
comically. "You may get more than you bargain
for."
"Is that a prophecy?" asked Katherine, smiling as she rose from the table.
The little man shook his head.
"I never prophesy," he declared pompously.
"It is true that I have the habit of
being always right--but I do not boast of it.
Good-night, Mademoiselle, and may you
sleep well."
Katherine went back along the train amused and entertained by her little neighbour.
She passed the open door of her friend's compartment and saw the conductor baking up the bed. The lady in the mink ^at was standing looking out of the window. fhe second compartment, as Katherine saw trough the communicating door, was ^pty, with rugs and bags heaped up on the ^at. The maid was not there.
Katherine found her own bed prepared
and since she was tired, she went to bed and
switched off her light about half-past nine.
She woke with a sudden start; how much
time had passed she did not know. Glancing
at her watch, she found that it had stopped.
A feeling of intense uneasiness pervaded her
and grew stronger moment by moment. At
last she got up, threw her dressing-gown
round her shoulders, and stepped out into
the corridor. The whole train seemed
wrapped in slumber. Katherine let down the
window and sat by it for some minutes, drinking in the cool night air and trying
vainly to calm her uneasy fears. She presently
decided that she would go along to the
end and ask the conductor for the right time
so that she could set her watch. She found,
however, that his little chair was vacant.
She hesitated for a moment and then
walked through into the next coach. She
looked down the long, dim line of the corridor
and saw, to her surprise, that a man
was standing with his hand on the door of
the compartment occupied by the lady in the
mink coat. That is to say, she thought it was
the compartment. Probably, however, she
was mistaken. He stood there for a moment
or two with his back to her, seeming uncer-
rr
tain an(^ hesitating in his attitude. Then he
slowly turned, and with an odd feeling of
fatality, Katherine recognized him as the
same man whom she had noticed twice
before--once in the corridor of the Savoy Hotel and once in Cook's offices. Then he
opened the door of the compartment and
passed in, drawing it to behind him.
An idea flashed across Katherine's mind.
Could this be the man of whom the other
woman had spoken--the man she was journeying
to meet.
Then Katherine told herself that she was
romancing. In all probability she had mistaken
the compartment.
She went back to her own carriage. Five
minutes later the train slackened speed.
There was the long plaintive hiss of the
Westinghouse brake, and a few minutes later
the train came to a stop at Lyons.
Chapter 11
Murder
katherine wakened the next morning to
brilliant sunshine. She went along to breakfast
early 5 but met none of her acquaintances
of the day before. When she returned to her
compartment it had just been restored to its
daytime appearance by the conductor, a dark
man with a drooping moustache and melancholy
face.
"Madame is fortunate," he said; "the sun
shines. It is always a great disappointment
to passengers when they arrive on a grey
morning."
"I should have been disappointed, certainly," said Katherine.
The man prepared to depart.
"We are rather late, Madame," he said.
"I will let you know just before we get to
Nice."
Katherine nodded. She sat by the window;
entranced by the sunlit panorama. The pali11
trees, the deep blue of the sea, the bright yellow mimosa came with all the charm of
novelty to the woman who for fourteen years
had known only the drab winters of England.
When
they arrived at Cannes, Katherine
got out and walked up and down the platform.
She was curious about the lady in the
mink coat, and looked up at the windows of
her compartment. The blinds were still
drawn down--the only ones to be so on the
whole train. Katherine wondered a little, and
when she re-entered the train she passed
along the corridor and noticed that these two
compartments were still shuttered and
closed. The lady of the mink coat was clearly
no early riser.
Presently the conductor came to her and
told her that in a few minutes the train would
arrive at Nice. Katherine handed him a tip;
the man thanked her, but still lingered.
There was something odd about him. Katharine, who had at first wondered whether the tip had not been big enough, was now ^nvinced that something far more serious ^as amiss. His face was of a sickly pallor, Qe was shaking all over, and looked as if he ^d been frightened out of his life. He was
Veing her in a curious manner. Presently he
BE' - .
said abruptly: "Madame will excuse me, \ ut
is she expecting friends to meet her at Nice^5
"Probably," said Katherine. "Why?" '
But the man merely shook his head and
murmured something that Katherine could
not catch and moved away, not reappearing
until the train came to rest at the station,
when he started handing her belongings
down from the window.
Katherine stood for a moment or two on
the platform rather at a loss, but a fair young
man with an ingenuous face came up to her
and said rather hesitatingly:
"Miss Grey, is it not?"
Katherine said that it was, and the young
man beamed upon her seraphically and murmured:

"I am Chubby, you know--Lady Tamplin's
husband. I expect she mentioned me,
but perhaps she forgot. Have you got your billet de bagages? I lost mine when I came
out this year, and you would not believe the
fuss they made about it. Regular French red
tape!"
Katherine produced it, and was just about
to move off beside him when a very gentle
and insidious voice murmured in her ear:
"A little moment, Madame, if Y°^ please."
ICatherine turned to behold an individual
who made up for insignificance of stature by
a large quantity of gold lace and uniform.
The individual explained. "There were certain
formalities. Madame would perhaps be
so kind as to accompany him. The regulations
of the police----" He threw up his
arms. "Absurd, doubtless, but there it was."
Mr. Chubby Evans listened with a very
imperfect comprehension, his French being
of a limited order.
"So like the French," murmured Mr. Evans.
He was one of those staunch patriotic
Britons who, having made a portion of a
foreign country their own, strongly resent
the original inhabitants of it. "Always up to
some silly dodge or other. They've never
tackled people on the station before, though.
This is something quite new. I suppose
you'll have to go."
Katherine departed with her guide. Somewhat
to her surprise, he led her towards a
siding where a coach of the departed train
had been shunted. He invited her to mount ^to this, and, preceding her down the cor- ^or, held aside the door of one of the compartments.
In it was a pompous-looking
°fficial personage, and with him a nonde^ript
being who appeared to be a clerk. The
pompous-looking personage rose politely
bowed to Katherine, and said:
"You will excuse me, Madame, but there
are certain formalities to be complied with.
Madame speaks French, I trust?"
"Sufficiently, I think. Monsieur," replied
Katherine in that language.
"That is good. Pray be seated, Madame.
I am M. Caux, the Commissary of Police."
He blew out his chest importantly, and
Katherine tried to look sufficiently impressed.

"You wish to see my passport?" she inquired.
"Here it is."
The Commissary eyed her keenly and gave
a little grunt.
"Thank you, Madame," he said, taking
the passport from her. He cleared his throat.
"But what I really desire is a little infor- 11 mation."
"Information?"
| The Commissary nodded his head slowly. ; "About a lady who has been a fellow-passenger
of yours. You lunched with her yesterday."

"I am afraid I can't tell you anything about
her. We fell into conversation over our meal 5
but she is a complete stranger to me. I have
never seen her before."
"And yet," said the Commissary sharply,
«you returned to her compartment with her
after lunch and sat talking for some time?"
"Yes," said Katherine, "that is true."
The Commissary seemed to expect her to
say something more. He looked at her encouragingly.

"Yes, Madame?"
"Well, Monsieur?" said Katherine.
"You can, perhaps, give me some kind of
idea of that conversation?"
"I could," said Katherine, "but at the moment
I see no reason to do so."
In somewhat British fashion she felt annoyed.
This foreign official seemed to her
impertinent.
"No reason?" cried the Commissary. "Oh
yes, Madame, I can assure you that there is a reason."
"Then perhaps you will give it to me."
The Commissary rubbed his chin thoughtfully
for a minute or two without speaking.
"Madame," he said at last, "the reason is ^ry simple. The lady in question was found ^ad in her compartment this morning."
. "Dead!" gasped Katherine. "What was lt--heart failure?"
No," said the Commissary in a reflective,
^eainy voice. "No--she was murdered."
"Murdered!" cried Katherine.
"So you see, Madame, why we are anxious
for any information we can possibly get."
"But surely her maid----"
"The maid has disappeared."
"Ohi" Katherine paused to assemble her
thoughts.
"Since the conductor had seen you talking
with her in her compartment, he quite naturally
reported the fact to the police, and
that is why, Madame, we have detained you,
in the hope of gaining some information."
"I am very sorry," said Katherine; "I
don't even know her name."
"Her name is Kettering. That we know
from her passport and from the labels on her
luggage. If we----"
There was a knock on the compartment
door. M. Caux frowned. He opened it about
six inches.
"What is the matter?" he said peremptorily.
"I cannot be disturbed."
The egg-shaped head of Katherine5 s dinner
acquaintance showed itself in the aperture.
On his face was a beaming smile.
"My name," he said, "is Hercule Poirot."
"Not," the Commissary stammered, "n01 the Hercule Poirot?"
"The same," said Mr. Poirot. "I remein-
"7-
her meeting you once, M. Caux, at the Surete
[^ Paris, though doubtless you have forgotten
me?"
"Not at all. Monsieur, not at all," declared
the Commissary heartily. "But enter, I pray
of you. You know of this----"
"Yes, I know," said Hercule Poirot. "I
came to see if I might be of any assistance?"
"We should be flattered," replied the Commissary
promptly. "Let me present you, Mr.
Poirot, to"--he consulted the passport he still
held in his hand--"to Madame--er--Mademoiselle
Grey."
Poirot smiled across at Katherine.
"It is strange, is it not," he murmured, "that my words should have come true so
quickly?"
"Mademoiselle, alas! can tell us very little,"
said the Commissary.
"I have been explaining," said Katherine, "that this poor lady was a complete stranger
to me."
Poirot nodded.
"But she talked to you, did she not?" he
said gently. "You formed an impression-- is it not so?"
"Yes," said Katherine thoughtfully. "I ^Ppose I did."
And that impression was----"
"Yes, Mademoiselle"--the Commissary
jerked himself forward--"let us by all means
have your impressions."
Katherine sat turning the whole thing over
in her mind. She felt in a way as if she were
betraying a confidence, but with that ugly
word "Murder" ringing in her ears she dared
not keep anything back. Too much might
hang upon it. So, as nearly as she could, she
repeated word for word the conversation she
had had with the dead woman.
"That is interesting," said the Commissary, glancing at the other. "Eh, M. Poirot,
that is interesting? Whether it has anything
to do with the crime----" He left the sentence
unfinished.
"I suppose it could not be suicide," said
Katherine, rather doubtfully.
"No," said the Commissary, "it could not
be suicide. She was strangled with a length
of black cord."
"Ohi" Katherine shivered. M. Caux
spread out his hands apologetically. "It 1s not nice--no. I think that our train robbers
are more brutal than they are in your country."

"It is horrible."
"Yes, yes"--he was soothing and
apologetic--"but you have great courage
Mademoiselle. At once, as soon as I saw you, T said to myself, 'Mademoiselle has great
courage.5 That is why I am going to ask you
to do something more--something distressing; but I assure you very necessary."
Katherine looked at him apprehensively.
He spread out his hands apologetically.
"I am going to ask you. Mademoiselle, to
be so good as to accompany me to the next
compartment."
"Must I?" asked Katherine in a low voice.
"Some one must identify her," said the
Commissary, "and since the maid has
disappeared"--he coughed significantly--
"you appear to be the person who has seen
most of her since she joined the train."
"Very well," said Katherine quietly; "if
it is necessary----"
She rose. Poirot gave her a little nod of
approval.
"Mademoiselle is sensible," he said. "May
I accompany you, M. Caux?"
"Enchanted, my dear M. Poirot."
They went out into the corridor, and M. ^aux unlocked the door of the dead woman's ^mpartment. The blinds on the far side had ^en drawn half-way up to admit light. The ^ad woman lay on the berth to their left, in so natural a posture that one could have
thought her asleep. The bedclothes were
drawn up over her, and her head was turned
to the wall, so that only the red auburn curls
showed. Very gently M. Caux laid a hand
on her shoulder and turned the body back
so that the face came into view. Katherine
flinched a little and dug her nails into her
palms. A heavy blow had disfigured the fea~ tures almost beyond recognition. Poirot gave
a sharp exclamation.
"When was that done, I wonder?" he demanded.
"Before death or after?"
"The doctor says after," said M. Caux.
"Strange," said Poirot, drawing his brows
together.
He turned to Katherine. "Be brave, Mademoiselle, look at her well. Are you sure
that this is the woman you talked to in the
train yesterday?"
Katherine had good nerves. She steeled
herself to look long and earnestly at the recumbent
figure. Then she leaned forward
and took up the dead woman's hand.
"I am quite sure," she replied at length.
"The face is too disfigured to recognize, but
the build and carriage and hair are exact,
and besides I noticed this"--she pointed to
a tiny mole on the dead woman's wrist-^ "while I was talking to her."
122
^Bon," approved Poirot. "You are an excellent
witness. Mademoiselle. There is, then? n0 question as to the identity, but it
is strange, all the same." He frowned down
on the dead woman in perplexity.
M. Caux shrugged his shoulders.
"The murderer was carried away by rage, doubtless," he suggested.
"If she had been struck down, it would
have been comprehensible," mused Poirot, "but the man who strangled her slipped up
behind and caught her unawares. A little
choke--a little gurgle--that is all that would
be heard, and then afterwards--that smashing
blow on her face. Now why? Did he hope
that if the face were unrecognizable she
might not be identified? Or did he hate her
so much that he could not resist striking that
blow even after she was dead?"
Katherine shuddered, and he turned at
once to her kindly.
"You must not let me distress you. Mademoiselle,"
he said. "To you this is all very ^w and terrible. To me, alas! it is an old
story. One moment, I pray of you both."
They stood against the door watching him as he went quickly round the compartment. ^e noted the dead woman's clothes neatly j°^ed on the end of the berth, the big fur
123
coat that hung from a hook, and the little
red lacquer hat tossed up on the rack. Then
he passed through into the adjoining compartment, that in which Katherine had seen
the maid sitting. Here the berth had not been
made up. Three or four rugs were piled
loosely on the seat; there was a hat-box and
a couple of suit-cases. He turned suddenly
to Katherine.
"You were in here yesterday," he said. "Do you see anything changed, anything
missing?"
Katherine looked carefully round both
compartments.
"Yes," she said, "there is something
missing--a scarlet morocco case. It had the
initials 'R. V. K/ on it. It might have been
a small dressing-case or a big jewel-case.
When I saw it, the maid was holding it."
"Ah!" said Poirot.
"But, surely," said Katherine. "I--of
course, I don't know anything about such |
things, but surely it is plain enough, if the
maid and the jewel-case are missing?"
"You mean that it was the maid who was
the thief? No, Mademoiselle; there is a very
good reason against that."
"What?"
"The maid was left behind in Paris."
He turned to Poirot.
"I should like you to hear the conductor's
story yourself," he murmured confidentially. (<It is ^^ suggestive."
"Mademoiselle would doubtless like to
hear it also," said Poirot. "You do not object, Monsieur Ie Commissaire?"
"No," said the Commissary, who clearly
did object very much. "No, certainly, M.
Poirot, if you say so. You have finished
here?"
"I think so. One little minute."
He had been turning over the rugs, and
now he took one to the window and looked
at it, picking something off it with his fingers.

"What is it?" demanded M. Caux sharply.
"Four auburn hairs." He bent over the
dead woman. "Yes, they are from the head
ofMadame."
"And what of it? Do you attach importance
to them?"
Poirot let the rug drop back on the seat.
"What is important? What is not? One ^nnot say at this stage. But we must note ^ch little fact carefully."
They went back again into the first comP^tment,
and in a minute or two the con ductor of the carriage arrived to be
questioned.
"Your name is Pierre Michel?" said the
Commissary.
"Yes, Monsieur Ie Commissaire."
"I should like you to repeat to this
gentleman"--he indicated Poirot--"the
story that you told me as to what happened
in Paris."
"Very good. Monsieur Ie Commissaire. It
was after we had left the Gare de Lyon I
came along to make the beds, thinking that
Madame would be at dinner, but she had a
dinner-basket in her compartment. She said
to me that she had been obliged to leave her
maid behind in Paris, so that I only need
make up one berth. She took her dinnerbasket
into the adjoining compartment, and
sat there while I made up the bed; then she
told me that she did not wish to be wakened
early in the morning, that she liked to sleep
on. I told her I quite understood, and she
wished me 'goodnight.5"
"You yourself did not go into the adjoining
compartment?"
"No, Monsieur."
"Then you did not happen to notice if a scarlet morocco case was amongst the lug'
gage there?"
"No, Monsieur, I did not."
"Would it have been possible for a man
to have been concealed in the adjoining compartment?"

The conductor reflected.
"The door was half open," he said. "If a
man had stood behind that door I should not
have been able to see him, but he would, of
course, have been perfectly visible to Madame
when she went in there."
"Quite so," said Poirot, "Is there anything
more you have to tell us?"
"I think that is all. Monsieur. I can remember
nothing else."
"And now this morning?" prompted
Poirot.
"As Madame had ordered, I did not disturb
her. It was not until just before Cannes
that I ventured to knock at the door. Getting
no reply, I opened it. The lady appeared to
be in her bed asleep. I took her by the shoulder
to rouse her, and then----"
"And then you saw what had happened,"
volunteered Poirot. "Tres bien. I think I ^ow all I want to know."
"I hope. Monsieur Ie Commissaire, it is ^t that I have been guilty of any negligence,"
said the man piteously. "Such an
I I
affair to happen on the Blue Train! It is horrible."

"Console yourself," said the Commissary.
"Everything will be done to keep the affair
as quiet as possible, if only in the interests
of justice. I cannot think you have been
guilty of any negligence."
"And Monsieur Ie Commissaire will report
as much to the Company?"
"But certainly, but certainly," said M.
Caux impatiently. "That will do now."
The conductor withdrew.
"According to the medical evidence," said
the Commissary, "the lady was probably
dead before the train reached Lyons. Who
then was the murderer? From Mademoiselle's
story, it seems clear that somewhere
on her journey she was to meet this man of
whom she spoke. Her action in getting rid
of the maid seems significant. Did the man
join the train at Paris, and did she conceal
him in the adjoining compartment? If so,
they may have quarrelled, and he may have
killed her in a fit of rage. That is one possibility.
The other, and the more likely to
my mind, is that her assailant was a train
robber travelling on the train, that he stole
along the corridor unseen by the conductor,
killed her, and went off with the red morocco
case which doubtless contained jewels of
some value. In all probability he left the train at Lyons, and we have already telegraphed
to the station there for full particulars of any
one seen leaving the train."
"Or he might have come on to Nice,"
suggested Poirot.
"He might," agreed the Commissary, "but that would be a very bold course."
Poirot let a minute or two go by before
speaking, and then he said:
"In the latter case you think the man was
an ordinary train robber?"
The Commissary shrugged his shoulders.
"It depends. We must get hold of the
maid. It is possible that she has the red morocco
case with her. If so, then the man of
whom she spoke to Mademoiselle may be
concerned in the case, and the affair is a
crime of passion. I myself think the solution
of a train robber is the more probable. These
bandits have become very bold of late."
Poirot looked suddenly across to Katherine.

"And you. Mademoiselle," he said, "you ^ard and saw nothing during the night?" "Nothing," said Katherine.
Poirot turned to the Commissary.
Rl
"We need detain Mademoiselle no longer,
I think," he suggested.
The latter nodded.
"She will leave us her address?" he said.
Katherine gave him the name of Lady
Tamplin's villa. Poirot made her a little bow.
"You permit that I see you again, Mademoiselle?"
he said. "Or have you so many
friends that your time will be all taken up?"
"On the contrary," said Katherine, "I
shall have plenty of leisure, and I shall be
very pleased to see you again."
"Excellent," said Poirot, and gave her a
little friendly nod. "This shall be a 'Roman
Policier" a nous. We will investigate this affair
together."
Chapter 12
/At the Villa Marguerite
"then you were really in the thick of it all!"
said Lady Tamplin enviously. "My dear, how thrilling!" She opened her china blue
eyes very wide and gave a little sigh.
"A real murder," said Mr. Evans gloatingly.
"Of
course Chubby had no idea of anything
of the kind," went on Lady Tamplin;
"he simply could not imagine why the police
wanted you. My dear, what an opportunity!
I think, you know--yes, I certainly
think something might be made out of
this."
A calculating look rather marred the ingenuousness
of the blue eyes.
Katherine felt slightly uncomfortable.
They were just finishing lunch, and she looked in turn at the three people sitting ^Und the table. Lady Tamplin, full ofprac- ^al schemes; Mr. Evans, beaming with na ive appreciation, and Lenox with a queer
crooked smile on her dark face.
"Marvellous luck," murmured Chubby
"I wish I could have gone along with you---
and seen--all the exhibits."
His tone was wistful and childlike.
Katherine said nothing. The police had
laid no injunctions of secrecy upon her, and
it was clearly impossible to suppress the bare
facts or try to keep them from her hostess.
But she did rather wish it had been possible
to do so.
"Yes," said Lady Tamplin, coming suddenly
out of her reverie, "I do think something
might be done. A little account, you
know, cleverly written up. An eyewitness, a
feminine touch: 'How I chatted with the dead
woman, little thinking--) that sort of thing,
you know."
"Rot!" said Lenox.
"You have no idea," said Lady Tamplin
in a soft, wistful voice, "what newspapers
will pay for a little titbit! Written, of course,
by some one of really unimpeachable social
position. You would not like to do it yourself, I dare say, Katherine dear, but just gn^ me the bare bones of it, and I will manage the whole thing for you. Mr. de Haviland 1s a special friend of mine. We have a littis
understanding together. A most delightful
man---1101 at a^ rePorterish. How does the
idea strike you, Katherine?"
"I would much prefer to do nothing of the kind," said Katherine bluntly.
Lady Tamplin was rather disconcerted at
this uncompromising refusal. She sighed and
turned to the elucidation of further details.
"A very striking-looking woman, you
said? I wonder now who she could have
been. You didn't hear her name?"
"It was mentioned," Katherine admitted, "but I can't remember it. You see, I was
rather upset."
"I should think so," said Mr. Evans; "it
must have been a beastly shock."
It is to be doubted whether, even if Katherine
had remembered the name, she would
have admitted the fact. Lady Tamplin's remorseless
cross-examination was making her
restive. Lenox, who was observant in her
own way, noticed this, and offered to take Katherine upstairs to see her room. She left
her there, remarking kindly before she went:
You mustn't mind Mother; she would ^ake a few pennies' profit out of her dying S^ndmother if she could."
Lenox went down again to find her mother an(! her stepfather discussing the newcomer.
"Presentable," said Lady Tamplin
"quite presentable. Her clothes are all right' That grey thing is the same model that
Gladys Cooper wore in Palm Trees in Egypt"
"Have you noticed her eyes--what?" interposed
Mr. Evans.
"Never mind her eyes. Chubby," said
Lady Tamplin tartly; "we are discussing the
things that really matter."
"Oh, quite," said Mr. Evans, and retired
into his shell.
"She doesn't seem to me very--malleable,"
said Lady Tamplin, rather hesitating
to choose the right word.
"She has all the instincts of a lady, as they
say in books," said Lenox, with a grin.
"Narrow-minded," murmured Lady Tamplin.
"Inevitable under the circumstances, I
suppose."
"I expect you will do your best to broaden
her," said Lenox, with a grin, "but you will
have your work cut out. Just now, you noticed, she stuck down her fore feet and laid
back her ears and refused to budge."
"Anyway," said Lady Tamplin hopefully? "she doesn't look to me at all mean. Som^ people, when they come into money, seem
to attach undue importance to it."
"Oh, you'll easily touch her for what you
want," said Lenox; "and, after all, that is
all that matters, isn't it? That is what she is
here for."
"She is my own cousin," said Lady Tamplin,
with dignity.
"Cousin, eh?" said Mr. Evans, waking up
again. "I suppose I call her Katherine, don't
I?" "It is of no importance at all what you call
her, Chubby," said Lady Tamplin.
"Good," said Mr. Evans; "then I will. Do
you suppose she plays tennis?" he added
hopefully.
"Of course not," said Lady Tamplin.
"She has been a companion, I tell you. Companions
don't play tennis--or golf. They
might possibly play golf-croquet, but I have
always understood that they wind wool and
wash dogs most of the day."
"0 God!" said Mr. Evans; "do they
really?"
Lenox drifted upstairs again to Katherine's
room. "Can I help you?" she asked
rather perfunctorily.
On Katherine's disclaimer, Lenox sat on
the edge of the bed and stared thoughtfully at her guest.
"Why did you come?" she said at last. "To us? I mean. We're not your sort."
"Oh, I am anxious to get into Society."
"Don't be an ass," said Lenox promptly
detecting the flicker of a smile. "You know what I mean well enough. You are not a bit
what I thought you would be. I say, you have got some decent clothes." She sighed. "Clothes are no good to me. I was born awkward.
Ifs a pity, because I love them."
"I love them too," said Katherine, "but
it has not been much use my loving them up
to now. Do you think this is nice?"
She and Lenox discussed several models
with artistic fervour.
"I like you," said Lenox suddenly. "I
came up to warn you not to be taken in by
Mother, but I think now that there is no
need to do that. You are frightfully sincere
and upright and all those queer things, but
you are not a fool. Oh hell! what is it now?"
Lady Tamplin's voice was calling plaintively
from the hall:
"Lenox, Derek has just rung up. He
wants to come to dinner to-night. Will it be
all right? I mean, we haven't got anything
awkward, like quails, have we?"
Lenox reassured her and came back into
Katherine5 s room. Her face looked brighter
and less sullen.
"I'm glad old Derek is coming," she said;
"you'll like him."
"Who is Derek?"
"He is Lord Leconbury's son, married a
rich American woman. Women are simply
potty about him."
"Why?"
"Oh, the usual reason--very good-looking
and a regular bad lot. Every one goes off
their head about him."
"Do you?"
"Sometimes I do," said Lenox, "and
sometimes I think I would like to marry a
nice curate and live in the country and grow
things in frames." She paused a minute, and
then added, "An Irish curate would be best, and then I should hunt."
After a minute or two she reverted to her
former theme. "There is something queer
about Derek. All that family are a bit
potty--mad gamblers, you know. In the old days they used to gamble away their wives ^d their estates, and did most reckless ^ings just for the love of it. Derek would have made a perfect highwayman--debonair ^d gay, just the right manner." She moved to the door. "Well, come down when you ^1 like it."
Left alone, Katherine gave herself up to
thought. Just at present she felt thoroughly
ill at ease and jarred by her surroundings.
The shock of the discovery in the train and
the reception of the news by her new friends
jarred upon her susceptibilities. She thought
long and earnestly about the murdered
woman. She had been sorry for Ruth, but
she could not honestly say that she had liked
her. She had divined only too well the ruthless
egoism that was the keynote of her personality, and it repelled her.
She had been amused and a trifle hurt by
the other's cool dismissal of her when she
had served her turn. That she had come to
some decision, Katherine was quite certain,
but she wondered now what that decision
had been. Whatever it was, death had
stepped in and made all decisions meaningless.
Strange that it should have been so, and
that a brutal crime should have been the
ending of that fateful journey. But suddenly
Katherine remembered a small fact that she
ought, perhaps, to have told the police--a
fact that had for the moment escaped her
memory. Was it of any real importance? She
had certainly thought that she had seen a man going into that particular compartment? but she realized that she might easily have
been mistaken. It might have been the coin nartinent next door, and certainly the man
in question could be no train robber. She
recalled him very clearly as she had seen him
on those two previous occasions--once at the
Savoy and once at Cook's office. No, doubtless
she had been mistaken. He had not gone
into the dead woman's compartment, and it
was perhaps as well that she had said nothing
to the police. She might have done incalculable
harm by doing so.
She went down to join the others on the
terrace outside. Through the branches of mimosa, she looked out over the blue of the
Mediterranean, and, whilst listening with
half an ear to Lady Tamplin's chatter, she
was glad that she had come. This was better
than St. Mary Mead.
That evening she put on the mauvy pink
dress that went by the name of soupir d'automne, and after smiling at her reflection in
the mirror, went downstairs with, for the first time in her life, a faint feeling of shyness.

Most of Lady Tamplin's guests had ar- ^ed, and since noise was the essential of
Lady Tamplin's parties, the din was already Critic. Chubby rushed up to Katherine, Passed a cocktail upon her, and took her ^tfcr his wing.
B 1 -»rt
"Oh, here you are, Derek," cried Lady Tamplin, as the door opened to admit the
last corner. "Now at last we can have something
to eat. I am starving."
Katherine looked across the room. She
was startled. So this--was Derek, and she
realized that she was not surprised. She had
always known that she would some day meet
the man whom she had seen three times by
such a curious chain of coincidences. She
thought, too, that he recognized her. He
paused abruptly in what he was saying to
Lady Tamplin, and went on again as though
with an effort. They all went in to dinner,
and Katherine found that he was placed beside
her. He turned to her at once with a
vivid smile.
"I knew I was going to meet you soon,"
he remarked, "but I never dreamt that it
would be here. It had to be, you know. Once
at the Savoy and once at Cook's--never
twice without three times. Don't say you
can't remember me or never noticed me. 1
insist upon your pretending that you noticed
me, anyway."
"Oh, I did," said Katherine; "but this is
not the third time. It is the fourth. I saw yo11 on the Blue Train."
"On the Blue Train!" Something unde finable came over his manner; she could not
have said just what it was. It was as though
he had received a check, a setback. Then he
said carelessly:
"What was the rumpus this morning?
Somebody had died, hadn't they?"
"Yes," said Katherine slowly; "somebody
had died."
"You shouldn't die on a train," remarked
Derek flippantly. "I believe it causes all sorts
of legal and international complications, and
it gives the train an excuse for being even
later than usual."
"Mr. Kettering?" A stout American lady,
who was sitting opposite, leaned forward and
spoke to him with the deliberate intonation
other race. "Mr. Kettering, I do believe you
have forgotten me, and I thought you such
a perfectly lovely man."
Derek leaned forward, answering her, and
Katherine sat almost dazed.
Kettering! That was the name, of course!
"he remembered it now—but what a
^ange, ironical situation! Here was this
^n whom she had seen go into his wife's
^npartment last night, who had left her
^e and well, and now he was sitting at
^ner, quite unconscious of the fate that
1/11
had befallen her. Of that there was no doubt.
He did not know.
A servant was leaning over Derek, handing
him a note and murmuring in his ear.
With a word of excuse to Lady Tamplin, he
broke it open, and an expression of utter
astonishment came over his face as he read;
then he looked at his hostess.
"This is most extraordinary. I say, Rosalie, I am afraid I will have to leave you.
The Prefect of Police wants to see me at once.
I can't think what about."
"Your sins have found you out," remarked
Lenox.
"They must have," said Derek, "probably
some idiotic nonsense, but I suppose I shall
have to push off to the Prefecture. How dare
the old boy rout me out from dinner? It
ought to be something deadly serious to justify
that," and he laughed as he pushed back
his chair and rose to leave the room.
Chapter 13
Van Aldin Gets a Telegram
on the afternoon of the 15th February a
thick yellow fog had settled down on London.
Rufus Van Aldin was in his suite at the
Savoy and was making the most of the atmospheric
conditions by working double
time. Knighton was overjoyed. He had
found it difficult of late to get his employer
to concentrate on the matters in hand. When
he had ventured to urge certain courses. Van
Aldin had put him off with a curt word. But
now Van Aldin seemed to be throwing himself
into work with redoubled energy, and
the secretary made the most of his oppor^nities.
Always tactful, he plied the spur so ^obtrusively that Van Aldin never susPected
it.
Yet in the middle of this absorption in ^siness matters, one little fact lay at the ^k of Van Aldin's mind. A chance remark 01 Knighton's, uttered by the secretary in all
unconsciousness, had given rise to it. It no\v
festered unseen, gradually reaching further
and further forward into Van Aldin's consciousness, until at last, in spite of himself
he had to yield to its insistence.
He listened to what Knighton was saying
with his usual air of keen attention, but in
reality not one word of it penetrated his
mind. He nodded automatically, however, and the secretary turned to some other paper.
As he was sorting them out, his employer
spoke:
"Do you mind telling me that over again,
Knighton?"
For a moment Knighton was at a loss.
"You mean about this, sir?" He held up
a closely written Company report.
"No, no," said Van Aldin; "what you told
me about seeing Ruth's maid in Paris last
night. I can't make it out. You must have
been mistaken."
"I can't have been mistaken, sir, I actually
spoke to her."
"Well, tell me the whole thing again."
Knighton complied.
"I had fixed up the deal with Barther
mers," he explained, "and had gone back to
the Ritz to pick up my traps preparatory to having dinner and catching the nine o'cloo
rrain from the Gare du Nord. At the reception
desk I saw a woman whom I was quite
sure was Mrs. Kettering's maid. I went up
to her and asked if Mrs. Kettering was staying
there."
"Yes, yes," said Van Aldin. "Of course.
Naturally. And she told you that Ruth had
gone on to the Riviera and had sent her to
the Ritz to await further orders there?"
"Exactly that, sir."
"It is very odd," said Van Aldin. "Very
odd, indeed, unless the woman had been
impertinent or something of that kind."
"In that case," objected Knighton, "surely Mrs. Kettering would have paid her
down a sum of money, and told her to go
back to England. She would hardly have sent
her to the Ritz."
"No," muttered the millionaire; "that's
true."
He was about to say something further,
but checked himself. He was fond of Knigh- ton and liked and trusted him, but he could
hardly discuss his daughter's private affairs ^th his secretary. He had already felt hurt
°y Ruth's lack of frankness, and this chance Urination which had come to him did ^thing to allay his misgivings.
^hy had Ruth got rid of her maid in
1 AH
Paris? What possible object or motive could
she have had in so doing?
He reflected for a moment or two on the
curious combination of chance. How should
it have occurred to Ruth, except as the wildest
coincidence, that the first person that
the maid should run across in Paris should
be her father's secretary? Ah, but that was
the way things happened. That was the way
things got found out.
He winced at the last phrase, it had arisen
with complete naturalness to his mind. Was
there then "something to be found out"? He
hated to put this question to himself; he had
no doubt of the answer. The answer was--
he was sure of it--Armand de la Roche.
It was bitter to Van Aldin that a daughter
of his should be gulled by such a man, yet
he was forced to admit that she was in good
company--that other well-bred and intelligent
women had succumbed just as easily to I
the Count's fascination. Men saw through
him, women did not.
He sought now for a phrase that would
allay any suspicion that his secretary migh1
have felt.
"Ruth is always changing her mind about
things at a moment's notice," he remarked;
and then he added in a would-be carele^ .
rone^ ^The maid didn't give any--er--reason
for this change of plan?"
Knighton was careful to make his voice as
natural as possible as he replied:
"She said, sir, that Mrs. Kettering had
met a friend unexpectedly."
"Is that so?"
The secretary's practised ears caught the
note of strain underlying the seemingly casual
tone.
"Oh, I see. Man or woman?"
"I think she said a man, sir."
Van Aldin nodded. His worst fears were
being realized. He rose from his chair, and
began pacing up and down the room, a habit
of his when agitated. Unable to contain his
feelings any longer, he burst forth:
'There is one thing no man can do, and
that is to get a woman to listen to reason.
Somehow or other, they don't seem to have any kind of sense. Talk of woman's instinct --why, it is well known all the world over Aat a woman is the surest mark for any rascally
swindler. Not one in ten of them knows a scoundrel when she meets one; they can De preyed on by any good-looking fellow ^th a soft side to his tongue. If I had my
Way___"
He was interrupted. A page-boy entered
with a telegram. Van Aldin tore it open, and
his face went a sudden chalky white. He
caught hold of the back of a chair to steady
himself, and waved the page-boy from the
room.
"What's the matter, sir?"
Knighton had risen in concern.
"Ruth!" said Van Aldin hoarsely.
"Mrs. Kettering?"
"Killed!"
"An accident to the train?"
Van Aldin shook his head.
"No. From this it seems she has been
robbed as well. They don't use the word,
Knighton, but my poor girl has been murdered."

"Oh, my God, sir!"
Van Aldin tapped the telegram with his
forefinger.
"This is from the police at Nice. I must
go out there by the first train."
Knighton was efficient as ever. He glanced
at the clock.
"Five o'clock from Victoria, sir."
"That's right. You will come with m^ Knighton. Tell my man. Archer, and pack your own things. See to everything here. 1
want to go round to Curzon Street."
The telephone rang sharply, and the secretary
lilted the receiver.
"Yes; who is it?"
Then to Van Aldin.
"Mr. Goby, sir."
"Goby? I can't see him now. No--wait, we have plenty of time. Tell them to send
him up."
Van Aldin was a strong man. Already he
had recovered that iron calm of his. Few
people would have noticed anything amiss
in his greeting to Mr. Goby.
"I am pressed for time. Goby. Got anything
important to tell me?"
Mr. Goby coughed.
"The movements of Mr. Kettering, sir.
You wished them reported to you."
"Yes--well?"
"Mr. Kettering, sir, left London for the
Riviera yesterday morning."
"What?"
Something in his voice must have startled Mr. Goby. That worthy gentleman departed ^om his usual practice of never looking at "^ person to whom he was talking, and stole a fleeting glance at the millionaire.
What train did he go on?" demanded ^n Aldin.
'The Blue Train, sir."
<('
1 AC\
Mr. Goby coughed again and spoke to the v
clock on the mantelpiece. •
"Mademoiselle Mirelle, the dancer froiJ
the Parthenon, went by the same train." I
Chapter 14
Ada Mason's Story
"I cannot repeat to you often enough. Monsieur, our horror, our consternation, and the
deep sympathy we feel for you."
Thus M. Carrege, the Juge dTnstruction, addressed Van Aldin. M. Caux, the Commissary, made sympathetic noises in his
throat. Van Aldin brushed away horror, consternation, and sympathy with an abrupt
gesture. The scene was the Examining Magistrate's
room at Nice. Besides M. Carrege, the Commissary, and Van Aldin, there was a further person in the room. It was that
Person who now spoke.
"M. Van Aldin," he said, "desires action ^swift action."
Ah!" cried the Commissary, "I have not yet presented you. M. Van Aldin, this is M.
j^rcule Poirot; you have doubtless heard of
lln- Although he has retired from his ^fession for some years now, his name is
still a household word as one of the greatest
living detectives."
"Pleased to meet you, M. Poirot," said
Van Aldin, falling back mechanically on a
formula that he had discarded some years
ago. "You have retired from your profession?"

"That is so, Monsieur. Now I enjoy the
world."
The little man made a grandiloquent gesture.

"M. Poirot happened to be travelling on
the Blue Train," explained the Commissary,
"and he has been so kind as to assist us out
of his vast experience."
The millionaire looked at Poirot keenly.
Then he said unexpectedly.:
"I am a very rich man, M. Poirot. It is
usually said that a rich man labours under
the belief that he can buy everything and
every one. That is not true. I am a big man
in my way, and one big man can ask a favour
from another big man."
Poirot nodded a quick appreciation.
"That is very well said, M. Van Aldin. I place myself entirely at your service."
"Thank you," said Van Aldin. "I can only saw call upon me at any time, and you w111
not find me ungrateful. And now, gentlemen,
to business."
"I propose," said M. Carrege, "to interrogate
the maid, Ada Mason. You have her
here, I understand?"
"Yes," said Van Aldin. "We picked her
up in Paris in passing through. She was very
upset to hear of her mistress's death, but she
tells her story coherently enough."
"We will have her in, then," said M. Carrege.
He
rang the bell on his desk, and in a few
minutes Ada Mason entered the room.
She was very neatly dressed in black, and
the tip of her nose was red. She had exchanged
her grey travelling gloves for a pair
of black suede ones. She cast a look round
the Examining Magistrate's office in some
trepidation, and seemed relieved at the presence
of her mistress's father. The Examining
Magistrate prided himself on his geniality of manner, and did his best to put her at her ^se. He was helped in this by Poirot, who ^ted as interpreter, and whose friendly banner was reassuring to the English- ^man.
^Your name is Ada Mason; is that right?"
Ada Beatrice I was christened, sir," said "^on primly.
fcl E
"Just so. And we can understand, Mason
that this has all been very distressing."
"Oh, indeed it has, sir. I have been with
many ladies and always given satisfaction, I
hope, and I never dreamt of anything of this
kind happening in any situation where I
was."
"No, no," said M. Carrege.
"Naturally I have read of such things, of
course, in the Sunday papers. And then I
always have understood that those foreign
trains----" She suddenly checked her flow,
remembering that the gentlemen who were
speaking to her were of the same nationality
as the trains.
"Now let us talk this affair over," said M.
Carrege. "There was, I understand, no question
of your staying in Paris when you started
from London?"
"Oh no, sir. We were to go straight
through to Nice."
"Have you ever been abroad with your
mistress before?"
"No, sir. I had only been with her two
months, you see."
"Did she seem quite as usual when starting
on this journey?"
"She was worried like and a bit upset, an^
was rather irritable and difficult to
she
please."
M. Carrege nodded.
"Now then. Mason, what was the first you
heard of your stopping in Paris?"
"It was at the place they call the Gare de
Lyon, sir. My mistress was thinking of getting
out and walking up and down the platform.
She was just going out into the
corridor when she gave a sudden exclamation, and came back into her compartment
with a gentleman. She shut the door between
her carriage and mine, so that I didn't see
or hear anything, till she suddenly opened it
again and told me that she had changed her
plans. She gave me some money and told me
to get out and go to the Ritz. They knew
her well there, she said, and would give me
a room. I was to wait there until I heard
from her, she would wire me what she
wanted me to do. I had just time to get my
things together and jump out of the train
before it started off. It was a rush."
"While Mrs. Kettering was telling you
this, where was the gentleman?"
"He was standing in the other compart- ^nt, sir, looking out of the window."
t "Can you describe him to us?"
I 'Well, you see, sir, I hardly saw him. He
had his back to me most of the time. He was
a tall gentleman and dark; that's all I can
say. He was dressed very like any other
gentleman in a dark blue overcoat and a grey
hat."
"Was he one of the passengers on the
train?"
"I don't think so, sir; I took it that he had
come to the station to see Mrs. Kettering in
passing through. Of course he might have
been one of the passengers; I never thought
of that."
Mason seemed a little flurried by the suggestion.

"Ahl" M. Carrege passed lightly to another
subject. "Your mistress later requested
the conductor not to rouse her early in the
morning. Was that a likely thing for her to
do, do you think?"
"Oh yes, sir. The mistress never ate any
breakfast and she didn't sleep well at nights,
so that she liked sleeping on in the morning."

Again M. Carrege passed to another subject.

"Amongst the luggage there was a scarlet
morocco case, was there not?" he asked. "Your mistress's jewel-case?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did you take that case to the Ritz?"
^Me take the mistress's jewel-case to the
Ritz! Oh no, indeed, sir." Mason's tones
were horrified.
"You left it behind you in the carriage?"
"Yes, sir."
"Had your mistress many jewels with her, do you know?"
"A fair amount, sir; made me a bit uneasy
sometimes, I can tell you, with those nasty
tales you hear of being robbed in foreign
countries. They were insured, I know, but
all the same it seemed a frightful risk. Why, the rubies alone, the mistress told me, were
worth several hundred thousand pounds."
"The rubies! What rubies?" barked Van
Aldin suddenly.
Mason turned to him.
"I think it was you who gave them to her, sir, not very long ago."
"My God!" cried Van Aldin. "You don't ^y she had those rubies with her? I told her to leave them at the Bank."
Mason gave once more the discreet cough ^ich was apparently part of her stock-in^ade
as a lady's maid. This time it expressed a good deal. It expressed far more clearly ^an words could have done, that Mason's
mistress had been a lady who took her own
way.
"Ruth must have been mad," muttered
Van Aldin. "What on earth could have possessed
her?"
M. Carrege in turn gave vent to a cough, again a cough of significance. It riveted Van
Aldin's attention on him.
"For the moment," said M. Carrege, addressing
Mason, "I think that is all. If you
will go into the next room, Mademoiselle,
they will read over to you the questions and
answers, and you will sign accordingly."
Mason went out escorted by the clerk, and
Van Aldin said immediately to the Magistrate:

"Well?"
M. Carrege opened a drawer in his desk,
took out a letter, and handed it across to Van
Aldin.
"This was found in Madame's handbag.
?5
"ch^re amie" (the letter ran),-- "I
will obey you, I will be prudent, discreet--all those things that a lover
most hates. Paris would perhaps have
been unwise, but the Isles d'Or are far
away from the world, and you may be
assured that nothing will leak out. It is
like y011 anc^ your divine sympathy to be
so interested in the work on famous jewels
that I am writing. It will, indeed, be
an extraordinary privilege to actually see
and handle these historic rubies. I am
devoting a special passage to 'Heart of
Fire.' My wonderful one! Soon I will
make up to you for all those sad years of
separation and emptiness.--Your everadoring,
"armand."
Chapter 15
The Comte De La Roche
van aldin read the letter through in silence.
His face turned a dull angry crimson. The
men watching him saw the veins start out
on his forehead, and his big hands clench
themselves unconsciously. He handed back
the letter without a word. M. Carrege was
looking with close attention at his desk, M.
Caux's eyes were fixed upon the ceiling, and
M. Hercule Poirot was tenderly brushing a
speck of dust from his coat sleeve. With the
greatest tact they none of them looked at Van
Aldin.
It was M. Carrege, mindful of his status
and his duties, who tackled the unpleasant
subject.
"Perhaps, Monsieur," he murmured,
"you are aware by whom--er--this letter
was written?"
"Yes, I know," said Van Aldin heavily. "Ah?" said the Magistrate inquiringly "A scoundrel who calls himself the Comte
je la Roche."
There was a pause; then M. Poirot leaned
forward, straightened a ruler on the judge's
desk, and addressed the millionaire directly.
"M. Van Aldin, we are all sensible, deeply
sensible, of the pain it must give you to speak
of these matters, but believe me. Monsieur,
it is not the time for concealments. If justice
is to be done, we must know everything. If
you will reflect a little minute you will realize
the truth of that clearly for yourself."
Van Aldin was silent for a moment or two,
then almost reluctantly he nodded his head
in agreement.
"You are quite right, M. Poirot," he said.
"Painful as it is, I have no right to keep
anything back."
The Commissary gave a sigh of relief, and
the Examining Magistrate leaned back in his
^air and adjusted a pince-nez on his long
Am nose.
"Perhaps you will tell us in your own
^rds, M. Van Aldin," he said, "all that you
know of this gentleman."
"It began eleven or twelve years ago—in
^aris. My daughter was a young girl then,
^ of foolish, romantic notions, like all
Young girls are. Unknown to me, she made
fc. i m , ^ i
the acquaintance of this Comte de la ro( he.
You have heard of him, perhaps?"
The Commissary and Poirot nodded in assent.

"He calls himself the Comte de la Roche," continued Van Aldin, "but I doubt if he has
any right to the title."
55
"You would not have found his name in
the Almanac de Goiha," agreed the Commissary.

"I discovered as much," said Van Aldin.
"The man was a good-looking, plausible
scoundrel, with a fatal fascination for
women. Ruth was infatuated with him, but
I soon put a stop to the whole affair. The
man was no better than a common swindler."

"You are quite right," said the Commissary.
"The Comte de la Roche is well known
to us. If it were possible, we should have
laid him by the heels before now, but wa
foil it is not easy; the fellow is cunning, his
affairs are always conducted with ladies of
high social position. If he obtains money
from them under false pretences or as the
fruit of blackmail, eh bien! naturally they will
not prosecute. To look foolish in the eyes oi
the world, oh no, that would never do, and he has an extraordinary power over women.
"That is so," said the millionaire heavily. ((^ell? as I told you, I broke the affair up
nretty sharply. I told Ruth exactly what he was, and she had, perforce, to believe me.
About a year afterwards, she met her present
husband and married him. As far as I knew, that was the end of the matter; but only a
week ago, I discovered, to my amazement, that my daughter had resumed her acquaintance
with the Comte de la Roche. She had
been meeting him frequently in London and
Paris. I remonstrated with her on her imprudence, for I may tell you gentlemen, that, on my insistence, she was preparing to bring
a suit for divorce against her husband."
"That is interesting," murmured Poirot
softly, his eyes on the ceiling.
Van Aldin looked at him sharply, and then
went on.
"I pointed out to her the folly of continuing
to see the Comte under the circumstances.
I thought she agreed with me."
The Examining Magistrate coughed delicately.

"But according to this letter----" he be- S^and then stopped.
Van Aldin's jaw set itself squarely.
I know. It's no good mincing matters. However unpleasant, we have got to face
facts. It seems clear that Ruth had arranged
to go to Paris and meet de la Roche there.
After my warnings to her, however, she must
have written to the Count suggesting a
change of rendezvous."
"The Isles d'Or," said the Commissary
thoughtfully, "are situated just opposite
Hyeres, a remote and idyllic spot."
Van Aldin nodded.
"My God! How could Ruth be such a
fool?" he exclaimed bitterly. "All this talk
about writing a book on jewels! Why, he
must have been after the rubies from the
first."
"There are some very famous rubies,"
said Poirot, "originally part of the Crown
jewels of Russia; they are unique in character, and their value is almost fabulous.
There has been a rumour that they have
lately passed into the possession of an American.
Are we right in concluding. Monsieur,
that you were the purchaser?"
"Yes," said Van Aldin. "They came imo
my possession in Paris about ten days ago.'
"Pardon me, Monsieur, but you have been negotiating for their purchase for some
time?"
"A little over two months. Why?"
"These things become known," said
poirot. "There is always a pretty formidable
crowd on the track of jewels such as these."
A spasm distorted the other's face.
"I remember," he said brokenly, "a joke
I made to Ruth when I gave them to her. I
told her not to take them to the Riviera with
her, as I could not afford to have her robbed
and murdered for the sake of the jewels. My
God! the things one says--never dreaming
or knowing they will come true."
There was a sympathetic silence, and then
Poirot spoke in a detached manner.
"Let us arrange our facts with order and
precision. According to our present theory, this is how they run. The Comte de la Roche
knows of your purchase of these jewels. By
an easy stratagem he induces Madame Kettering
to bring the stones with her. He, then, is the man Mason saw in the train at Paris."
The other three nodded in agreement.
"Madame is surprised to see him, but she
deals with the situation promptly. Mason is
got out of the way; a dinner basket is ordered.
We know from the conductor that he "^de up the berth for the first compartment,
^t he did not go into the second compart- ^nt, and that a man could quite well have "^n concealed from him. So far the Comte ^Id have been hidden to a marvel. No
one knows of his presence on the train except
Madame, he has been careful that the maid
did not see his face. All that she could say
is that he was tall and dark. It is all most
conveniently vague. They are alone--and
the train rushes through the night. There
would be no outcry, no struggle, for the man
is, so she thinks, her lover."
He turned gently to Van Aldin.
"Death, Monseiur, must have been almost
instantaneous. We will pass over that
quickly. The Comte takes the jewel-case
which lies ready to his hand. Shortly afterwards
the train draws into Lyons."
M. Carrege nodded his approval.
"Precisely. The conductor without descends.
It would be easy for our man to leave
the train unseen; it would be easy to catch
a train back to Paris or anywhere he pleases.
And the crime would be put down as an
ordinary train robbery. But for the letter
found in Madame's bag, the Comte would
not have been mentioned."
"It was an oversight on his part not to
search that bag," declared the Commissary.
I
"Without doubt he thought she had destroyed
that letter. It was--pardon m^ |
Monsieur--it was an indiscretion of the first
water to keep it."
"And yet," murmured Poirot, "it was an
indiscretion the Comte might have fore?5
seen. "You mean?"
"I mean we are all agreed on one point, and that is that the Comte de la Roche knows
one subject a fond: Women. How was it that, knowing women as he does, he did not foresee
that Madame would have kept that letter?"

"Yes--yes," said the Examining Magistrate
doubtfully, "there is something in what
you say. But at such times, you understand, a man is not master of himself. He does not
reason calmly. Mon Dieu!" he added, with
feeling, "if our criminals kept their heads
and acted with intelligence, how should we
capture them?"
Poirot smiled to himself.
"It seems to me a clear case," said the ^her, "but a difficult one to prove. The ^onite is a slippery customer, and unless ^ maid can identify him----"
''Which is most unlikely," said Poirot.
'True, true." The Examining Magistrate ^bed his chin. "It is going to be difficult."
"If he did indeed commit the crime--^ began Poirot. M. Caux interrupted.
"If--you say if?9'
"Yes, Monsieur Ie Juge, I say if."
The other looked at him sharply. "You
are right," he said at last, "we go too fast.
It is possible that the Comte may have an
alibi. Then we should look foolish."
"Ah, qa par exemple," replied Poirot, "that
is of no importance whatever. Naturally, if
he committed the crime he will have an alibi.
A man with the Comte's experience does not
neglect to take precautions. No, I said if for
a very different reason."
"And what was that?"
Poirot wagged an emphatic forefinger.
"The psychology."
"Eh?" said the Commissary.
"The psychology is at fault. The Comte
is a scoundrel--yes. The Comte is a
swindler--yes. The Comte preys upon
women--yes. He proposes to steal Madame's
jewels--again yes. Is he the kind of
man to commit murder? I say no! A man of
the type of the Comte is always a coward;
he takes no risks. He plays the safe, the
mean, what the English call the lowdown
game; but murder, a hundred times no!" HE shook his head in a dissatisfied manner.
The Examining Magistrate, however, did
.,ot seem disposed to agree with him.
"The day always comes when such gentry
lose their heads and go too far," he observed
sagely. "Doubtless that is the case here.
Without wishing to disagree with you, M.
poirot——"
"It was only an opinion," Poirot hastened
to explain. "The case is, of course, in your
hands, and you will do what seems fit to
you."
"I am satisfied in my own mind that the
Comte de la Roche is the man we need to
get hold of," said M. Carrege. "You agree
with me. Monsieur Ie Commissaire?
"Perfectly."
"And you, M. Van Aldin?"
"Yes," said the millionaire. "Yes, the man
is a thorough-paced villain, no doubt about
it."
"It will be difficult to lay hands on him,
I am afraid," said the Magistrate, "but we
^11 do our best. Telegraphed instructions
shall go out at once."
^ "Permit me to assist you," said Poirot.
'There need be no difficulty."
"Eh?"
The others stared at him. The little man
^iled beamingly back at them.
fc I I
"It is my business to know things." he
explained. "The Comte is a man of intelligence.
He is at present at a villa he has
leased, the Villa Marina at Antibes."
Chapter 16
Poirot Discusses the Case
everybody looked respectfully at Poirot.
Undoubtedly the little man had scored heavily.
The Commissary laughed--on a rather
hollow note.
"You teach us all our business," he cried.
"M. Poirot knows more than the police."
Poirot gazed complacently at the ceiling, adopting a mock-modest air.
"What will you; it is my little hobby," he murmured, "to know things. Naturally I
have the time to indulge it. I am not overburdened
with affairs."
"Ah!" said the Commissary shaking his ^ead portentously. "As for me----"
He made an exaggerated gesture to rep- ^sent the cares that lay on his shoulders.
Poirot turned suddenly to Van Aldin.
"You agree. Monsieur, with this view? you feel certain that the Comte de la Roche
is ^ murderer?"
L . I I
"Why, it would seem so--yes, certain y."
Something guarded in the answer made
the Examining Magistrate look at the American
curiously. Van Aldin seemed aware of
his scrutiny and made an effort as though to
shake off some preoccupation.
"What about my son-in-law?" he asked.
"You have acquainted him with the news? He is in Nice, I understand."
"Certainly, Monsieur." The Commissary
hesitated, and then murmured very discreetly:
"You are doubtless aware, M. Van
Aldin, that M. Kettering was also one of the
passengers on the Blue Train that night?"
The millionaire nodded.
"Heard it just before I left London," he
vouchsafed laconically.
"He tells us," continued the Commissary,
"that he had no idea his wife was travelling
on the train."
"I bet he hadn't," said Van Aldin grimly.
"It would have been rather a nasty shock to
him if he'd come across her on it."
The three men looked at him questioningly.
^
"I'm not going to mince matters," saifl Van Aldin savagely. "No one knows what
my poor girl has had to put up with. Dere^
Kettering wasn't alone. He had a lady with
him." "Ah?" "Mirelle--the dancer."
M. Carrege and the Commissary looked
at each other and nodded as though confirming
some previous conversation. M. Carrege
leaned back in his chair, joined his hands, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
"Ah!" he murmured again. "One wondered."
He coughed. "One has heard rumours."
"The lady," said ,M. Caux, "is very notorious."
"And also," murmured Poirot softly,
"very expensive."
Van Aldin had gone very red in the face.
He leant forward and hit the table a bang
with his fist.
"See here," he cried, "my son-in-law is a
damned scoundrel!"
He glared at them, looking from one face ^ another.
"Oh, I know," he went on. "Good looks ^d a charming, easy manner. It took me in
°nce upon a time. I suppose he pretended 0 be broken-hearted when you broke the
^Ws to him--that is, if he didn't know it ^ready.55
"Oh, it came as a complete surprise to
him. He was overwhelmed."
"Darned young hypocrite," said Van Aldin.
"Simulated great grief, I suppose?"
"N--no," said the Commissary cautiously.
"I would not quite say that--eh, M
Carrege?"
The Magistrate brought the tips of his fingers
together, and half closed his eyes.
"Shock, bewilderment, horror--these
things, yes," he declared judicially. "Great
sorrow--no--I should not say that."
Hercule Poirot spoke once more.
"Permit me to ask, M. Van Aldin, does
M. Kettering benefit by the death of his
wife?"
"He benefits to the tune of a couple of
millions," said Van Aldin.
"Dollars?"
"Pounds. I settled that sum on Ruth absolutely
on her marriage. She made no will
and leaves no children, so the money will g°
to her husband."
"Whom she was on the point of divorcing,"
murmured Poirot. "Ah, yes--precise'
ment" .
The Commissary turned and looked sharply at him.
"Do you mean----" he began.
<<I mean nothing," said Poirot. "I arrange the facts, that is all."
Van Aldin stared at him with awakening
interest.
The little man rose to his feet.
<<I do not think I can be of any further
service to you, M. Ie Juge," he said politely, bowing to M. Carrege. "You will keep me
itbrmed of the course of events? It will be
aKindness."
f"But certainly--most certainly."
Van Aldin rose also.
"You don't want me any more at present?"

"No, Monsieur; we have all the information
we need for the moment."
"Then I will walk a little way with M.
Pjirot. That is, if he does not object?"
Enchanted, Monsieur," said the little
Bin, with a bow.
|van Aldin lighted a large cigar, having ^t offered one to Poirot, who declined it ^d lit one of his own tiny cigarettes. A man
°fl great strength of character. Van Aldin al- ^ady appeared to be his everyday, normal W once more. After strolling along for a Minute or two in silence, the millionaire
^oke:
r
I
"I take it, M. Poirot, that you no longer
exercise your profession?"
"That is so. Monsieur. I enjoy the world."
"Yet you are assisting the police in this
affair?"
"Monsieur, if a doctor walks along the
street and an accident happens, does he say, 'I have retired from my profession, I will
continue my walk,5 when there is some one
bleeding to death at his feet? If I had been
already in Nice, and the police had sent to
me and asked me to assist them, I should
have refused. But this affair, the good God
thrust it upon me."
"You were on the spot," said Van Aldin
thoughtfully. "You examined the compartment,
did you not?"
Poirot nodded.
"Doubtless you found things that were,
shall we say, suggestive to you?"
"Perhaps," said Poirot.
"I hope you see what I am leading up to?
said Van Aldin. "It seems to me that the case
against this Comte de la Roche is perfectly
clear, but I am not a fool. 1 have been watching
you for this last hour or so, and I really that for some reason of your own you don t
agree with that theory?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I may be wrong."
"So we come to the favour I want to ask you. Will you act in this matter for me?"
"For you personally?"
"That was my meaning."
poirot was silent for a moment or two.
Then he said:
"You realize what you are asking?"
"I guess so," said Van Aldin.
"Very well," said Poirot. "I accept. But
in that case, I must have frank answers to
my questions."
"Why, certainly. That is understood."
Poirot's manner changed. He became suddenly
brusque and businesslike.
"This question of a divorce," he said. "It
was you who advised your daughter to bring
the suit?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"About ten days ago. I had had a letter from her complaining of her husband's behaviour, and I put it to her very strongly that divorce was the only remedy."
In what way did she complain of his be- ^viour?"
He was being seen about with a very no- ^lous lady--the one we have been speaking ^-Mirelle."
"The dancer. Ah-ha! And Madame Ket< tering objected? Was she very devoted to her
husband?"
"I would not say that," said Van Aldin
hesitating a little.
"It was not her heart that suffered, it was
her pride--is that what you would say?"
"Yes, I suppose you might put it like
that."
"I gather that the marriage had not been
a happy one from the beginning?"
"Derek Kettering is rotten to the core,"
said Van Aldin. "He is incapable of making
any woman happy."
"He is, as you say in England, a bad lot.
That is right, is it not?"
Van Aldin nodded.
^Tres bien! You advise Madame to seek a
divorce, she agrees; you consult your solicitors.
When does M. Kettering get news of
what is in the wind?"
"I sent for him myself, and explained the
course of action I proposed to take."
"And what did he say?" murmured Poirot
softly.
Van Aldin's face darkened at the reinen1'
brance.
"He was infernally impudent."
I
"Excuse the question. Monsieur, but did
he ^er to ^le Comte de la Roche?"
"Not by name," growled the other unwillingly? "but he showed himself cognizant
of the affair."
"What, if I may ask, was M. Kettering's
financial position at the time?"
"How do you suppose I should know
that?" asked Van Aldin, after a very brief
hesitation.
"It seemed likely to me that you would
inform yourself on that point."
"Well--you are quite right, I did. I discovered
that Kettering was on the rocks."
"And now he has inherited two million
pounds! La me--it is a strange thing, is it
not?"
Van Aldin looked at him sharply.
"What do you mean?"
"I moralize," said Poirot. "I reflect, I ^eak the philosophy. But to return to where ^ were. Surely M. Kettering did not proPose
to allow himself to be divorced without ^king a fight for it?"
Van Aldin did not answer for a minute or tw0. then he said:
'I don't exactly know what his intentions
Were.'*
1 '~if\
"Did you hold any further communications
with him?"
Again a slight pause, then Van Aldin said1
"No."
Poirot stopped dead, took off his hat, and
held out his hand.
"I must wish you good-day. Monsieur. I
can do nothing for you."
"What are you getting at?" demanded Van
Aldin angrily.
"If you do not tell me the truth, I can do
nothing."
"I don't know what you mean."
"I think you do. You may rest assured, M. Van Aldin, that I know how to be discreet."
"Very well, then," said the millionaire.
"I'll admit that I was not speaking the truth
just now. I did have further communication
with my son-in-law."
"Yes?"
"To be exact, I sent my secretary, Major
Knighton, to see him, with instructions to
offer him the sum of one hundred thousand
pounds in cash if the divorce went through
undefended."
"A pretty sum of money," said Poirot appreciatively;
"and the answer of Monsie111" your son-in-law?"
"He sent back word that I could go to
hell " replied the millionaire succinctly.
"Ah!" said Poirot.
He betrayed no emotion of any kind. At
the moment he was engaged in methodically
recording facts.
"Monsieur Kettering has told the police
that he neither saw nor spoke to his wife on
the journey from England. Are you inclined
to believe that statement. Monsieur?"
"Yes, I am," said Van Aldin. "He would
take particular pains to keep out of her way, I should say."
"Why?"
"Because he had got that woman with
him."
"Mirelle?"
"Yes."
"How did you come to know that fact?"
"A man of mine, whom I had put on to watch him, reported to me that they had
both left by that train."
"I see," said Poirot. "In that case, as you ^id before, he would not be likely to attempt to hold any communication with Madame Uttering."
^he little man fell silent for some time.
^ Aldin did not interrupt his meditation.
L.^^RL
1^^^-------- 101
Chapter 17
An Aristocrat/c Gent/eman
"You have been to the Riviera before,
Georges?" said Poirot to his valet the following
morning.
George was an intensely English, rather
wooden-faced individual.
"Yes, sir. I was here two years ago when
I was in the service of Lord Edward Frampton."
"And
to-day," murmured his master,
"you are here with Hercule Poirot. How one
mounts in the world!"
The valet made no reply to this observation.
After a suitable pause he asked:
"The brown lounge suit, sir? The wind is
somewhat chilly today."
"There is a grease spot on the waistcoat, objected Poirot. "A morceau of Filet de soU
a laJeanette alighted there when I was lunch'
ing at the Ritz last Tuesday."
"There is no spot there now, sir," said
George reproachfully. "I have removed it."
^Tres bien!" said Poirot. "I am pleased
with you, Georges."
"Thank you, sir."
There was a pause, and then Poirot murmured
dreamily:
"Supposing, my good Georges, that you
had been born in the same social sphere as
your late master. Lord Edward Frampton--
that, penniless yourself, you had married an
extremely wealthy wife, but that that wife
proposed to divorce you, with excellent reasons, what would you do about it?"
"I should endeavour, sir," replied George, "to make her change her mind."
"By peaceful or by forcible methods?"
George looked shocked.
"You will excuse me, sir," he said, "but a gentleman of the aristocracy would not behave
like a Whitechapel coster. He would not do anything low."
"Would he not, Georges? I wonder now. ^H? perhaps you are right."
There was a knock on the door. George ^nt to it and opened it a discreet inch or w0. A low murmured colloquy went on, and yien the valet returned to Poirot. 'A note, sir."
Poirot took it. It was from M. Caux, the
Commissary of Police.
"We are about to interrogate the Corate
de la Roche. The Juge dTnstruction begs
that you will be present."
"Quickly, my suit, Georges' I must hasten
myself."
A quarter of an hour later, spick and span
in his brown suit, Poirot entered the Examining
Magistrate's room. M. Caux was
already there, and both he and M. Carrege
greeted Poirot with polite empressement.
"The affair is somewhat discouraging,"
murmured M. Caux.
"It appears that the Comte arrived in Nice
the day before the murder."
"If that is true, it will settle your affair
nicely for you," responded Poirot.
M. Carrege cleared his throat.
"We must not accept this alibi without
very cautious inquiry," he declared. He
struck the bell upon the table with his hand.
In another minute a tall dark man, exquisitely
dressed, with a somewhat haughty
cast of countenance, entered the room. So
very aristocratic-looking was the Count, that
it would have seemed sheer heresy even to
whisper that his father had been an obscure
corn-chandler in Nantes--which, as a m31'
rer of fact, was the case. Looking at him, one would have been prepared to swear that
innumerable ancestors of his must have perished
by the guillotine in the French Revolution.

"I am here, gentlemen," said the Count
haughtily. "May I ask why you wish to see
me?"
"Pray be seated,Monsieur Ie Comte," said
the Examining Magistrate politely. "It is the
affair of the death ofMadame Kettering that
we are investigating."
"The death of Madame Kettering? I do
not understand."
"You were--ahem!--acquainted with the
lady, I believe. Monsieur Ie Comte?"
"Certainly I was acquainted with her.
What has that to do with the matter?"
Sticking an eyeglass in his eye, he looked
coldly round the room, his glance resting longest on Poirot, who was gazing at him TOh a kind of simple, innocent admiration which was most pleasing to the Count's van- ^y- M. Carrege leaned back in his chair and beared his throat.
'You do not perhaps know. Monsieur Ie ^te^--he paused--"that Madame Ket- ^ng was murdered?"
'Murdered? Mon Dieu, how terrible!"
i nc
The surprise and the sorrow were excellently
done--so well done, indeed, as to » seem wholly natural.
"Madame Kettering was strangled between
Paris and Lyons," continued M. Carrege,
"and her jewels were stolen."
"It is iniquitous!" cried the Count
warmly; "the police should do something
about these train bandits. Nowadays no one
is safe."
"In Madame's handbag," continued the
Judge, "we found a letter to her from you.
She had, it seemed, arranged to meet you?"
The Count shrugged his shoulders and
spread out his hands.
"Of what use are concealments," he said
frankly. "We are all men of the world. Privately
and between ourselves, I admit the
affair."
"You met her in Paris and travelled down
with her, I believe?" said M. Carrege.
"That was the original arrangement, but
by Madame5 s wish it was changed. I was to
meet her at Hyeres."
"You did not meet her on the train at the
Gare de Lyon on the evening of the 14th.
"On the contrary, I arrived in Nice on the morning of that day, so what you suggest 1s impossible."
^
"Quite so, quite so," said M. Carrege. "As
a mat161* °^ f011111? Y011 would perhaps give
me an account of your movements during
the evening and night of the 14th."
The Count reflected for a minute.
"I dined in Monte Carlo at the Cafe de
Paris. Afterwards I went to the Le Sporting.
I won a few thousand francs," he shrugged
his shoulders. "I returned home at perhaps
one o'clock."
"Pardon me. Monsieur, but how did you
return home?"
"In my own two-seater car."
"No one was with you?"
"No one."
"You could produce witnesses in support
of this statement?"
"Doubtless many of my friends saw me
there that evening. I dined alone."
"Your servant admitted you on your return
to your villa?"
"I let myself in with my own latchkey."
Ah!" murmured the Magistrate.
Again he struck the bell on the table with ^s hand. The door opened, and a messenger Speared.
^ 'Bring in the maid. Mason," said M. Car-
^ge.
Very good. Monsieur le Juge."
«<
Ada Mason was brought in.
"Will you be so good. Mademoiselle, as
to look at this gentleman. To the best of your
ability was it he who entered your mistress's
compartment in Paris?"
The woman looked long and searchingly
at the Count, who was, Poirot fancied, rather
uneasy under this scrutiny.
"I could not say, sir, I am sure," said
Mason at last. "It might be and again it
might not. Seeing as how I only saw his back,
it's hard to say. I rather think it was the
gentleman."
"But you are not sure?"
"No--o," said Mason unwillingly, "n--
no, I am not sure."
"You have seen this gentleman before in
Curzon Street?"
Mason shook her head.
"I should not be likely to see any visitors
that come to Curzon Street," she explained,
"unless they were staying in the house."
"Very well, that will do," said the Examining
Magistrate sharply.
Evidently he was disappointed.
"One moment," said Poirot. "There is a question I would like to put to Mademoiselle,
if I may?"
"Certainly, M. Poirot--certainly, by all
means."
Poirot addressed himself to the maid.
"What happened to the tickets?"
"The tickets.sir?"
"Yes; the tickets from London to Nice.
Did you or your mistress have them?"
"The mistress had her own Pullman
ticket, sir; the others were in my charge."
"What happened to them?"
"I gave them to the conductor on the
French train, sir; he said it was usual. I hope
I did right, sir?"
"Oh, quite right, quite right. A mere matter
of detail."
Both M. Caux and the Examining Magistrate
looked at him curiously. Mason stood
uncertainly for a minute or two, and then
the Magistrate gave her a brief nod of dismissal, and she went out. Poirot scribbled
something on a scrap of paper and handed
it across to M. Carrege. The latter read it ^d his brow cleared.
"Well, gentlemen," demanded the Count ^ughtily, "am I to be detained further?"
"Assuredly not, assuredly not," M. Car- ^ge hastened to say, with a great deal of Liability. "Everything is now cleared up as ^gards your own position in this affair. Nat-
urally, in view of Madame's letter, we were
bound to question you."
The Count rose, picked up his handsome
stick from the corner, and, with rather a curt
bow, left the room.
"And that is that," said M. Carrege. "You
were quite right, M. Poirot—much better
to let him feel he is not suspected. Two of
my men will shadow him night and day, and
at the same time we will go into the question
of the alibi. It seems to me rather—er—a
fluid one."
"Possibly," agreed Poirot thoughtfully.
"I asked M. Kettering to come here
this morning." continued the Magistrate,
"though really I doubt if we have much to
ask him, but there are one or two suspicious
circumstances——" He paused, rubbing his
nose.
"Such as?" asked Poirot.
"Well"—the Magistrate coughed—"this
lady with whom he is said to be travelling
—Mademoiselle Mirelle. She is staying at
one hotel and he at another. That strikes
me—er—as rather odd."
"It looks," said M. Caux, "as though they
were being careful."
'Exactly," said M. Carrege triumphantly?
and what should they have to be careful
a
about?" "An excess of caution is suspicious, eh?"
said Poirot.
"Precisement."
"We might, I think," murmured Poirot, "ask M. Kettering one or two questions."
The Magistrate gave instructions. A moment
or two later, Derek Kettering, debonair
as ever, entered the room.
"Good morning. Monsieur," said the
Judge politely.
"Good morning," said Derek Kettering
curtly. "You sent for me. Has anything fresh
turned up?"
"Pray sit down. Monsieur."
Derek took a seat and flung his hat and
stick on the table.
"Well?" he asked impatiently.
"We have, so far, no fresh data," said M. Carrege cautiously.
"That's very interesting," said Derek
drily. "Did yoy ggi^ f^ ^g i^g iQ order
to tell me that?"
"We naturally thought. Monsieur, that ^n would like to be informed of the progress 01 the case," said the Magistrate severely.
'Even if the progress was nonexistent."
«i
"We also wished to ask you a few questions."
"Ask away."
"You are quite sure that you neither saw
nor spoke with your wife on the train?"
"I've answered that already. I did not." "You had, no doubt, your reasons."
Derek stared at him suspiciously.
"I--did--not--know--she--was--on--
the--train," he explained, spacing his words
elaborately, as though to some one dull of
intellect.
"That is what you say, yes," murmured
M. Carrege.
A frown suffused Derek5 s face.
"I should like to know what you're driving
at. Do you know what I think, M. Carrege?"
"What do you think, Monsieur?"
"I think the French police are vastly overrated.
Surely you must have some data as to
these gangs of train robbers. It's outrageous
J
that such a thing could happen on a train de
luxe like that, and that the French police should be helpless to deal with the matter. ,
"We are dealing with it, Monsieur, never
fear."
"Madame Kettering, I understand, did
not leave a will," interposed Poirot slid' ,
denly- His fingertips were joined together, and he was looking intently at the ceiling.
"I don't think she ever made one," said
Kettering. "Why?"
"It is a very pretty little fortune that you
inherit there," said Poirot--"a very pretty
little fortune."
Although his eyes were still on the ceiling, he managed to see the dark flush that rose
to Derek Kettering5 s face.
"What do you mean, and who are you?"
Poirot gently uncrossed his knees, withdrew
his gaze from the ceiling, and looked
the young man full in the face.
"My name is Hercule Poirot," he said quietly, "and I am probably the greatest detective
in the world. You are quite sure that
you did not see or speak to your wife on that
train?"
"What are you getting at? Do you--do
you mean to insinuate that I--I killed her?"
He laughed suddenly.
"I mustn't lose my temper, it's too palPably
absurd. Why, if I killed her I should have had no need to steal her jewels, would
A
kt That is true," murmured Poirot, with a
rather crestfallen air. "I did not think of
that.5'
"If ever there were a clear case of murder
and robbery, this is it," said Derek Kettering.
"Poor Ruth, it was those damned rubies
did for her. It must have got about she
had them with her. There has been murder
done for those same stones before now, I believe."

Poirot sat up suddenly in his chair. A very
faint green light glowed in his eyes. He
looked extraordinarily like a sleek, well-fed
cat.
"One more question, M. Kettering," he
said. "Will you give me the date when you
last saw your wife?"
"Let me see," Kettering reflected. "It
must have been--yes over three weeks ago.
I am afraid I can't give you the date exactly."

"No matter," said Poirot drily; "that is
all I wanted to know."
"Well," said Derek Kettering impatiently, "anything further?"
He looked towards M. Carrege. The latter
sought inspiration from Poirot, and received
it in a very faint shake of the head.
"No, M. Kettering," he said politely;
"no, I do not think we need trouble you any
further. I wish you good morning."
"Good morning," said Kettering. He vyent out, banging the door behind him.
poirot leaned forward and spoke sharply, as soon as the young man was out of the
room. "Tell me," he said peremptorily, "when
did you speak of these rubies to M. Kettering?"
"I have not spoken of them," said M. Car-
rege. "It was only yesterday afternoon that
we learnt about them from M. Van Aldin."
"Yes; but there was a mention of them in
the Comte's letter."
M. Carrege looked pained.
"Naturally I did not speak of that letter
to M. Kettering," he said in a shocked voice.
"It would have been most indiscreet at the
present juncture of affairs."
Poirot leaned forward and tapped the table.

"Then how did he know about them?" he demanded softly. "Madame could not
have told him, for he has not seen her for ^hree weeks. It seems unlikely that either M. Y^ Aldin or his secretary would have mentioned
them; their interviews with him have ^en on entirely different lines, and there uas not been any hint or reference to them
m ^e newspapers."
I, I
i r\f
He got up and took his hat and stick.
"And yet," he murmured to himself, "our
gentleman knows all about them. I wonder i
now, yes, I wonder!"
Chapter 18
Derek Lunches
derek kettering went straight to the Negresco,
where he ordered a couple of cocktails
and disposed of them rapidly; then he
stared moodily out over the dazzling blue
sea. He noted the passers-by mechanically
--a damned dull crowd, badly dressed, and
painfully uninteresting; one hardly ever saw
anything worth while nowadays. Then he
corrected this last impression rapidly, as a
woman placed herself at a table a little distance
away from him. She was wearing a marvellous
confection of orange and black, with a little hat that shaded her face. He ordered a ^ird cocktail; again he stared out to sea, and ^en suddenly he started. A well-known per- tiune assailed his nostrils, and he looked up
A " ----
[0 see the orange-and-black lady standing be- ^de him. He saw her face now, and recognized uer- It was Mirelle. She was smiling that in- ^lent, seductive smile he knew so well.
"Dereekl" she murmured. "You are
pleased to see me, no?"
She dropped into a seat the other side of
the table.
"But welcome me, then, stupid one," she
mocked.
"This is an unexpected pleasure," said
Derek. "When did you leave London?"
She shrugged her shoulders.
"A day or two ago."
"And the Parthenon?"
"I have, how do you say it?--given them
the chuck!"
"Really?"
"You are not very amiable, Dereek."
"Do you expect me to be?"
Mirelle lit a cigarette and puffed at it for
a few minutes before saying:
"You think, perhaps, that it is not prudent
so soon?"
Derek stared at her, then he shrugged his
shoulders, and remarked formally:
"You are lunching here?"
"Mais oui. I am lunching with you."
"I am extremely sorry," said Derek. "I have a very important engagement."
"Mon Dieu! But you men are like children,"
exclaimed the dancer. "But yes, itls the spoilt child that you act to me, ever since
that day in London when you flung yourself
out of my flat, you sulk. Ah! mais c'est inoui!"
"My dear girl," said Derek, "I really don't
know what you are talking about. We agreed
in London that rats desert a sinking ship, that is all that there is to be said."
In spite of his careless words, his face
looked haggard and strained. Mirelle leaned
forward suddenly.
"You cannot deceive me," she murmured.
"I know--I know what you have done for
me."
He looked up at her sharply. Some undercurrent
in her voice arrested his attention.
She nodded her head at him.
"Ah! have no fear; I am discreet. You are
magnificent! You have a superb courage, but, all the same, it was I who gave you the
idea that day, when I said to you in London
that accidents sometimes happened. And
you are not in danger? The police do not
suspect you?"
"What the devil----"
"Hush!"
She held up a slim olive hand with one big herald on the little finger.
"You are right; I should not have spoken s0 ^ a public place. We will not speak of ule matter again, but our troubles are ended;
L . I
our life together will be wonderful--won
derful!"
Derek laughed suddenly--a harsh, disagreeable
laugh.
"So the rats come back, do they? Two
million makes a difference--of course h
does. I ought to have known that." He
laughed again. "You will help me to spend
that two million, won't you, Mirelle? You
know how, no woman better." He laughed
again.
"Hush!" cried the dancer. "What is the
matter with you, Dereek? See--people are
turning to stare at you."
"Me? I will tell you what is the matter. I
have finished with you, Mirelle. Do you
hear? Finished!"
Mirelle did not take it as he expected her
to do. She looked at him for a minute or two,
and then she smiled softly.
"But what a child! You are angry--yo11 are sore, and all because I am practical. Did
I not always tell you that I adored you?"
She leaned forward.
"But I know you, Dereek. Look at me? --see, it is Mirelle who speaks to you. Y011 cannot live without her, you know it. I lov^ . you before, I will love you a hundred tiin^ more now. I will make life wonderful ^or ,|
vou--but wonderful. There is no one like
Mirelle." Her eyes burned into his. She saw him
grow pale and draw in his breath, and she
smiled to herself *******edly. She knew her
own magic and power over men.
"That is settled," she said softly, and gave
a little laugh. "And now, Dereek, will you
give me lunch?"
"No."
He drew in his breath sharply and rose to
his feet.
"I am sorry, but I told you--I have got
an engagement."
"You are lunching with some one else?
Bah! I don't believe it."
"I am lunching with that lady over there."
He crossed abruptly to where a lady in
white had just come up the steps. He addressed
her a little breathlessly.
"Miss Grey, will you--will you have
lunch with me? You met me at Lady TamPlin's,
if you remember."
Katherine looked at him for a minute or ^o with those thoughtful grey eyes that said s0 much.
'Thank you," she said, after a moment's
Pause; "I should like to very much."
^^
Chapter 19
An Unexpected Visitor
the comte de LA roche had just finished dejeuner, consisting of an omelette fines herbes^ an entrecote Beamaise, and a Savarin au
Rhum. Wiping his fine black moustache delicately
with his table napkin, the Comte rose
from the table. He passed through the salon
of the villa, noting with appreciation the few objets d'art which were carelessly scattered
about. The Louis XV. snuff-box, the satin
shoe worn by Marie Antoinette, and the other
historic trifles were part of the Comte5 s wise
en scene. They were, he would explain to his
fair visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing
through on to the terrace, the Comte looked
out on the Mediterranean with an unseeing
eye. He was in no mood for appreciating the
beauties of scenery. A fully matured scheme had been rudely brought to naught, and his
plans had to be cast afresh. Stretching hin^ self out in a basket chair, a cigarette hel0
between his white fingers, the Comte pondered
deeply.
presently Hippolyte, his manservant, brought out coffee and a choice of liqueurs.
The Comte selected some very fine old
brandy.
As the man-servant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him with a slight
gesture. Hippolyte stood respectfully to attention.
His countenance was hardly a prepossessing
one, but the correctitude of his
demeanour went far to obliterate the fact.
He was now the picture of respectful attention.

"It is possible," said the Comte, "that in
the course of the next few days various
strangers may come to the house. They will
endeavour to scrape acquaintance with you
and with Marie. They will probably ask you
various questions concerning me."
"Yes, Monsieur Ie Comte."
"Perhaps this has already happened?"
"No, Monsieur Ie Comte."
"There have been no strangers about the
Nace? You are certain?"
'There has been no one. Monsieur Ie
Cointe."
'That is well," said the Comte drily;
^f\^
"nevertheless they will come--I am sure of
it. They will ask questions."
Hippolyte looked at his master in intelligent
anticipation.
The Comte spoke slowly, without looking
at Hippolyte.
"As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday
morning. If the police or any other inquirer
should question you, do not forget
that fact. I arrived on Tuesday, the 14th--
not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?"
"Perfectly, Monsieur Ie Comte."
"In an affair where a lady is concerned, it
is always necessary to be discreet. I feel certain, Hippolyte, that you can be discreet."
"I can be discreet. Monsieur."
"And Marie?"
"Marie also. I will answer for her."
"That is well then," murmured the
Comte.
When Hippolyte had withdrawn, the
Comte sipped his black coffee with a reflective
air. Occasionally he frowned, once he
shook his head slightly, twice he nodded it- Into the midst of these cogitations came Hip'
polyte once more.
"A lady. Monsieur."
"A lady?"
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visi1
^om a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa
Marina, but at this particular moment the
Cointe could not think who the lady was
likely to be.
"She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur," murmured the valet helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
"Show her out here, Hippolyte," he commanded.

A moment later a marvellous vision in
orange and black stepped out on the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic
blossoms.
"Monsieur Ie Comte de la Roche?"
"At your service. Mademoiselle," said the
Comte, bowing.
"My name is Mirelle. You may have heard
of me."
"Ah, indeed. Mademoiselle, but who has
not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle
Mirelle? Exquisite!"
The dancer acknowledged this compliant
with a brief mechanical smile.
'My descent upon you is unceremo^ous,"
she began.
'But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle,"
cried the Comte, bringing for^d
a chair.
behind the gallantry of his manner he was
observing her narrowly. There were very fe^y
things that the Comte did not know about
women. True, his experience had not lain
much in ladies of Mirelle's class, who were
themselves predatory. He and the dancer
were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts
the Comte knew, would be thrown away on
Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd
one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that
the Comte could recognize infallibly when
he saw it. He knew at once that he was in
the presence of a very angry woman, and an
angry woman, as the Comte was well aware,
always says more than is prudent, and is
occasionally a source of profit to a levelheaded
gentleman who keeps cool.
"It is most amiable of you. Mademoiselle,
to honour my poor abode thus."
"We have mutual friends in Paris," said
Mirelle. "I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you to-day for another
reason. I have heard of you since I came to
Nice--in a different way, you understand.'
"Ah?" said the Comte softly.
"I will be brutal," continued the dancer;
"nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare
at heart. They are saying in Nice, Mon'
sieur Ie Comte, that you are the murderer 01
the English lady, Madame Kettering."
«ji--the murderer ofMadame Kettering?
pah! But how absurd!"
He spoke more languidly than indignantly? knowing that he would thus provoke
her further.
"But yes," she insisted; "it is as I tell
you."
"It amuses people to talk," murmured the
Comte indifferently. "It would be beneath
me to take such wild accusations seriously."
"You do not understand." Mirelle bent
forward, her dark eyes flashing. "It is not
the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the
police."
"The police--ah?"
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several
times.
"Yes, yes. You comprehend me--I have
friends everywhere. The Prefect himself----"
She left the sentence unfinished, with an el°quent
shrug of the shoulders.
'Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful ^inan is concerned?" murmured the Count
Politely.
"The police believe that you killed Ma- ^nie Kettering. But they are wrong."
Certainly they are wrong," agreed the ^nite easily.
"You say that, but you do not know the
truth. I do."
The Comte looked at her curiously.
"You know who killed Madame Kettering?
Is that what you would say. Mademoiselle?"

Mirelle nodded vehemently.
"Yes."
"Who was it?" asked the Comte sharply.
"Her husband." She bent nearer to the
Comte 3 speaking in a low voice that vibrated
with anger and excitement. "It was her husband
who killed her."
The Comte leant back in his chair. His
face was a mask.
"Let me ask you. Mademoiselle--how do
you know this?"
"How do I know it?" Mirelle sprang to
her feet, with a laugh. "He boasted of it
beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured.
Only the death of his wife could
save him. He told me so. He travelled on the
same train--but she was not to know it. Why
was that, I ask you? So that he might creep
upon her in the night----Ah!"--she shut
her eyes--"I can see it happening. . . "
The Count coughed.
"Perhaps--perhaps," he murmured. '^^
surely? Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?"
"The jewels!" breathed Mirelle. "The
jewels. Ah! Those rubies ..."
Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in
them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the
magical influence of precious stones on the
female sex. He recalled her to practical matters.

"What do you want me to do. Mademoiselle?"

Mirelle became alert and businesslike
once more.
"Surely it is simple. You will go to the
police. You will say to them that M. Kettering
committed this crime."
"And if they do not believe me? If they
ask for proof?" He was eyeing her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her
°range-and-black wrap closer round her.
"Send them to me. Monsieur Ie Comte," ^e said softly; "I will give them the proof ^ey want."
Upon that she was gone, an impetuous ^irlwind, her errand accomplished.
The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows ^Ucately raised.
She is in a fury," he murmured. "What
has happened now to upset her? But she
shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr. Kettering killed his wife^ She would like me to believe it. She would
even like the police to believe it."
He smiled to himself. He had no intention
whatsoever of going to the police. He saw
various other possibilities; to judge by his
smile, an agreeable vista of them.
Presently, however, his brow clouded. According
to Mirelle, he was suspected by the
police. That might be true or it might not.
An angry woman of the type of the dancer
was not likely to bother about the strict veracity
of her statements. On the other hand,
she might easily have obtained--inside information.
In that case--his mouth set
grimly--in that case he must take certain
precautions.
He went into the house and questioned
Hippolyte closely once more as to whether
any strangers had been to the house. The
valet was positive in his assurances that this
was not the case. The Comte went up to his
bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau
that stood against the wall. He let down the
lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought ^ a spring at the back of one of the pigeonholes.
A secret drawer flew out; in it was2
small brown paper package. The Comte took
this out and weighed it in his hand carefully
for a minute or two. Raising his hand to his
head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a
single hair. This he placed on the lip of the
drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying
the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs
and out of the house to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten
minutes later he had taken the road for
Monte Carlo.
He spent a few hours at the Casino, then
sauntered out into the town. Presently he reentered
the car and drove off in the direction
ofMentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had
noticed an inconspicuous grey car some little
distance behind him. He noticed it again
now. He smiled to himself. The road was
climbing steadily upwards. The Comte's foot
pressed hard on the accelerator. The little
red car had been specially built to the
Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than would have been suspected from ^s appearance. It shot ahead.
Presently he looked back and smiled; the P^y car was following behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the ^ad. It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver.
Now they were going down hill, twisting and
curving unceasingly. Presently the car slackened
speed, and finally came to a standstill
before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte
jumped out, lifted the lid of the tool chest
extracted the small brown paper parcel and
hurried into the post office. Two minutes
later he was driving once more in the direction
of Mentone. When the grey car arrived
there, the Comte was drinking English five
o'clock tea on the terrace of one of the hotels.
Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo,
dined there, and reached home once more
at eleven o'clock. Hippolyte came out to
meet him with a disturbed face.
"Ah! Monsieur Ie Comte has arrived.
Monsieur Ie Comte did not telephone me,
by any chance?"
The Comte shook his head.
"And yet at three o'clock I received a summons
from Monsieur Ie Comte, to present
myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco."
"Really," said the Comte; "and you
went?"
"Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco
they knew nothing of Monsieur Ie Cornte-
He had not been there."
"Ah" said the Comte, "doubtless at that
hour Marie was out doing her afternoon mar-\??

keting?
'That is so. Monsieur Ie Comte." "Ah, well," said the Comte, "it is of no
importance. A mistake."
He went upstairs, smiling to himself.
Once within his own room, he bolted his
door and looked sharply round. Everything
seemed as usual. He opened various drawers
and cupboards. Then he nodded to himself.
Things had been replaced almost exactly as
he had left them, but not quite. It was evident
that a very thorough search had been
made.
He went over to the bureau and pressed
the hidden spring. The drawer flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had
placed it. He nodded his head several times.
"They are excellent, our French police,"
he murmured to himself--"excellent. Noth"ig
escapes them."
^ 11
Chapter 20
Katherine Makes a Friend
on the following morning Katherine and
Lenox were sitting on the terrace of the Villa
Marguerite. Something in the nature of a
friendship was springing up between them, despite the difference in age. But for Lenox,
Katherine would have found life at the Villa
Marguerite quite intolerable. The Kettering
case was the topic of the moment. Lady
Tamplin frankly exploited her guest's connection
with the affair for all it was worth.
The most persistent rebuffs that Katherine
could administer quite failed to pierce Lady
Tamplin's self-esteem. Lenox adopted a detached
attitude, seemingly amused at her
mother's manoeuvres, and yet with a sympathetic
understanding of Katherine's feelings.

The situation was not helped by
Chubby, whose naive delight was unquencn_ able, and who introduced Katherine to all
and sundry as:
"This is Miss Grey. You know that Blue Train business? She was in it up to the ears!
Had a long talk with Ruth Kettering a few
hours before the murder! Bit of luck for her,
eh?" A few remarks of this kind had provoked
Katherine that morning to an unusually tart
rejoinder, and when they were alone together
Lenox observed in her slow drawl:
"Not used to exploitation, are you? You
have a lot to learn, Katherine."
"I am sorry I lost my temper. I don't, as
a rule."
"It is about time you learnt to blow off
steam. Chubby is only an ass; there is no
harm in him. Mother, of course, is trying, but you can lose your temper with her until
Kingdom come, and it won't make any
impression. She will open large, sad blue
eyes at you and not care a bit."
Katherine made no reply to this filial observation, and Lenox presently went on:
"I am rather like Chubby. I delight in a 8°od murder, and besides--well, knowing ^erek makes a difference."
Catherine nodded.
''So you lunched with him yesterday,"
P^sued Lenox reflectively. "Do you like ^ Katherine?"
Katherine considered for a minute or two
"I don't know," she said very slowly.
"He is very attractive."
"Yes, he is attractive."
"What don't you like about him?"
Katherine did not reply to the question
or at any rate not directly. "He spoke of his
wife's death," she said. "He said he would
not pretend that it had been anything but a
bit of most marvellous luck for him."
"And that shocked you, I suppose," said
Lenox. She paused, and then added in rather
a queer tone of voice: "He likes you, Katherine."
"He gave me a very good lunch," said
Katherine, smiling.
Lenox refused to be sidetracked.
"I saw it the night he came here," she said
thoughtfully. "The way he looked at you;
and you are not his usual type--just the opposite.
Well, I suppose it is like religion--- you get it at a certain age."
"Mademoiselle is wanted at the tele
phone," said Marie, appearing at the window
of the salon. "M. Hercule Poirot desires
to speak with her."
"More blood and thunder. Go on, Katberine; go and dally with your detective."
M. Hercule Poirot's voice came neat and precise in its intonation to Katherine's ear.
"That is Mademoiselle Grey who speaks? pon. Mademoiselle, I have a word for you
from M. Van Aldin, the father of Madame
Kettering. He wishes very much to speak with you, either at the Villa Marguerite or
at his hotel, whichever you prefer."
Katherine reflected for a moment, but she
decided that for Van Aldin to come to the
Villa Marguerite would be both painful and
unnecessary. Lady Tamplin would have
hailed his advent with far too much delight.
She never lost a chance of cultivating millionaires.
She told Poirot that she would
much rather come to Nice.
"Excellent, Mademoiselle. I will call for
you myself in an auto. Shall we say in about
three-quarters of an hour?"
Punctually to the moment Poirot appeared.
Katherine was waiting for him, and Aey drove off at once.
"Well, Mademoiselle, how goes it?"
She looked at his twinkling eyes, and was ^nflrmed in her first impression that there ^s something very attractive about M. Her- ^le Poirot.
"This is our own Roman Policier, is it ^l' said Poirot. "I made you the promise
i h
that we should study it together. And me I
always keep my promises."
"You are too kind," murmured Katherine.

"Ah, you mock yourself at me; but do you
want to hear the developments of the case
or do you not?"
Katherine admitted that she did, and
Poirot proceeded to sketch for her a thumbnail
portrait of the Comte de la Roche.
"You think he killed her," said Katherine
thoughtfully.
"That is the theory," said Poirot guardedly.

"Do you yourself believe that?"
"I did not say so. And you, Mademoiselle,
what do you think?"
Katherine shook her head.
"How should I know? I don't know anything
about those things, but I should say
that----"
"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.
"Well--from what you say the Count does
not sound the kind of man who would actually
kill anybody."
"Ahl Very good," cried Poirot, "you agree
with me, that is just what I have said." hs looked at her sharply. "But tell me, you have
met Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I met him at Lady Tamplin's, and I
lunched with him yesterday."
"A mauvais sujet," said Poirot, shaking his
head; "but Us femmes—they like that, eh?"
He twinkled at Katherine and she
laughed.
"He is the kind of man one would notice
anywhere," continued Poirot. "Doubtless
you observed him on the Blue Train?"
"Yes, I noticed him."
"In the restaurant car?"
"No. I didn't notice him at meals at all.
I only saw him once—going into his wife's
compartment."
Poirot nodded. "A strange business," he
murmured. "I believe you said you were
awake. Mademoiselle, and looked out of
your window at Lyons? You saw no tall dark
man such as the Comte de la Roche leave the
train?"
Katherine shook her head. "I don't think
I saw any one at all," she said. "There was
a youngish lad in a cap and overcoat who got
^t? but I don't think he was leaving the
^ain, only walking up and down the plat^nn.
There was a fat Frenchman with a
^ard, in pyjamas and an overcoat, who
ranted a cup of coffee. Otherwise, I think
here were only the train attendants."
Poirot nodded his head several times. "It
is like this, you see," he confided, "the
Comte de la Roche has an alibi. An alibi, it
is a very pestilential thing, and always open
to the gravest suspicion. But here we are!"
They went straight up to Van Aldin5 s
suite, where they found Knighton. Poirot
introduced him to Katherine. After a few
commonplaces had been exchanged, Knighton
said, "I will tell Mr. Van Aldin that Miss
Grey is here."
He went through a second door into an
adjoining room. There was a low murmur
of voices, and then Van Aldin came into the
room and advanced towards Katherine with
outstretched hand, giving her at the same
time a shrewd and penetrating glance.
"I am pleased to meet you. Miss Grey,"
he said simply. "I have been wanting very
badly to hear what you can tell me about
Ruth."
The quiet simplicity of the millionaire's
manner appealed to Katherine strongly. She
felt herself in the presence of a very genuine
grief, the more real for its absence of outward
sign.
He drew forward a chair.
"Sit here, will you, and just tell me all
about it."
Poirot and Knighton retired discreetly
into the other room, and Katherine and Van
Aldin were left alone together. She found no
difficulty in her task. Quite simply and naturally
she related her conversation with Ruth
Kettering, word for word as nearly as she
could. He listened in silence, leaning back
in his chair, with one hand shading his eyes.
When she had finished he said quietly:
"Thank you, my dear."
They both sat silent for a minute or two.
Katherine felt that words of sympathy would
be out of place. When the millionaire spoke,
it was in a different tone:
"I am very grateful to you. Miss Grey. I
think you did something to ease my poor
Ruth's mind in the last hours of her life.
Now I want to ask you something. You
know--M. Poirot will have told you--about
the scoundrel that my poor girl had got herself
mixed up with. He was the man of whom
she spoke to you--the man she was going
to meet. In your judgment do you think she
might have changed her mind after her conversation
with you? Do you think she meant
to go back on her word?"
"I can't honestly tell you. She had certainly
come to some decision, and seemed more cheerful in consequence of it."
"She gave you no idea where she intended
to meet the skunk--whether in Paris or at
Hyeres?"
Katherine shook her head.
"She said nothing as to that."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin thoughtfully, "and
that is the important point. Well, time will
show."
He got up and opened the door of the
adjoining room. Poirot and Knighton came
back.
Katherine declined the millionaire's invitation
to lunch, and Knighton went down
with her and saw her into the waiting car.
He returned to find Poirot and Van Aldim
deep in conversation. |
"If we only knew," said the millionaire! thoughtfully, "what decision Ruth came to.
It might have been any of half a dozen. She
might have meant to leave the train at Paris
and cable to me. She may have meant to have
gone on to the south of France and have an
explanation with the Count there. We are in
the dark--absolutely in the dark. But we
have the maid's word for it that she was both
startled and dismayed at the Count's appearance
at the station in Paris. That was
clearly not part of the preconceived plan-^ You agree with me, Knighton?"
• The secretary started. "I beg your pardon,
^r. Van Aldin. I was not listening."
"Day-dreaming, eh?" said Van Aldin.
"That's not like you. I believe that girl has
bowled you over."
Knighton blushed.
"She is a remarkably nice girl," said Van
Aldin thoughtfully, "very nice. Did you
happen to notice her eyes?"
"Any man," said Knighton, "would be
bound to notice her eyes."
Chapter 21
At the Tennis
several days had elapsed. Katherine had
been for a walk by herself one morning, and
came back to find Lenox grinning at her
expectantly.
"Your young man has been ringing you
up, Katherine!"
"Who do you call my young man?"
"A new one--Rufus Van Aldin's secretary.
You seem to have made rather
an impression there. You are becoming a
serious breaker of hearts, Katherine. First
Derek Kettering, and now this young
Knighton. The funny thing is, that I remember
him quite well. He was in Mother's
War Hospital that she ran out here. I was
only a kid of about eight at the time."
"Was he badly wounded?"
"Shot in the leg, if I remember rightly-- rather a nasty business. I think the doctors
messed it up a bit. They said he wouldn't
Ump o1' anything, but when he left here he ^vas still completely dot and go one."
Lady Tamplin came out and joined them.
"Have you been telling Katherine about Major Knighton?" she asked. "Such a dear
fellow! Just at first I didn't remember him
--one had so many--but now it all comes
back."
"He was a bit too unimportant to be remembered
before," said Lenox. "Now that
he is a secretary to an American millionaire, it is a very different matter."
"Darling!" said Lady Tamplin in her
vague reproachful voice.
"What did Major Knighton ring up
about?" inquired Katherine.
"He asked if you would like to go to the
tennis this afternoon. If so, he would call for
you in a car. Mother and I accepted for you
with empressement. Whilst you dally with a niillionaire's secretary, you might give me a
chance with the millionaire, Katherine. He
is about sixty, I suppose, so that he will be looking about for a nice sweet young thing Like me."
"I should like to meet Mr. Van Aldin," ^id Lady Tamplin earnestly; "one has heard
^ much of him. Those fine rugged figures
. I
of the Western world"--she broke off--"go
fascinating," she murmured.
"Major Knighton was very particular to
say it was Mr. Van Aldin's invitation," said
Lenox. "He said it so often that I began to
smell a rat. You and Knighton would make
a very nice pair, Katherine. Bless you, my
children!"
Katherine laughed, and went upstairs to
change her clothes.
Knighton arrived soon after lunch and endured
manfully Lady Tamplin's transports
of recognition.
When they were driving together towards
Cannes he remarked to Katherine: "Lady
Tamplin has changed wonderfully little."
"In manner or appearance?"
"Both. She must be, I suppose, well over
forty, but she is a remarkably beautiful
woman still."
"She is," agreed Katherine.
"I am very glad that you could come today,"
went on Knighton. "M. Poirot is
going to be there also. What an extraordinary
little man he is. Do you know him well, Miss
Grey?"
Katherine shook her head. "I met him on
the train on the way here. I was reading a detective novel, and I happened to say some226
thing about such things not happening in
real li^- 0^ course, I had no idea of who he
was." "He is a very remarkable person," said
Knighton slowly, "and has done some very
remarkable things. He has a kind of genius
for going to the root of the matter, and right
up to the end no one has any idea of what
he is really thinking. I remember I was staying
at a house in Yorkshire, and Lady Clanravon's
jewels were stolen. It seemed at first
to be a simple robbery, but it completely
baffled the local police. I wanted them to call
in Hercule Poirot, and said he was the only
man who could help them, but they pinned
their faith to Scotland Yard."
"And what happened?" said Katherine
curiously.
"The jewels were never recovered," said
Knighton drily.
"You really do believe in him?"
"I do indeed. The Comte de la Roche is
a pretty wily customer. He has wriggled out
of most things. But I think he has met his match in Hercule Poirot."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine
thoughtfully, "so you really think he did it?"
"Of course." Knighton looked at her in ^tonishment. "Don't you?"
977
"Oh yes," said Katherine hastily; "that
is, I mean, if it was not just an ordinary train
robbery."
"It might be, of course," agreed the other
"but it seems to me that the Comte de la
Roche fits into this business particularly
well."
"And yet he has an alibi."
"Oh, alibis!" Knighton laughed, his face
broke into his attractive boyish smile.
"You confess that you read detective stories, Miss Grey. You must know that any
one who has a perfect alibi is always open to
grave suspicion."
"Do you think that real life is like that?"
asked Katherine, smiling.
"Why not? Fiction is founded on fact."
"But is rather superior to it," suggested
Katherine.
"Perhaps. Anyway, if I was a criminal I
should not like to have Hercule Poirot on
my track."
"No more should I," said Katherine, and
laughed.
They were met on arrival by Poirot. As
the day was warm he was attired in a white duck suit, with a white camellia in his buttonhole.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle," said Poirot. "I
look very English, do I not?" "You look wonderful," said Katherine
tactfully.
"You mock yourself at me," said Poirot
genially, "but no matter. Papa Poirot, he
always laughs the last."
"Where is Mr. Van Aldin?" asked Knigh-
ton.
"He will meet us at our seats. To tell you
the truth, my friend, he is not too well
pleased with me. Oh, those Americans--the
repose, the calm, they know it not! Mr. Van
Aldin, he would that I fly myself in the pursuit
of criminals through all the byways of
Nice."
"I should have thought myself that it
would not have been a bad plan," observed
Knighton.
"You are wrong," said Poirot; "in these
matters one needs not energy but finesse. At Ae tennis one meets every one. That is so
important. Ah, there is Mr. Kettering."
Derek came abruptly up to them. He looked reckless and angry, as though something
had arisen to upset him. He and Kmghton greeted each other with some frigidity.
Poirot alone seemed unconscious of ^y sense of strain, and chatted pleasantly
in a laudable attempt to put every one at
their ease. He paid little compliments.
"It is amazing, M. Kettering, how well
you speak the French," he observed--"so
well that you could be taken for a Frenchman
if you chose. That is a very rare accomplishment
among Englishmen."
"I wish I did," said Katherine. "I am only
too well aware that my French is of a painfully
British order."
They reached their seats and sat down,
and almost immediately Knighton perceived
his employer signalling to him from the other
end of the court, and went off to speak to
him.
"Me, I approve of that young man," said
Poirot, sending a beaming smile after the
departing secretary, "and you. Mademoiselle?"

"I like him very much."
"And you, M. Kettering?"
Some quick rejoinder was springing to
Derek's lips, but he checked it as though
something in the little Belgian's twinkling
eyes had made him suddenly alert. He spoke
carefully, choosing his words.
"Knighton is a very good fellow," he said- Just for a moment Katherine fancied that
Poirot looked disappointed.
"He is a great admirer of yours, M.
poirot," she said, and she related some of
the things that Knighton had said. It amused
her to see the little man plume himself like
a bird, thrusting out his chest, and assuming
an air of mock modesty that would have deceived
no one.
"That reminds me. Mademoiselle," he
said suddenly, "I have a little matter of business
I have to speak to you about. When you were sitting talking to that poor lady in the
train, I think you must have dropped a cigarette
case."
Katherine looked rather astonished. "I
don't think so," she said. Poirot drew from
his pocket a cigarette case of soft blue
leather, with the initial "K" on it in gold.
"No, that is not mine," Katherine said.
"Ah, a thousand apologies. It was doubtless
Madame's own. 'K/ of course, stands
for Kettering. We were doubtful, because
she had another cigarette case in her bag, and it seemed odd that she should have two."
He turned to Derek suddenly. "You do not know, I suppose, whether this was your ^fe's case or not?"
Derek seemed momentarily taken aback. He stammered a little in his reply: "I--I ^n't know. I suppose so."
"It is not yours by any chance?"
"Certainly not. If it were mine it would
hardly have been in my wife's possession."
Poirot looked more ingenuous and childlike
than ever.
"I thought perhaps you might have
dropped it when you were in your wife's
compartment," he explained guilelessly.
"I never was there. I have already told the
police that a dozen times."
"A thousand pardons," said Poirot, with
his most apologetic air. "It was Mademoiselle
here who mentioned having seen you
going in."
He stopped with an air of embarrassment.
Katherine looked at Derek. His face had
gone rather white, but perhaps that was her
fancy. His laugh, when it came, was natural
enough.
"You made a mistake. Miss Grey," he said
easily. "From what the police have told me,
I gather that my own compartment was only
a door or two away from that of my wife'8 --though I never suspected the fact at the
time. You must have seen me going into my
own compartment." He got up quickly as he saw Van Aldin and Knighton approaching.

"I'm going to leave you now," he an'
nounced. "I can^t stand my father-in-law at
any Price. .
Van Aldin greeted Kathenne very courteously? but was clearly in a bad humour.
"You seem fond of watching tennis, M.
Poirot," he growled.
"It is a pleasure to me, yes," cried Poirot
placidly.
"It is as well you are in France," said Van
Aldin. "We are made of sterner stuff in the
States. Business comes before pleasure
there."
Poirot did not take offence; indeed, he
smiled gently and confidingly at the irate
millionaire.
"Do not enrage yourself, I beg of you.
Every one his own methods. Me, I have always
found it a delightful and pleasing idea
to combine business and pleasure together."
He glanced at the other two. They were
deep in conversation, absorbed in each
other. Poirot nodded his head in satisfaction,
^d then leant towards the millionaire, lowing
his voice as he did so.
"It is not only for pleasure that I am here, M- Van Aldin. Observe just opposite us that ^11 old man--the one with the yellow face ^d the venerable beard."
'^ell, what of him?"
"That," Poirot said, "is M. Papopolous 5}
"A Greek, eh?"
"As you say--a Greek. He is a dealer in
antiques ofworld-wide reputation. He has a
small shop in Paris, and he is suspected by
the police of being something more."
"What?"
"A receiver of stolen goods, especially
jewels. There is nothing as to the re-cutting
and re-setting of gems that he does not know.
He deals with the highest in Europe and with
the lowest of the riff-raff of the underworld."
Van Aldin was looking at Poirot with suddenly
awakened attention.
"Well?" he demanded, a new note in his
voice.
"I ask myself," said Poirot, "I, Hercule
Poirot"--he thumped himself dramatically
on the chest--"ask myself why is M. Papopolous
suddenly come to Nice?"
Van Aldin was impressed. For a moment
he had doubted Poirot and suspected the
little man of being past his job, a poseur only- Now, in a moment, he switched back to his
original opinion. He looked straight at the
little detective.
"I must apologize to you, M. Poirot.'
Poirot waved the apology aside with an
extravagant gesture.
"Bah!" he cried, "all that is of no importance.
Now listen, M. Van Aldin; I have
news for you."
The millionaire looked sharply at him, all
his interest aroused.
Poirot nodded.
"It is as I say. You will be interested. As
you know, M. Van Aldin, the Comte de la
Roche has been under surveillance ever
since his interview with the Juge dTnstruction.
The day after that, during his
absence, the Villa Marina was searched by
the police."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "did they find
anything? I bet they didn't."
Poirot made him a little bow.
"Your acumen is not at fault, M. Van Aldin.
They found nothing of an incriminating
nature. It was not to be expected that they
would. The Comte de la Roche, as your expressive
idiom has it, was not born on the
preceding day. He is an astute gentleman with great experience."
"Well, go on," growled Van Aldin.
"It may be, of course, that the Comte had ^thing of a compromising nature to con- ^al. But we must not neglect the possibility. lt? then, he has something to conceal, where
is ^P Not in his house--the police searched
ki I
thoroughly. Not on his person, for he knows
that he is liable to arrest at any minute. There
remains--his car. As I say, he was under
surveillance. He was followed on that day to
Monte Carlo. From there he went by road
to Mentone, driving himself. His car is a very
powerful one, it outdistanced his pursuers
and for about a quarter of an hour they completely
lost sight of him."
"And during that time you think he concealed
something by the roadside?" asked
Van Aldin, keenly interested.
"By the roadside, no. Qa n'est pas pratique.
But listen now--me, I have made a
little suggestion to M. Carrege. He is graciously
pleased to approve of it. In each Bureau
de Poste in the neighbourhood it has
been seen to that there is some one who
knows the Comte de la Roche by sight. Because, you see. Messieurs, the best way of
hiding a thing is by sending it away by the
post."
"Well?" demanded Van Aldin; his face
was keenly alight with interest and expectation.

"Well--z^a^ With a dramatic flourish
Poirot drew out from his pocket a loosely
wrapped brown paper package from which
the string had been removed.
"During that quarter of an hour's interval,
^ur good gentleman mailed this."
"The address?" asked the other sharply.
Poirot nodded his head.
"Might have told us something, but unfortunately
it does not. The package was addressed
to one of these little newspaper shops
in Paris where letters and parcels are kept
until called for on payment of a small commission."
"Yes, but what is inside?" demanded Van
Aldin impatiently.
Poirot unwrapped the brown paper and
disclosed a square cardboard box. He looked
round him.
"It is a good moment," he said quietly.
"All eyes are on the tennis. Look, Monsieur!"

He lifted the lid of the box for the fraction
of a second. An exclamation of utter astonishment
came from the millionaire. His face
turned as white as chalk.
"My God!" he breathed, "the rubies."
He sat for a minute as though dazed. Poirot restored the box to his pocket and Gained placidly. Then suddenly the mil- ^onaire seemed to come out of his trance;
ue leaned across to Poirot and wrung his
hand so heartily that the little man winced
with pain.
"This is great," said Van Aldin. "Great!
You are the goods, M. Poirot. Once and for
all, you are the goods."
"It is nothing," said Poirot modestly.
"Order, method, being prepared for eventualities
beforehand--that is all there is to
it."
"And now, I suppose, the Comte de la
Roche has been arrested?" continued Van
Aldin eagerly.
"No," said Poirot.
A look of utter astonishment came over
Van Aldin's face.
"But why? What more do you want?"
"The Comte's alibi is still unshaken."
"But that is nonsense."
"Yes," said Poirot; "I rather think it is
nonsense, but unfortunately we have to
prove it so."
"In the meantime he will slip through
your fingers."
Poirot shook his head very energetically-
"No," he said, "he will not do that. The
one thing the Comte cannot afford to sacrifice
is his social position. At all costs b^ must stop and brazen it out."
Van Aldin was still dissatisfied.
i»rr
"But I don't see——"
poirot raised a hand. "Grant me a little
moment, Monsieur. Me, I have a little idea.
Ma^y P60?^ have mocked themselves at the
little ideas ofHercule Poirot—and they have
been wrong."
"Well," said Van Aldin, "go ahead. What
is this little idea?"
Poirot paused for a moment and then he
said:
"I will call upon you at your hotel at eleven
o'clock to-morrow morning. Until then, say
nothing to any one."
Chapter 22
M. Papopolous Breakfasts
M. papopolous was at breakfast. Opposite
him sat his daughter, Zia.
There was a knock at the sitting-room
door 5 and a chasseur entered with a card
which he brought to Mr. Papopolous. The
latter scrutinized it, raised his eyebrows, and
passed it over to his daughter.
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, scratching his
left ear thoughtfully, "Hercule Poirot. I
wonder now."
Father and daughter looked at each other.
"I saw him yesterday at the tennis," said
M. Papopolous. "Zia, I hardly like this."
"He was very useful to you once," h18 daughter reminded him.
"That is true," acknowledged M. Papopolous;
"also he has retired from active
work, so I hear."
These interchanges between father a11" daughter had passed in their own language t^ow M. Papopolous turned to the chasseur
and said in French:
^Faites monter ce monsieur."
A few minutes later Hercule Poirot, exquisitely
attired, and swinging a cane with a
jaunty air, entered the room.
"My dear M. Papopolous."
"My dear M. Poirot."
"And Mademoiselle Zia." Poirot swept
her a low bow.
"You will excuse us going on with our
breakfast," said M. Papopolous, pouring
himself out another cup of coffee. "Your call
is--ahem!--a little early."
"It is scandalous," said Poirot, "but see
you, I am pressed."
"Ah!" murmured M. Papopolous, "you
are on an affair then?"
"A very serious affair," said Poirot: "the
death ofMadame Kettering."
"Let me see," M. Papopolous looked innocently
up at the ceiling, "that was the lady ^o died on the Blue Train, was it not? I
saw a mention of it in the papers, but there ^s no suggestion of foul play." ^ "In the interests of justice," said Poirot, 11 was thought best to suppress that fact."
There was a pause.
1 A 1
"And in what way can I assist you, A^ Poirot?" asked the dealer politely.
"Viola," said Poirot, "I shall come to the
point." He took from his pocket the same
box that he had displayed at Cannes, and
opening it, he took out the rubies and pushed
them across the table to Papopolous.
Although Poirot was watching him narrowly, not a muscle of the old man's face
moved. He took up the jewels and examined
them with a kind of detached interest, then
he looked across at the detective inquiringly:
"Superb, are they not?" asked Poirot.
"Quite excellent," said M. Papopolous.
"How much should you say they are
worth?"
The Greek's face quivered a little.
"Is it really necessary to tell you, M.
Poirot?" he asked.
"You are shrewd, M. Papopolous. No, it
is not. They are not, for instance, worth five
hundred thousand dollars."
Papopolous laughed, and Poirot joined
with him.
"As an imitation," said Papopolous, handing
them back to Poirot, "they are, as I said? quite excellent. Would it be indiscreet to
ask, M. Poirot, where you came across
them?"
"Not at all," said Poirot; "I have no ohiection
to telling an old friend like yourself.
They were in the possession of the Comte
delaRoche."
M. Papopolous" eyebrows lifted themselves
eloquently.
"In-deed," he murmured.
Poirot leant forward and assumed his most
innocent and beguiling air.
"M. Papopolous," he said, "I am going
to lay my cards upon the table. The original
of these jewels was stolen from Madame Kettering
on the Blue Train. Now I will say to
you first this: / am not concerned with the
recovery of these jewels. That is the affair of
the police. I am working not for the police
but for M. Van Aldin. I want to lay hands
on the man who killed Madame Kettering.
I am interested in the jewels only in so far as they may lead me to the man. You understand?"

The last two words were uttered with great ^gniflcance. M. Papopolous, his face quite unmoved, said quietly:
"Go on."
"It seems to me probable. Monsieur, that Uie jewels will change hands in Nice--may ^ydy have done so."
i!" said M. Papopolous.
He sipped his coffee reflectively, and
looked a shade more noble and patriarchal
than usual.
"I say to myself," continued Poirot, with
animation, "what good fortune! My old
friend, M. Papopolous, is in Nice. He will
aid me."
"And how do you think I can aid you?"
inquired M. Papopolous coldly.
"I said to myself, without doubt M. Papopolous
is in Nice on business."
"Not at all," said M. Papopolous, "I am
here for my health—by the doctor's orders."
He coughed hollowly.
"I am desolated to hear it," replied Poirot,
with somewhat insincere sympathy. "But to
continue. When a Russian Grand Duke, an
Austrian Archduchess, or an Italian Prince
wish to dispose of their family jewels—to
whom do they go? To M. Papopolous, is it
not? He who is famous all over the world for
the discretion with which he arranges these
things."
The other bowed.
"You flatter me."
"It is a great thing, discretion," mused
Poirot, and was rewarded by the fleeting
smile which passed across the Greek's face"I, too, can be discreet."
The eyes of the two men met.
Then Poirot went on speaking very slowly 3 and obviously picking his words with care.
"I say to myself, this: if these jewels have
changed hands in Nice, M. Papopolous
would have heard of it. He has knowledge
of all that passes in the jewel world."
"Ah!" said M. Papopolous, and helped
himself to a croissant.
"The police, you understand," said M.
Poirot, "do not enter into the matter. It is a
personal affair."
"One hears rumours," admitted M. Papopolous
cautiously.
"Such as?" prompted Poirot.
"Is there any reason why I should pass
them on?"
"Yes," said Poirot, "I think there is. You may remember, M. Papopolous, that seventeen
years ago there was a certain article m your hands, left there as security by a
very--er--Prominent Person. It was in your
keeping and it unaccountably disappeared. You were, if I may use the English express101^ in the soup."
His eyes came gently round to the girl. "^ had pushed her cup and plate aside, and ^th both elbows on the table and her chin
-» A C
resting on her hands was listening eagerly Still keeping an eye on her he went on:
"I am in Paris at the time. You send for
me. You place yourself in my hands. If \ restore to you that--article, you say I shall
earn your undying gratitude. Eh bien! I did
restore it to you."
A long sigh came from M. Papopolous.
"It was the most unpleasant moment of
my career," he murmured.
"Seventeen years is a long time," said
Poirot thoughtfully, "but I believe that I am
right in saying. Monsieur, that your race
does not forget."
"A Greek?" murmured Papopolous, with
an ironical smile.
"It was not as a Greek I meant," said
Poirot.
There was a silence, and then the old man
drew himself up proudly.
"You are right, M. Poirot," he said quietly.
"I am a Jew. And, as you say, our race
does not forget."
"You will aid me then?"
"As regards the jewels. Monsieur, I can
do nothing."
The old man, as Poirot had done just now? picked his words carefully.
"I know nothing. I have heard nothing246
if"
]^ut I can perhaps do you a good turn--that ^ if you are interested in racing."
"Under certain circumstances I might be," said Poirot, eyeing him steadily.
There is a horse running at Longchamps
that would, I think, repay attention. I cannot
say for certain, you understand; this news
passed through so many hands."
He stopped, fixing Poirot with his eye, as
though to make sure that the latter was comprehending
him.
"Perfectly, perfectly," said Poirot, nodding.

"The name of the horse," said M. Papopolous,
leaning back and joining the tips of
his fingers together, "is the Marquis. I
think, but I am not sure, that it is an English
horse, eh, Zia?"
"I think so too," said the girl.
Poirot got up briskly.
"I thank you. Monsieur," he said. "It is a great thing to have what the English call a tip from the stable. Au revoir. Monsieur,
^nd many thanks."
He turned to the girl.
"Au revoir, Mademoiselle Zia. It seems ^ me but yesterday that I saw you in Paris. ^ne would say that two years had passed at oiost."

JJ.
247

"There is a difference between sixteen and
thirty-three," said Zia ruefully.
"Not in your case," declared Poirot gallantly.
"You and your father will perhaps
dine with me one night."
"We shall be delighted," replied Zia.
"Then we will arrange it," declared
Poirot, "and now--je me sauve.'9
Poirot walked along the street humming
a little tune to himself. He twirled his stick
with a jaunty air, once or twice he smiled to
himself quietly. He turned into the first Bureau
de Poste he came to and sent off a telegram.
He took some time in wording it, but
it was in code and he had to call upon his
memory. It purported to deal with a missing
scarf-pin, and was addressed to Inspector
Japp, Scotland Yard.
Decoded, it was short and to the point. "Wire me everything known about man whose
soubriquet is the Marquis."
Chapter 23
A New Theory
it was exactly eleven o'clock when Poirot
presented himself at Van Aldin's hotel. He
found the millionaire alone.
"You are punctual, M. Poirot," he said,
with a smile, as he rose to greet the detective.
"I am always punctual," said Poirot. "The
exactitude—always do I observe it. Without
order and method——"
He broke off. "Ah, but it is possible that
1 have said these things to you before. Let
us come at once to the object of my visit."
"Your little idea?"
"Yes, my little idea." Poirot smiled.
"First of all. Monsieur. I should like to
^terview once more the maid, Ada Mason.
^e is here?"
"Yes, she's here."
"Ah!"
Van Aldin looked at him curiously. He
rang the bell, and a messenger was dispatched
to find Mason.
Poirot greeted her with his usual politeness, which was never without effect on that
particular class.
"Good afternoon. Mademoiselle," he said
cheerfully. "Be seated, will you not, if Monsieur
permits."
"Yes, yes, sit down, my girl," said Van
Aldin.
"Thank you, sir," said Mason primly,
and she sat down on the extreme edge of a
chair. She looked bonier and more acid
than ever.
"I have come to ask you yet more questions,"
said Poirot. "We must get to the bottom
of this affair. Always I return to the
question of the man in the train. You have
been shown the Comte de la Roche. You say
that it is possible he was the man, but you
are not sure."
"As I told you, sir, I never saw the gentleman's
face. That is what makes it so difficult."

Poirot beamed and nodded.
"Precisely, exactly. I comprehend well the
difficulty. Now, Mademoiselle, you have
been in the service ofMadame Kettering two
months;, you say. During that time, how
often did you see your master?"
Mason reflected a minute or two, and then
said:
"Only twice, sir."
"And was that near to, or far away?"
"Well once, sir, he came to Curzon Street.
I was upstairs, and I looked over the banisters
and saw him in the hall below. I was
a bit curious like, you understand, knowing
the way things--er--were." Mason finished
up with her discreet cough.
"And the other time?"
"I was in the Park, sir, with Annie--one
of the housemaids, sir, and she pointed out
the master to me walking with a foreign
lady."
Again Poirot nodded.
"Now listen. Mason, this man whom you
saw in the carriage talking to your mistress
at the Gare de Lyon, how do you know it
was not your master?"
"The master, sir? Oh, I don't think it ^uld have been."
"But you are not sure," Poirot persisted.
"Well--I never thought of it, sir."
Mason was clearly upset at the idea. "You have heard that your master was ^so on the train. What more natural than
that it should be he who came along the
corridor."
"But the gentleman who was talking to
the mistress must have come from outside
sir. He was dressed for the street. In an overcoat
and soft hat."
"Just so. Mademoiselle, but reflect a minute.
The train has just arrived at the Gare
de Lyon. Many of the passengers promenade
themselves upon the quay. Your mistress
was about to do so, and for that purpose had
doubtless put on her fur coat, eh?"
"Yes, sir," agreed Mason.
"Your master, then, does the same. The
train is heated, but outside in the station it
is cold. He puts on his overcoat and his hat
and he walks along beside the train, and
looking up at the lighted windows he suddenly
sees Madame Kettering. Until then he
has had no idea that she was on the train.
Naturally, he mounts the carriage and goes
to her compartment. She gives an exclamation
of surprise at seeing him and quickly
shuts the door between the two compartments
since it is possible that their conversation
may be of a private nature."
He leaned back in his chair and watched
the suggestion slowly take effect. No one knew better than Hercule Poirot that the
class to which Mason belongs cannot be hurried.
He must give her time to get rid of her
own preconceived ideas. At the end of three
minutes she spoke:
"Well, of course, sir, it might be so. I
never thought of it that way. The master is
tall and dark, and just about that build. It
was seeing the hat and coat that made me
say it was a gentleman from outside. Yes, it
might have been the master. I would not like
to say either way, I am sure."
'Thank you very much. Mademoiselle. I
shall not require you any further. Ah, just
one thing more." He took from his pocket
the cigarette case he had already shown to
Katherine. "Is that your mistress's case?"
he said to Mason.
"No, sir, it is not the mistress's--at
least----"
She looked suddenly startled. An idea was
clearly working its way to the forefront of
her mind.
"Yes," said Poirot encouragingly.
"I think, sir--I can't be sure, but I
think--it is a case that the mistress bought to give to the master."
"Ah," said Poirot in a noncommittal banner.
"But whether she ever did give it to him or not, I can't say, of course."
"Precisely," said Poirot, "precisely. That
is all, I think. Mademoiselle. I wish you good
afternoon."
Ada Mason retired discreetly, closing the
door noiselessly behind her. _
Poirot looked across at Van Aldin, a faint |
smile upon his face. The millionaire looked
thunderstruck.
"You think--you think it was Derek?"
he queried, "but--everything points the
other way. Why, the Count has actually been
caught redhanded with the jewels on him."
"No."
"But you told me----"
"What did I tell you?"
"That story about the jewels. You showed] them to me."
"No."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"You mean to say you didn't show them
to me."
"No."
"Yesterday--at the tennis?"
"No."
"Are you crazy, M. Poirot, or am I?'
"Neither of us is crazy," said the detective.
"You ask me a question; I answer it iay have I not shown you the jewels
day? I reply--no. What I showed you, an Aldin, was a first-class imitation, i to be distinguished except by an ex- from the real ones."
Chapter 24
Poirot Gives Advice
it took the millionaire some few minutes to
take the thing in. He stared at Poirot as
though dumbfounded. The little Belgian
nodded at him gently.
"Yes," he said, "it alters the position, does it not?"
"Imitation!"
He leaned forward.
"All along, M. Poirot, you have had this
idea? All along this is what you have been
driving at? You never believed that the
Comte de la Roche was the murderer?"
"I have had doubts," said Poirot quietly.
"I said as much to you. Robbery with violence
and murder"--he shook his head
energetically--"no, it is difficult to picture.
It does not harmonize with the personality
of the Comte de la Roche."
"But you believe that he meant to steal
the rubies?"
"Certainly. There is no doubt as to that.
See, I will recount to you the affair as I see
it. The Comte knew of the rubies and he laid
his plans accordingly. He made up a romantic
story of a book he was writing, so as to
induce your daughter to bring them with
her. He provided himself with an exact duplicate.
It is clear, is it not, that substitution
is what he was after. Madame, your daughter, was not an expert on jewels. It would
probably be a long time before she discovered
what had occurred. When she did so--
well--I do not think she would prosecute
the Comte. Too much would come out. He
would have in his possession various letters
others. Oh yes, a very safe scheme from the
Comte's point of view--one that he has
probably carried out before."
"It seems clear enough, yes," said Van
Aldin musingly.
"It accords with the personality of the
Comte de la Roche," said Poirot.
"Yes, but now----" Van Aldin looked ^archingly at the other. "What actually happened?
Tell me that, M. Poirot."
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
'It is quite simple," he said; "some one Pepped in ahead of the Comte."
There was a long pause.
I
Van Aldin seemed to be turning things
over in his mind. When he spoke it was without
beating about the bush.
"How long have you suspected my sonin-law,
M. Poirot?"
"From the very first. He had the motive
and the opportunity. Every one took for
granted that the man in Madame's compartment
in Paris was the Comte de la
Roche. I thought so, too. Then you happened
to mention that you had once mistaken
the Comte for your son-in-law. That
told me that they were of the same height
and build, and alike in colouring. It put some
curious ideas in my head. The maid had only
been with your daughter a short time. It was
unlikely that she would know Mr. Kettering
well by sight, since he had not been living
in Curzon Street; also the man was careful
to keep his face turned away."
"You believe he--murdered her," said
Van Aldin hoarsely.
Poirot raised a hand quickly.
"No, no, I did not say that--but it is a
possibility--a very strong possibility. He
was in a tight corner, a very tight corner, threatened with ruin. This was the one way
out."
"But why take the jewels?"
^
"To make the crime appear an ordinary
one committed by train robbers. Otherwise
suspicion might have fallen on him straight
away."
"If that is so, what has he done with the
rubies?"
"That remains to be seen. There are several
possibilities. There is a man in Nice who
may be able to help, the man I pointed out
at the tennis."
He rose to his feet and Van Aldin rose also
and laid his hand on the little man's shoulder.
His voice when he spoke was harsh with
emotion.
"Find Ruth's murderer for me," he said, "that is all I ask."
Poirot drew himself up.
"Leave it in the hands ofHercule Poirot,"
he said superbly, "have no fears. I will discover
the truth."
He brushed a speck of fluff from his hat, smiled reassuringly at the millionaire, and
left the room. Nevertheless, as he went down Ae stairs some of the confidence faded from
his face.
"It is all very well," he murmured to him- ^If? "but there are difficulties. Yes, there ^re great difficulties." As he was passing out
°f the hotel he came to a sudden halt. A car
^ I
had drawn up in front of the door. In it was
Katherine Grey, and Derek Kettering was
standing beside it talking to her earnestly.
A minute or two later the car drove off and
Derek remained standing on the pavement
looking after it. The expression on his face
was an odd one. He gave a sudden impatient
gesture of the shoulders, sighed deeply, and
turned to find Hercule Poirot standing at his
elbow. In spite of himself he started. The
two men looked at each other. Poirot steadily
and unwaveringly and Derek with a kind of
lighthearted defiance. There was a sneer behind
the easy mockery of his tone when he
spoke, raising his eyebrows slightly as he did
so.
"Rather a dear, isn't she?" he asked easily.
His manner was perfectly natural.
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "that describes
Mademoiselle Katherine very well.
It is very English, that phrase there, and
Mademoiselle Katherine, she also is very English."
Derek
remained perfectly still without answering.

"And yet she is sympathique, is it not so?
"Yes," said Derek; "there are not many
like her."
He spoke softly, almost as though to him'
self. Poirot nodded significantly. Then he
leant towards the other and spoke in a different
tone, a quiet, grave tone that was new
to Derek Kettering.
"You will pardon an old man. Monsieur, if he says to you something that you may
consider impertinent. There is one of your
English proverbs that I would quote to you.
It says that "it is well to be off with the old
love, before being on with the new.'"
Kettering turned on him angrily. "What the devil do you mean?" "You enrage yourself at me," said Poirot
placidly. "I expected as much. As to what I
mean--I mean. Monsieur, that there is a
second car with a lady in it. If you turn your
head you will see her."
Derek spun around. His face darkened
with anger.
"Mirelle, damn her!" he muttered. "I will
soon-----"
Poirot arrested the movement he was
about to make.
"Is it wise what you are about to do
there?" he asked warningly. His eyes shone ^ttly with a green light in them. But Derek ^s past noticing the warning signs. In his
^er he was completely off his guard.
MB
"I have broken with her utterly, and she
knows it," cried Derek angrily.
"You have broken with her, yes, but has she broken with you?"
Derek gave a sudden harsh laugh.
"She won't break with two million pounds
if she can help it," he murmured brutally;
"trust Mirelle for that."
Poirot raised his eyebrows.
"You have the outlook cynical," he murmured.

"Have I?" There was no mirth in his sudden
wide smile. "I have lived in the world long enough, M. Poirot, to know that all
women are pretty much alike." His face softened
suddenly. "All save one."
He met Poirofs gaze defiantly. A look of
alertness crept into his eyes, then faded
again. "That one," he said, and jerked his
head in the direction of Cap Martin.
"Ah!" said Poirot.
This quiescence was well calculated to
provoke the impetuous temperament of the
other.
"I know what you are going to say," said
Derek rapidly, "the kind of life I have led,
the fact that I am not worthy of her. You
will say that I have no right to think even 01
such a thing. You will say that it is not a
case of giving a dog a bad name--I know
that it is not decent to be speaking like this
with my wife dead only a few days, and murdered
at that."
He paused for breath, and Poirot took advantage
of the pause to remark in his plaintive
tone.
"But, indeed, I have not said anything at
all."
"But you will."
"Eh?" said Poirot.
"You will say that I have no earthly chance
of marrying Katherine."
"No," said Poirot, "I would not say that.
Your reputation is bad, yes, but with
women--never does that deter them. If you
were a man of excellent character, of strict
morality who had done nothing that he
should not do, and--possibly everything
that he should do--eh bien! then I should
have grave doubts of your success. Moral
worth, you understand, it is not romantic.
It is appreciated, however, by widows."
Derek Kettering stared at him, then he
swung round on his heel and went up to the
waiting car.
Poirot looked after him with some inter- es^ He saw the lovely vision lean out of the ^r and speak.
Derek Kettering did not stop. He lifted
his hat and passed straight on.
"Qa y est," said M. Hercule Poirot, "it is
time, I think, that I return chez moi."
He found the imperturbable George pressing
trousers.
"A pleasant day, Georges, somewhat fatiguing, but not without interest," he said.
George received these remarks in his usual
wooden fashion.
"Indeed, sir."
"The personality of a criminal, Georges,
is an interesting matter. Many murderers are
men of great personal charm."
"I always heard, sir, that Dr. Crippen was
a pleasant-spoken gentleman. And yet he cut
up his wife like so much mincemeat."
"Your instances are always apt, Georges."
The valet did not reply, and at that moment
the telephone rang. Poirot took up the
receiver.
(< 'Allo--'allo--yes, yes, it is Hercule
Poirot who speaks."
"This is Knighton. Will you hold the line
a minute, M. Poirot? Mr. Van Aldin would
like to speak to you."
There was a moment's pause, then the
millionaire's voice came through.
"Is that you, M. Poirot? I just wanted to
tell y011 ^^ ^ason came to me now of her
own accord. She has been thinking it over, and she says that she is almost certain that
the man at Paris was Derek Kettering. There ^yas something familiar about him at the
time, she says, but at the minute she could
not place it. She seems pretty certain now."
"Ah," said Poirot, "thank you, M. Van
Aldin. That advances us."
He replaced the receiver, and stood for a
minute or two with a very curious smile on
his face. George had to speak to him twice
before obtaining an answer.
"Eh?" said Poirot. "What is that that you
say to me?"
"Are you lunching here, sir, or are you
going out?"
"Neither," said Poirot, "I shall go to bed
and take a tisane. The expected has happened, and when the expected happens, it
always causes me emotion."
Chapter 25
Def/ance
As erek ettering passed the car, Mirelle
leant out.
"Dereek--I must speak to you for a
moment----"
But, lifting his hat, Derek passed straight
on without stopping.
When he got back to his hotel, the concierge
detached himself from his wooden pen
and accosted him.
"A gentleman is waiting to see you, Monsieur."

"Who is it?" asked Derek.
"He did not give me his name. Monsieur,
but he said his business with you was important, and that he would wait."
"Where is he?"
"In the little salon. Monsieur. He pr6'
ferred it to the lounge he said, as being m01^ private."
perek nodded, and turned his steps in
that direction.
The small salon was empty except for the
visitor, who rose and bowed with easy foreign
grace as Derek entered. As it chanced, Derek had only seen the Comte de la Roche
once, but found no difficulty in recognizing
that aristocratic nobleman, and he frowned
angrily. Of all the consummate impertinence!

"The Comte de la Roche, is it not?" he
said. "I am afraid you have wasted your time
in coming here."
"I hope not," said the Comte agreeably.
His white teeth glittered.
The Comte's charm of manner was usually
wasted on his own sex. All men, without
exception, disliked him heartily. Derek Kettering
was already conscious of a distinct
longing to kick the Count bodily out of the
room. It was only the realization that scandal
would be unfortunate just at present that ^strained him. He marveled anew that Ruth ^uld have cared, as she certainly had, for ^is fellow. A bounder, and worse than a bounder. He looked with distaste at the mount's exquisitely manicured hands.
'I called," said the Comte, "on a little
matter of business. It would be advisable I
think, for you to listen to me."
Again Derek felt strongly tempted to kick
him out, but again he refrained. The hint of
a threat was not lost upon him, but he interpreted
it in his own way. There were various
reasons why it would be better to hear
what the Comte had to say.
He sat down and drummed impatiently
with his fingers on the table.
"Well," he said sharply, "what is it?"
It was not the Comte's way to come out
into the open at once.
"Allow me. Monsieur, to offer you my
condolences on your recent bereavement."
"If I have any impertinence from you," said Derek quietly, "you go out by that window."

He nodded his head towards the window
beside the Comte, and the latter moved
uneasily.
"I will send my friends to you. Monsieur,
if that is what you desire," he said haughtily.
Derek laughed.
"A duel, eh? My dear Count, I don't take
you seriously enough for that. But I should
take a good deal of pleasure in kicking y011 down the Promenade des Anglais."
The Comte was not at all anxious to take
offence. He merely raised his eyebrows and
murmured:
"The English are barbarians."
"Well," said Derek, "what is it you have
to say to me?"
"I will be frank," said the Comte, "I will
come immediately to the point. That will suit
us both, will it not?"
Again he smiled in his agreeable fashion.
"Go on," said Derek curtly.
The Comte looked at the ceiling, joined
the tips of his fingers together, and murmured
softly:
"You have come into a lot of money, Monsieur."
"What the devil has that got to do with
you?"
The Comte drew himself up.
"Monsieur, my name is tarnished! I am
suspected--accused--of foul crime."
"The accusation does not come from me,"
said Derek coldly; "as an interested party I have not expressed any opinion."
"I am innocent," said the Comte, "I swear before heaven"--he raised his hand to
heaven--"that I am innocent."
"M. Carrege is, I believe, the Juge dTn- ^ruction in charge of the case," hinted
°erek politely.
L II
The Comte took no notice.
"Not only am I unjustly suspected of a
crime that I did not commit, but I am also
in serious need of money."
He coughed softly and suggestively.
Derek rose to his feet.
"I was waiting for that," he said softly;
"you blackmailing brute! I will not give you
a penny. My wife is dead, and no scandal
that you can make can touch her now. She
wrote you foolish letters, I dare say. If I were
to buy them from you for a round sum at
this minute, I am pretty certain that you
would manage to keep one or two back; and
I will tell you this, M. de la Roche, blackmailing
is an ugly word both in England and
in France. That is my answer to you. Good
afternoon."
"One moment"--the Comte stretched out
a hand as Derek was turning to leave the
room. "You are mistaken. Monsieur. You
are completely mistaken. I am, I hope, a 'gentleman.5" Derek laughed. "Any letters
that a lady might write to me I should hold
sacred." He flung back his head with a beautiful
air of nobility. "The proposition that I
was putting before you was of quite a different
nature. I am, as I said, extremely short
of money, and my conscience might imp^
ifine to go to the police with certain information."

Derek came slowly back into the room.
"What do you mean?"
The Comte's agreeable smile flashed forth
once more.
"Surely it is not necessary to go into details,"
he purred. "Seek whom the crime
jenefits, they say, don't they? As I said just
now, you have come into a lot of money
lately."
Derek laughed.
"If that is all----" he said contemptuously.

But the Comte was shaking his head.
"But it is not all, my dear sir. I should
not come to you unless I had much more
precise and detailed information than that.
It is not agreeable. Monsieur, to be arrested
and tried for murder."
Derek came close up to him. His face expressed
such furious anger that involuntarily Ae Comte drew back a pace or two.
"Are you threatening me?" the young man demanded angrily.
"You shall hear nothing more of the matter/5 the Comte assured him.
"Of all the colossal bluffs that I have ever
struck----"
I
The Comte raised a white hand.
"You are wrong. It is not a bluff. To convince
you I will tell you this. My information
was obtained from a certain lady. It is she
who holds the irrefutable proof that you
committed the murder."
"She? Who?"
"Mademoiselle Mirelle."
Derek drew back as though struck.
"Mirelle," he muttered.
The Comte was quick to press what he
took to be his advantage.
"A bagatelle of one hundred thousand
francs," he said. "I ask no more."
"Eh?" said Derek absently.
"I was saying. Monsieur, that a bagatelle
of one hundred thousand francs would satisfy
my--conscience."
Derek seemed to recollect himself. He
looked earnestly at the Comte.
"You would like my answer now?"
"If you please, Monsieur."
"Then here it is. You can go to the devil.
See?"
Leaving the Comte too astonished to
speak, Derek turned on his heel and swung
out of the room.
Once out of the hotel he hailed a taxi and
drove to Mirelle's hotel. On inquiring? ne
learned that the dancer had just come in.
perek gave the concierge his card.
"Take this up to Mademoiselle and ask if
she will see me."
A very brief interval elapsed, and then
perek was bidden to follow a chasseur.
A wave of exotic perfume assailed Derek's
nostrils as he stepped over the threshold of
the dancer's apartments. The room was filled
with carnations, orchids, and mimosa. Mirelle
was standing by the window in a peignoir of foamy lace.
She came towards him, her hands outstretched.

"Derek--you have come to me. I knew
you would."
He put aside the clinging arms and looked
down on her sternly.
"Why did you send the Comte de la Roche
to me?"
She looked at him in astonishment, which
he took to be genuine.
<<I? Send the Comte de la Roche to you?
But for what?"
"Apparently--for blackmail," said Derek
grimly.
Again she stared. Then suddenly she ^iled and nodded her head.
Of course. It was to be expected. It is
what he would do, ce type Id. I might have
known it. No, indeed, Dereek, I did not
send him."
He looked at her piercingly, as though
seeking to read her mind.
"I will tell you," said Mirelle. "I am
ashamed, but I will tell you. The other day
you comprehend, I was mad with rage, quite
mad--" she made an eloquent gesture. "My
temperament, it is not a patient one. I want
to be revenged on you, and so I go to the
Comte de la Roche, and I tell him to go to ^the police and say so and so, and so and so.
But have no fear, Dereek. Not completely
did I lose my head; the proof rests with me
alone. The police can do nothing without my
word, you understand? And now--now?"
She nestled up close to him, looking up
at him with melting eyes.
He thrust her roughly away from him. She
stood there, her breast heaving, her eyes narrowing
to a catlike slit.
"Be careful, Dereek, be very careful. You
have come back to me, have you not?"
"I shall never come back to you," said
Derek steadily.
"Ah!"
More than ever the dancer looked like a cat. Her eyelids flickered.
"So there is another woman? The one with whom you lunched that day. Eh! am I
right?"
"I intend to ask that lady to marry me.
You might as well know."
'That prim Englishwoman! Do you think
that I will support that for one moment? Ah, no." Her beautiful lithe body quivered.
"Listen, Dereek, do you remember that conversation
we had in London? You said the
only thing that could save you was the death
of your wife. You regretted that she was so
healthy. Then the idea of an accident came
t( your brain. And more than an accident."
"I suppose," said Derek contemptuously, " hat it was this conversation that you replated
to the Comte de la Roche."
i Mirelle laughed.
"Am I a fool? Could the police do anything
with a vague story like that? See--I will give
you a last chance. You shall give up this
Englishwoman. You shall return to me. And Aen, cheri, never, never will I breathe----"
"Breathe what?"
She laughed softly. "You thought no one
saw you----"
"What do you mean?"
"As I say, you thought no one saw you--
°Ht I saw you, Dereek, mon ami; I saw you
coming out of the compartment ofMadameyour
wife just before the train got into Lyons that
night. And I know more than that. I know
that when you came out of her compartment
she was dead."
He stared at her. Then, like a man in a
dream he turned very slowly and went out
of the room, swaying slightly as he walked.
Chapter 26
A Warning
"and so it is," said Poirot, "that we are the
good friends and have no secrets from each
other."
Katherine turned her head to look at him.
There was something in his voice, some undercurrent
of seriousness, which she had not
heard before.
They were sitting in the gardens of Monte
Carlo. Katherine had come over with her
friends, and they had run into Knighton and
Poirot almost immediately on arrival. Lady
Tamplin had seized upon Knighton and had
overwhelmed him with reminiscences, most
°f which Katherine had a faint suspicion were invented. They had moved away together, Lady Tamplin with her hand on the Young man's arm. Knighton had thrown a ^uple of glances back over his shoulder,
^d Poirot's eyes twinkled a little as he saw ^eni.
"I don't see----" began Katherine.
He interrupted her.
"You do not see why I am being so impertinent, Mademoiselle? I am an old man
and now and then--not very often--I come
across some one whose welfare is dear to me.
We are friends. Mademoiselle. You have said
so yourself. And it is just this--I should like
to see you happy."
Katherine stared very straight in front of
her. She had a cretonne sunshade with her,
and with its point she traced little designs in the gravel at her feet.
"I have asked you a question about Major
Knighton, now I will ask you another. Do
you like Mr. Derek Kettering?"
"I hardly know him," said Katherine.
"That is not an answer, that."
"I think it is."
He looked at her, struck by something in
her tone. Then he nodded his head gravely
and slowly.
"Perhaps you are right. Mademoiselle.
See you, I who speak to you have seen much
of the world, and I know that there are two
things which are true. A good man may be
ruined by his love for a bad woman--but
the other way holds good also. A bad man
may equally be ruined by his love for a good woman."
Katherine looked up sharply.
"When you say ruined----"
"I mean from his point of view. One must
be wholehearted in crime as in everything
else."
"You are trying to warn me," said Katherine
in a low voice. "Against whom?"
"I cannot look into your heart. Mademoiselle;
I do not think you would let me if
I could. I will just say this. There are men
who have a strange fascination for women."
"The Comte de la Roche," said Katherine, with a smile.
"There are others--more dangerous than
the Comte de la Roche. They have qualities
that appeal--recklessness, daring, audacity.
You are fascinated. Mademoiselle; I see that, but I think that it is no more than that. I
hope so. This man of whom I speak, the emotion he feels is genuine enough, but all
me same----"
"Yes?"
He got up and stood looking down at her. Then he spoke in a low , distinct voice:
"You could, perhaps, love a thief. Mademoiselle, but not a murderer."
He wheeled sharply away on that and left
her sitting there.
He heard the little gasp she gave and paid
no attention. He had said what he meant to
say. He left her there to digest that last unmistakable
phrase.
Derek Kettering, coming out of the Casino
into the sunshine, saw her sitting alone
on the bench and joined her.
"I have been gambling," he said, with a
light laugh, "gambling unsuccessfully. I
have lost everything--everything, that is,
that I have with me."
Katherine looked at him with a troubled
face. She was aware at once of something
new in his manner, some hidden excitement
that betrayed itself in a hundred different infinitesimal signs.
"I should think you were always a gambler.
The spirit of gambling appeals to you."
"Every day and in every way a gambler?
You are about right. Don't you find something
stimulating in it? To risk all on one
throw--there is nothing like it."
Calm and stolid as she believed herself to
be, Katherine felt a faint answering thrill.
"I want to talk to you," went on Derek,
"and who knows when I may have another opportunity? There is an idea going about
iat I murdered my wife--no, please don't
iterrupt. It is absurd, of course." He >aused for a minute or two, then went on,
speaking more deliberately. "In dealing with [Jie police and Local Authorities here I have had to pretend to--well--a certain decency.
[ prefer not to pretend with you. I meant to
marry money. I was on the look out for
money when I first met Ruth Van Aldin.
She had the look of a slim Madonna about
her, and I--well--I made all sorts of good
resolutions--and was bitterly disillusioned.
My wife was in love with another man when
she married me. She never cared for me in
the least. Oh, I am not complaining; the
thing was a perfectly respectable bargain.
She wanted Leconbury and I wanted money.
The trouble arose simply through Ruth's
American blood. Without caring a pin for me, she would have liked me to be continually
dancing attendance. Time and again
she as good as told me that she had bought
me and that I belonged to her. The result Was that I behaved abominably to her. My
father-in-law will tell you that, and he is
quite right. At the time of Ruth's death, I ^as faced with absolute disaster." He ^ughed suddenly. "One is faced with ab solute disaster when one is up against a man
like Rufus Van Aldin."
"And then?" asked Katherine in a low
voice.
"And then," Derek shrugged his shoulders, "Ruth was murdered--very providentially."

He laughed, and the sound of his laugh
hurt Katherine. She winced.
"Yes," said Derek. "that wasn't in very
good taste. But it is quite true. Now I am
going to tell you something more. From the
very first moment I saw you I knew you were
the only woman in the world for me. I was
--afraid of you. I thought you might bring
me bad luck."
"Bad luck?" said Katherine sharply.
He stared at her. "Why do you repeat it
like that? What have you got in your mind?"
"I was thinking of things that people have
said to me."
Derek grinned suddenly. "They will say
a lot to you about me, my dear, and most of
it will be true. Yes, and worse things too--- things that I shall never tell you. I have been
a gambler always--and I have taken some long odds. I shan't confess to you now or at
any other time. The past is done with. There
is one thing I do wish you to believe. I swear
to you solemnly that I did not kill my wife."
He said the words earnestly enough, yet
there was somehow a theatrical touch about
them. He met her troubled gaze and went
on:
(<I know. I lied the other day. It was my
wife's compartment I went into."
"Ah," said Katherine.
"It's difficult to explain just why I went
in, but I'll try. I did it on an impulse. You
see, I was more or less spying on my wife.
I kept out of sight on the train. Mirelle had
told me that my wife was meeting the Comte
de la Roche in Paris. Well, as far as I had
seen, that was not so. I felt ashamed, and I
thought suddenly that it would be a good
thing to have it out with her once and for
all, so I pushed open the door and went in."
He paused.
"Yes," said Katherine gently.
"Ruth was lying on the bunk asleep--her
face was turned away from me--I could only
see the back of her head. I could have waked her up, of course. But suddenly I felt a re- sction. What, after all, was there to say that w^ hadn't both of us said a hundred times
°efore? She looked so peaceful lying there.
1 left the compartment as quietly as I could."
&
"Why lie about it to the police?" asked
Katherine.
"Because I'm not a complete fool. I've
realized from the beginning that, from the
point of view of motive, I'm the ideal murderer.
If I once admitted that I had been in
her compartment just before she was murdered,
I'd do for myself once and for all."
"I see."
Did she see? She could not have told herself.
She was feeling the magnetic attraction
of Derek's personality, but there was something
in her that resisted, that held back . . .
"Katherine----"
«T_____»?
"You know that I care for you. Do--do
you care for me?" »
"I--I don't know."
Weakness there. Either she knew or she
did not know.
If--if only--
She cast a look round desperately as
though seeking something that would help
her. A soft colour rose in her cheeks as a tall
fair man with a limp came hurrying along
the path towards them--Major Knighton.
There was relief and an unexpected
warmth in her voice as she greeted him.
Derek stood up scowling, his face black
as a thundercloud.
"Lady Tamplin having a flutter?" he said
easily. "I must join her and give her the
benefit of my system."
He swung round on his heel and left them
together. Katherine sat down again. Her
heart was beating rapidly and unevenly, but
as she sat there talking commonplaces to the
quiet, rather shy man beside her, her selfcommand
came back.
Then she realized with a shock that
Knighton also was laying bare his heart, much as Derek had done, but in a very different
manner.
He was shy and stammering. The words
came haltingly with no eloquence to back
them.
"From the first moment I saw you--I--
I ought not to have spoken so soon--but Mr.
Van Aldin may leave here any day, and I "light not have another chance. I know you ^n't care for me so soon--that is impossible.
I dare say it is presumption anyway on "^y part. I have private means, but not very "luch--no, please don't answer now. I know ^at your answer would be. But in case I ^ent away suddenly I just wanted you to
know--that I care."
She was shaken--touched. His manner
was so gentle and appealing.
"There's one thing more. I just wanted to
say that if--if you are ever in trouble, anything
that I can do--"
He took her hand in his, held it tightly
for a minute, then dropped it and walked
rapidly away towards the Casino without
looking back.
Katherine sat perfectly still, looking after
him. Derek Kettering--Richard Knighton
--two men so different--so very different. There was something kind about Knighton,
kind and trustworthy. As to Derek--
Then suddenly Katherine had a very curious
sensation. She felt that she was no
longer sitting alone on the seat in the Casino
gardens, but that some one was standing beside
her, and that that some one was the dead
woman, Ruth Kettering. She had a further
impression that Ruth wanted--badly--to
tell her something. The impression was so
curious, so vivid, that it could not be driven
away. She felt absolutely certain that the
spirit of Ruth Kettering was trying to convey
something of vital importance to her. The
impression faded. Katherine got up, trembling
a little. What was it that Ruth Kettering
had wanted so badly to say?
Chapter 27
Interview with Mirelle
when knighton left Katherine he went
in search of Hercule Poirot, whom he
found in the Rooms, jauntily placing the
minimum stake on the even numbers. As
Knighton joined him, the number thirtythree
turned up, and Poirofs stake was
swept away.
"Bad luck!" said Knighton; "are you
going to stake again?"
Poirot shook his head.
"Not at present."
"Do you feel the fascination of gambling?"
asked Knighton curiously.
"Not at roulette."
Knighton shot a swift glance at him. His
own face became troubled. He spoke halt- ^ly, with a touch of deference.
t(! wonder, are you busy, M. Poirot? There is something I would like to ask you
about."
I
attitude that I went down privately and had
an interview with the lady."
"Eh bien?"
"The difficulty was that she insisted on
seeing Mr. Van Aldin himself. I softened his
message as much as I possibly could. In
fact--to be candid--I gave it in a very different
form. I said that Mr. Van Aldin was
too busy to see her at present, but that she
might make any communication she wished
to me. That, however, she could not bring
herself to do, and she left without saying
anything further. But I have a strong impression, M. Poirot that that woman knows
something."
"This is serious," said Poirot quietly.
"You know where she is staying?"
"Yes." Knighton mentioned the name of
the hotel.
"Good," said Poirot; "we will go there
immediately."
The secretary looked doubtful.
"And Mr. Van Aldin?" he queried doubtfully.

"M. Van Aldin is an obstinate man," said
Poirot drily. "I do not argue with obstinate
men. I act in spite of them. We will go and
see the lady immediately. I will tell her that
you are empowered by M. Van Aldin to act
for him, and you will guard yourself well
from contradicting me."
Knighton still looked slightly doubtful, but Poirot took no notice of his hesitation.
At the hotel, they were told that Mademoiselle
was in, and Poirot sent up both his
and Knighton's cards, with "From Mr. Van
Aldin" pencilled upon them.
Word came down that Mademoiselle Mirelle
would receive them.
When they were ushered into the dancer's
apartments, Poirot immediately took the
lead.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, bowing
very low, "we are here on behalf of M. Van
Aldin."
"Ah! And why did he not come himself?"
"He is indisposed," said Poirot mendaciously;
"the Riviera throat, it has him in its
grip, but me, I am empowered to act for
him, as is Major Knighton, his secretary.
Unless, of course. Mademoiselle would prefer
to wait a fortnight or so."
If there was one thing of which Poirot was
tolerably certain, it was that to a temperament
such as Mirelle's the mere word "wait"
was anathema.
"Eh bien, I will speak. Messieurs," she
cried. "I have been patient. I have held my
hand. And for what? That I should be insulted!
Yes, insulted! Ah! Does he think to
treat Mirelle like that? To throw her off like
an old glove. I tell you never has a man tired
of me. Always it is I who tire of them."
She paced up and down the room, her
slender body trembling with rage. A small
table impeded her free passage and she flung
it from her into a corner, where it splintered
against the wall.
"That is what I will do to him," she cried, "and that!"
Picking up a glass bowl filled with lilies
she flung it into the grate, where it smashed
into a hundred pieces.
Knighton was looking at her with cold
British disapproval. He felt embarrassed and
ill at ease. Poirot, on the other hand, with
twinkling eyes was thoroughly enjoying the
scene.
"Ah, it is magnificent!" he cried. "It can
be seen--Madame has a temperament."
"I am an artist," said Mirelle; "every artist
has a temperament. I told Dereek to beware,
and he would not listen." She whirled round
on Poirot suddenly. "It is true, is it not, that
he wants to marry that English miss?"
Poirot coughed.
"On m'a dit," he murmured, "that he
adores her passionately." I Mirelle came towards them.
"He murdered his wife," she screamed.
"There--now you have it! He told me beforehand
that he meant to do it. He had got
to an impasse--zut! he took the easiest way
out."
"You say that M. Kettering murdered his
wife."
"Yes, yes, yes. Have I not told you so?"
"The police," murmured Poirot, "will
need proof of that--er--statement."
"I tell you I saw him come out of her
compartment that night on the train."
"When?" asked Poirot sharply.
"Just before the train reached Lyons."
"You will swear to that. Mademoiselle?"
It was a different Poirot who spoke now, sharp and decisive.
"Yes."
j There was a moment's silence. Mirelle was
panting, and her eyes, half defiant, half
frightened, went from the face of one man
to the other.
"This is a serious matter, Mademoiselle,"
said the detective. "You realize how serious?"

"Certainly I do."
"That is well," said Poirot. "Then you
understand. Mademoiselle, that no time
must be lost. You will, perhaps accompany
us immediately to the office of the Examining
Magistrate."
Mirelle was taken aback. She hesitated, but, as Poirot had foreseen, she had no loophole
for escape.
"Very well," she muttered. "I will fetch
a coat."
Left alone together, Poirot and Knighton
exchanged glances.
"It is necessary to act while--how do you
say it?-- the iron is hot," murmured Poirot.
"She is temperamental; in an hour's time,
maybe, she will repent, and she will wish to
draw back. We must prevent that at all
costs."
Mirelle reappeared, wrapped in a sandcoloured
velvet wrap trimmed with leopard
skin. She looked not altogether unlike a leopardess, tawny and dangerous. Her eyes still
flashed with anger and determination.
They found M. Caux and the Examining
Magistrate together. A few brief introductory
words from Poirot, and Mademoiselle
Mirelle was courteously entreated to tell her
tale. This she did in much the same words
is she had done to Knighton and Poirot, hough with far more soberness of manner.
"This is an extraordinary story. Mademoiselle,"
said M. Carrege slowly. He leant
back in his chair, adjusted his pince-nez, and
looked keenly and searchingly at the dancer
through them.
"You wish us to believe M. Kettering actually
boasted of the crime to you beforehand?"

"Yes, yes. She was too healthy, he said.
If she were to die it must be an accident--
he would arrange it all."
"You are aware. Mademoiselle," said M.
Carrege sternly, "that you are making yourself
out to be an accessory before the fact?"
"Me? But not the least in the world, Monsieur. Not for a moment did I take that
statement seriously. Ah no, indeed! I know
men. Monsieur; they say many wild things.
I It would be an odd state of affairs if one were
to take all they said au pied de la lettre."
The Examining Magistrate raised his eyebrows.

"We are to take it, then, that you regarded
M. Kettering5 s threats as mere idle words?
May I ask. Mademoiselle, what made you
throw up your engagements in London and
come out to the Riviera?"
Mirelle looked at him with melting black
eyes.
"I wished to be with the man I loved," she said simply. "Was it so unnatural?"
Poirot interpolated a question gently.
"Was it, then, at M. Kettering's wish that
you accompanied him to Nice?"
Mirelle seemed to find a little difficulty in
answering this. She hesitated perceptibly before
she spoke. When she did, it was with a
haughty indifference of manner.
"In such matters I please myself. Monsieur,"
she said.
That the answer was not an answer at all
was noted by all three men. They said nothing.

"When were you first convinced that M.
Kettering had murdered his wife?"
"As I tell you. Monsieur, I saw M. Kettering
come out of his wife's compartment
just before the train drew into Lyons. There
was a look on his face--ah! at the moment
I could not understand it--a look haunted
and terrible. I shall never forget it."
Her voice rose shrilly, and she flung out
her arms in an extravagant gesture.
"Quite so," said M. Carrege.
"Afterwards, when I found that Madame
Kettering was dead when the train left
Lyons, then--then I knew!"
"And still--you did not go to the police, Mademoiselle," said the Commissary mildly.
Mirelle glanced at him superbly; she was
clearly enjoying herself in the role she was
playing.
"Shall I betray my lover?" she asked. "Ah
no; do not ask a woman to do that."
"Yet now----" hinted M. Caux.
"Now it is different. He has betrayed me!
Shall I suffer that in silence . . . ?"
The Examining Magistrate checked her.
"Quite so, quite so," he murmured soothingly.
"And now. Mademoiselle, perhaps
you will read over the statement of what you
have told us, see that it is correct, and sign
it."
Mirelle wasted no time on the document.
"Yes, yes," she said, "it is correct." She
rose to her feet. "You require me no longer, Messieurs?"
"At present, no. Mademoiselle."
"And Dereek will be arrested?"
"At once. Mademoiselle."
Mirelle laughed cruelly and drew her fur
draperies closer about her.
"He should have thought of this before he
insulted me," she cried.
"There is one little matter"--Poirot
coughed apologetically--"just a matter of
detail."
"Yes?"
"What makes you think Madame Kettering
was dead when the train left Lyons?"
Mirelle stared.
"But she was dead."
"Was she?"
"Yes, of course. I----"
She came to an abrupt stop. Poirot was
regarding her intently, and he saw the wary
look that came into her eyes.
"I have been told so. Everybody says so."
"Oh," said Poirot, "I was not aware that
the fact had been mentioned outside the Examining
Magistrate's office."
Mirelle appeared somewhat discomposed.
"One hears those things," she said
vaguely; "they get about. Somebody told
me. I can't remember who it was."
She moved to the door. M. Caux sprang
forward to open it for her, and as he did so,
Poirofs voice rose gently once more.
"And the jewels? Pardon, Mademoiselle.
Can you tell me anything about those?"
"The jewels? What jewels?"
"The rubies of Catherine the Great. Since
you hear so much, you must have heard of
them."
"I know nothing about any jewels," said
Mirelle sharply.
She went out, closing the door behind her.
M. Caux came back to his chair; the Examining
Magistrate sighed.
"What a fury!" he said, "but diablement
chic, I wonder if she is telling the truth? I
think so."
"There is some truth in her story, certainly,"
said Poirot. "We have confirmation
of it from Miss Grey. She was looking down
the corridor a short time before the train
reached Lyons and she saw M. Kettering go
into his wife's compartment."
"The case against him seems quite clear,"
said the Commissary, sighing; "it is a thousand
pities," he murmured.
"How do you mean?" asked Poirot.
"It has been the ambition of my life to lay
the Comte de la Roche by the heels. This
time, mafoiy I thought we had got him. This
other--it is not nearly so satisfactory."
M. Carrege rubbed his nose.
"If anything goes wrong," he observed
cautiously, "it will be most awkward. M.
Kettering is of the aristocracy. It will get
into the newspapers. If we have made a
mistake----" He shrugged his shoulders
forebodingly.
"The jewels now," said the Commissary,
"what do you think he has done with them?"
"He took them for a plant, of course,"
said M. Carrege; "they must have been a
great inconvenience to him and very awkward
to dispose of."
Poirot smiled.
"I have an idea of my own about the jewels.
Tell me. Messieurs, what do you know
of a man called the Marquis?"
The Commissary leant forward excitedly.
"The Marquis," he said, "the Marquis?
Do you think he is mixed up in this affair, M. Poirot?"
"I ask you what you know of him."
The Commissary made an expressive grimace.

"Not as much as we should like to," he
observed ruefully. "He works behind the
scenes, you understand. He has underlings
who do his dirty work for him. But he is
some one high up. That we are sure of. He
does not come from the criminal classes."
"A Frenchman?"
"Y--es. At least we believe so. But we
are not sure. He has worked in France, in
England, in America. There was a series of
robberies in Switzerland last autumn which
were laid at his door. By all accounts he is
a grand seigneur, speaking French and Ens
glish with equal perfection and his origin is
|p mystery."
Poirot nodded and rose to take his departure.

"Can you tell us nothing more, M.
Poirot," urged the Commissary.
"At present, no," said Poirot, "but I may
have news awaiting me at my hotel."
M. Carrege looked uncomfortable. "If the
Marquis is concerned in this----" he began, and then stopped.
"It upsets our ideas," complained M.
Caux.
"It does not upset mine," said Poirot. "On
the contrary, I think it agrees with them very
well. Au revoir. Messieurs; if news of any
importance comes to me I will communicate
it to you immediately."
He walked back to his hotel with a grave
face. In his absence a telegram had come to
him. Taking a paper-cutter from his pocket, he slit it open. It was a long telegram, and
he read it over twice before slowly putting
it in his pocket. Upstairs, George was awaiting
his master.
"I am fatigued, Georges, much fatigued.
Will you order for me a small pot of chocolate?"

The chocolate was duly ordered and
brought, and George set it at the little table
at his master's elbow. As he was preparing
to retire, Poirot spoke:
"I believe, Georges, that you have a good
knowledge of the English aristocracy?" murmured
Poirot.
George smiled apologetically.
"I think that I might say that I have, sir," he replied.
"I suppose that it is your opinion, Georges, that criminals are invariably drawn
from the lower orders."
"Not always, sir. There was great trouble
with one of the Duke of Devize5 s younger
sons. He left Eton under a cloud, and after
that he caused great anxiety on several occasions.
The police would not accept the
view that it was kleptomania. A very clever
young gentleman, sir, but vicious through
and through, if you take my meaning. His
Grace shipped him to Australia, and I hear
he was convicted out there under another
name. Very odd, sir, but there it is. The
young gentleman, I need hardly say, was not
in want financially."
Poirot nodded his head slowly.
an/i
7
"Love of excitement," he murmured, "and a little kink in the brain somewhere. I
wonder now----"
He drew out the telegram from his pocket
and read it again.
"Then there was Lady Mary Fox's daughter," continued the valet in a mood of reminiscence.
"Swindled tradespeople something
shocking, she did. Very worrying to the best
families, if I may say so, and there are many
other queer cases I could mention."
"You have a wide experience, Georges,"
murmured Poirot. "I often wonder having
lived so exclusively with titled families that
you demean yourself by coming as a valet to
me. I put it down to love of excitement on
your part."
"Not exactly, sir," said George. "I happened
to see in Society Snippets that you had
been received at Buckingham Palace. That
was just when I was looking for a new situation.
His Majesty, so it said, had been
I|nost gracious and friendly and thought very
highly of your abilities."
"Ah," said Poirot, "one always likes to
know the reason for things."
He remained in thought for a few moiinents
and then said:
^f\C-
"You rang up Mademoiselle Papopolous?"

"Yes, sir; she and her father will be
pleased to dine with you tonight."
"Ah," said Poirot thoughtfully. He drank
off his chocolate, set the cup and saucer
neatly in the middle of the tray, and spoke
gently, more to himself than to the valet.
"The squirrel, my good Georges, collects
nuts. He stores them up in the autumn so
that they may be of advantage to him later.
To make a success of humanity, Georges, we
must profit by the lessons of those below us
in the animal kingdom. I have always done
so. I have been the cat, watching at the
mouse hole. I have been the good dog following
up the scent, and not taking my nose
from the trail. And also, my good Georges, I
have been the squirrel. I have stored away the
little fact here, the little fact there. I go now
to my store and I take out one particular nut,
a nut that I stored away--let me see, seventeen
years ago. You follow me, Georges?"
"I should hardly have thought, sir," said
George, "that nuts would have kept so long
as that, though I know one can do wonders
with preserving bottles."
Poirot looked at him and smiled.
i(\fi
Chapter 28
Poirot Plays the Squirrel
^irot started to keep his dinner appointment
with a margin of three-quarters of an
hour to spare. He had an object in this. The
car took him, not straight to Monte Carlo, but to Lady Tamplin's house at Cap Martin,
where he asked for Miss Grey. The ladies
were dressing and Poirot was shown into a
small salon to wait, and here, after a lapse
of three or four minutes, Lenox Tamplin
came to him.
"Katherine is not quite ready yet," she
said. "Can I give her a message, or would
you rather wait until she comes down?"
Poirot looked at her thoughtfully. He was
a minute or two in replying, as though something
of great weight hung upon his decision.
Apparently the answer to such a simple question
mattered.
"No," he said at last, "no, I do not think it is necessary that I should wait to see Ma-
^f\n
demoiselle Katherine. I think, perhaps, Jiat
it is better that I should not. These things
are sometimes difficult."
Lenox waited politely, her eyebrows
slightly raised.
"I have a piece of news," continued
Poirot. "You will, perhaps, tell your friend.
M. Kettering was arrested to-night for the
murder of his wife."
"You want me to tell Katherine that?"
asked Lenox. She breathed rather hard, as
though she had been running; her face,
Poirot thought, looked white and strained—
rather noticeably so.
"If you please. Mademoiselle."
"Why?" said Lenox. "Do you think
Katherine will be upset? Do you think she
cares?"
"I don't know. Mademoiselle," said
Poirot. "See, I admit it frankly. As a rule I
know everything, but in this case, I—well,
I do not. You, perhaps, know better than I
do."
"Yes," said Lenox, "I know—but I am
not going to tell you all the same."
She paused for a minute or two, her dark
brows drawn together in a frown.
"You believe he did it?" she said abruptly.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
IFkO
"The police say so."
"Ah," said Lenox, "hedging, are you? So
lere is something to hedge about."
Again she was silent, frowning. Poirot said
gently:
"You have known Derek Kettering a long
time, have you not?"
"Off and on ever since I was a kid," said
Lenox gruffly.
Poirot nodded his head several times without
speaking.
With one of her brusque movements
Lenox drew forward a chair and sat down
on it, her elbows on the table and her face
supported by her hands. Sitting thus, she
looked directly across the table at Poirot.
"What have they got to go on?" she demanded.
"Motive, I suppose. Probably came
into money at her death."
"He came into two million."
"And if she had not died he would have
been ruined?"
"Yes."
"But there must have been more than
that," persisted Lenox. "He travelled by the
same train, I know, but--that would not be
enough to go on by itself."
"A cigarette case with the letter 'K' on it
which did not belong to Mrs. Kettering was
2HQ
found in her carriage, and he was seen by
two people entering and leaving the compartment
just before the train got into
Lyons."
"What two people?"
"Your friend Miss Grey was one of them.
The other was Mademoiselle Mirelle, the
dancer."
"And he, Derek, what has he got to say
about it?" demanded Lenox sharply.
"He denies having entered his wife's compartment
at all," said Poirot.
"Fool!" said Lenox crisply, frowning.
"Just before Lyons, you say? Does nobody
know when--when she died?"
"The doctors' evidence necessarily cannot
be very definite," said Poirot; "they are inclined
to think that death was unlikely to
have occurred after leaving Lyons. And we
know this much, that a few moments after
leaving Lyons Mrs. Kettering was dead."
"How do you know that?"
Poirot was smiling rather oddly to himself.
"Some one else went into her compartment
and found her dead."
"And they did not rouse the train?"
"No."
"Why was that?"
"Doubtless they had their reasons."
310
Lenox looked at him sharply.
"Do you know the reason?" , "I think so--yes."
Lenox sat still turning things over in her mind. Poirot watched her in silence. At last
he looked up. A soft colour had come into
er cheeks and her eyes were shining.
"You think some one on the train must
ave killed her, but that need not be so at
11. What is to stop any one swinging themelves
on to the train when it stopped at
Lyons? They could go straight to her compartment, strangle her, and take the rubies
and drop off the train again without any one
being the wiser. She may have been actually
killed while the train was in Lyons station.
Then she would have been alive when Derek
went in, and dead when the other person
found her."
Poirot leant back in his chair. He drew a
deep breath. He looked across at the girl and
nodded his head three times, then he heaved
i sigh.
"Mademoiselle," he said, "what you have said there is very just--very true. I was struggling in darkness, and you have shown
3ie a light. There was a point that puzzled
e and you have made it plain."
He got up.
311
run of good luck, and had soon won a few
thousand francs.
"It would be as well," she observed drily
to Poirot, "if I stopped now."
Poirofs eyes twinkled.
"Superb!" he exclaimed. "You are the
daughter of your father. Mademoiselle Zia.
To know when to stop. Ah! that is the art."
He looked round the rooms.
"I cannot see your father anywhere
about," he remarked carelessly. "I will fetch
your cloak for you. Mademoiselle, and we
will go out in the gardens."
He did not, however, go straight to the
cloak-room. His sharp eyes had seen but a
little while before the departure of M. Papopolous.
He was anxious to know what had
become of the wily Greek. He ran him to
earth unexpectedly in the big entrance hall.
He was standing by one of the pillars, talking
to a lady who had just arrived. The lady was
Mirelle.
Poirot sidled unostentatiously round the
room. He arrived at the other side of the pillar, and unnoticed by the two who were talking
together in an animated fashion--or rather, that is to say, the dancer was talking, Papopolous
contributing an occasional mono syllable and a good many expressive gestures.

"I tell you I must have time," the dancer
was saying, "If you give me time I will get
the money."
"To wait"--the Greek shrugged his
shoulders--"it is awkward."
"Only a very little while," pleaded the
other. "Ah! but you must! A week--ten
days--that is all I ask. You can be sure of
your affair. The money will be forthcoming."

Papopolous shifted a little and looked
round him uneasily--to find Poirot almost
at his elbow with a beaming innocent face.
"Ah! vous voild, M. Papopolous. I have
been looking for you. It is permitted that I
take Mademoiselle Zia for a little turn in the
gardens? Good evening. Mademoiselle." He
bowed very low to Mirelle. "A thousand pardons
that I did not see you immediately."
The dancer accepted his greetings rather
impatiently. She was clearly annoyed at the
interruption of her tete-d-tete. Poirot was
quick to take the hint. Papopolous had already
murmured: "Certainly--but certainly,"
and Poirot withdrew forthwith.
He fetched Zia's cloak, and together they
strolled out into the gardens.
"This is where the suicides take place,"
said Zia.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "So it is
said. Men are foolish, are they not. Mademoiselle?
To eat, to drink, to breathe the
good air, it is a very pleasant thing. Mademoiselle.
One is foolish to leave all that simply
because one has no money--or because
the heart aches. L'amour, it causes many fatalities, does it not?"
Zia laughed.
"You should not laugh at love. Mademoiselle,"
said Poirot, shaking an energetic
forefinger at her. "You who are young and
beautiful."
"Hardly that," said Zia; "you forget that
I am thirty-three, M. Poirot. I am frank with
you, because it is no good being otherwise.
As you told my father, it is exactly seventeen
years since you aided us in Paris that time."
"When I look at you, it seems much less,"
said Poirot gallantly. "You were then very
much as you are now. Mademoiselle, a little
thinner, a little paler, a little more serious.
Sixteen years old and fresh from your pension.
Not quite the petite pensionnaire, not
quite a woman. You were very delicious,
very charming. Mademoiselle Zia; others
thought so too, without doubt."
"At sixteen," said Zia, "one is simple and
a little fool."
"That may be," said Poirot, "yes, that
well may be. At sixteen one is credulous, is
one not? One believes what one is told."
If he saw the quick sideways glance that
the girl shot at him, he pretended not to have
done so. He continued dreamily: "It was a
curious affair that, altogether. Your father, Mademoiselle, has never understood the true
inwardness of it."
"No?"
"When he asked me for details, for explanations, I said to him thus: 'Without
scandal, I have got back for you that which
was lost. You must ask no questions.5 Do
you know. Mademoiselle, why I said these
things?"
"I have no idea," said the girl coldly. | "It was because I had a soft spot in my
heart for a little pensionnaire, so pale, so
thin, so serious."
i "I don't understand what you are talking
about," cried Zia angrily.
"Do you not. Mademoiselle? Have you
forgotten Antonio Pirezzio?"
He heard the quick intake of her breath
--almost a gasp.
"He came to work as an assistant in the
..M
shop, but not thus could he have got hold
of what he wanted. An assistant can lift his
eyes to his master's daughter, can he not? If
he is young and handsome with a glib
tongue. And since they cannot make love all
the time, they must occasionally talk of
things that interest them both--such as that
very interesting thing which was temporarily
in M. Papopolous5 possession. And since, as
you say. Mademoiselle, the young are foolish
and credulous, it was easy to believe him and
to give him a sight of that particular thing, to show him where it was kept. And afterwards
when it is gone--when the unbelievable
catastrophe has happened. Alas! the
poor little pensionnaire. What a terrible position
she is in. She is frightened, the poor
little one. To speak or not to speak? And
then there comes along that excellent fellow,
Hercule Poirot. Almost a miracle it must
have been, the way things arranged themselves.
The priceless heirlooms are restored
and there are no awkward questions."
Zia turned on him fiercely.
"You have known all the time? Who told
you? Was it--was it Antonio?"
Poirot shook his head.
"No one told me," he said quietly. "I
guessed. It was a good guess, was it not,
I Mademoiselle? You see, unless you are good
|at guessing, it is not much use being a dejtective."
The
girl walked along beside him for some
ninutes in silence. Then she said in a hard roice:
"Well, what are you going to do about it, re you going to tell my father?"
"No," said Poirot sharply. "Certainly

She looked at him curiously.
"You want something from me?"
"I want your help. Mademoiselle."
"What makes you think that I can help
you?"
"I do not think so. I only hope so."
"And if I do not help you, then--you will
tell my father?"
"But no, but no! Debarrass yourself of
that idea. Mademoiselle. I am not a blackmailer.
I do not hold your secret over your
head and threaten you with it."
"If I refuse to help you----" began the
girl slowly.
"Then you refuse, and that is that."
"Then why----" she stopped.
"Listen, and I will tell you why. Women,
Mademoiselle, are generous. If they can render
a service to one who has rendered a ser-
vice to them, they will do it. I was generous
once to you. Mademoiselle. When I might
have spoken, I held my tongue."
There was another silence; then the girl
said, "My father gave you a hint the other
day."
"It was very kind of him."
"I do not think," said Zia slowly, "that
there is anything that I can add to that."
IfPoirot was disappointed he did not show
it. Not a muscle of his face changed.
"Eh bien!" he said cheerfully, "then we
must talk of other things."
And he proceeded to chat gaily. The girl
was distraite, however, and her answers were
mechanical and not always to the point. It
was when they were approaching the Casino
once more that she seemed to come to a decision.

"M. Poirot?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle?"
"I--I should like to help you if I could."
"You are very amiable. Mademoiselle--
very amiable."
Again there was a pause. Poirot did not
press her. He was quite ******* to wait and
let her take her own time.
"Ah bah," said Zia, "after all, why should
I not tell you? My father is cautious--very
rr
cautious in everything he says. But I know
that with you it is not necessary. You have
told us it is only the murderer you seek, and
that you are not concerned over the jewels.
I believe you. You were quite right when
you guessed that we were in Nice because
of the rubies. They have been handed over
here according to plan. My father has them
now. He gave you a hint the other day as to
who our mysterious client was."
"The Marquis?" murmured Poirot softly.
"Yes, the Marquis."
"Have you ever seen the Marquis, Mademoiselle
Zia?"
"Once," said the girl. "But not very
well," she added. "It was through a keyhole."

"That always presents difficulties," said
Poirot sympathetically, "but all the same you
saw him. You would know him again?"
Zia shook her head.
"He wore a mask," she explained.
"Young or old?"
"He had white hair. It may have been a
wig, it may not. It fitted very well. But I do
not think he was old. His walk was young,
I and so was his voice."
"His voice?" said Poirot thoughtfully.
i ^ ^ i
'-»^ i
"Ah, his voice! Would you know it again
Mademoiselle Zia?"
"I might," said the girl.
"You were interested in him, eh? It was
that that took you to the keyhole."
Zia nodded.
"Yes, yes. I was curious. One had heard
so much—he is not the ordinary thief—he
is more like a figure of history or romance."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "yes;
perhaps so."
"But it is not this that I meant to tell you,"
said Zia. "It was just one other little fact that
I thought might be—well—useful to you."
"Yes?" said Poirot encouragingly.
"The rubies, as I say, were handed over
to my father here at Nice. I did not see the
person who handed them over, but—
"Yes?"
"I know one thing. It was a woman.
^??
Chapter 29
A Letter from Home
"dear katherine,--Living among
grand friends as you are doing now, I
don't suppose you will care to hear any
of our news; but as I always thought
you were a sensible girl, perhaps you are
a trifle less swollen-headed than I suppose.
Everything goes on much the same
here. There was great trouble about the
new curate, who is scandalously high. In
my view, he is neither more nor less
than a Roman. Everybody has spoken to
the Vicar about it, but you know what
the Vicar is--all Christian charity and
no proper spirit. I have had a lot of
trouble with maids lately. That girl An- me was no good--skirts up to her knees
and wouldn't wear sensible woollen
stockings. Not one of them can bear
being spoken to. I have had a lot of pain
with my rheumatism one way and an other, and Dr. Harris persuaded me to
go and see a London specialist--a waste
of three guineas and a railway fare, as I
told him; but by waiting until Wednesday
I managed to get a cheap return.
The London doctor pulled a long face
and talked all round about and never
straight out, until I said to him, 'I'm a
plain woman. Doctor, and I like things
to be plainly stated. Is it cancer, or is it
not?' And then, of course, he had to say
it was. They say a year with care, and
not too much pain, though I am sure I
can bear pain as well as any other Christian
woman. Life seems rather lonely at
times, with most of my friends dead or
gone before. I wish you were in St.
Mary Mead, my dear, and that is a fact.
If you hadn't come into this money and
gone off into grand society, I would
have offered you double the salary poor
Jane gave you to come and look after
me; but there--there's no good wanting
what we can't get. However, if things
should go ill with you--and that is always
possible. I have heard no end of
tales of bogus noblemen marrying girls
and getting hold of their money and
then leaving them at the church door. I
'»^» A
dare say you are too sensible for anything
of the kind to happen to you, but
one never knows; and never having had
much attention of any kind it might easily
go to your head now. So just in case, my dear, remember there is always a
home for you here; and though a plainspoken
woman I am a warm-hearted one
too.--Your affectionate old friend,
"amelia viner.
"P.S.--I saw a mention of you in the
paper with your cousin. Viscountess
Tamplin, and I cut it out and put it
with my cuttings. I prayed for you on
Sunday that you might be kept from
pride and vainglory."
Katherine read this characteristic epistle
through twice, then she laid it down and
stared out of her bedroom window across the
I blue waters of the Mediterranean. She felt a
[curious lump in her throat. A sudden wave
|0f longing for St. Mary Mead swept over her.
[So full of familiar, everyday, stupid little (things--and yet--home. She felt very inI
dined to lay her head down on her arms and
indulge in a real good cry.
Lenox, coming in at the moment, saved her.
"Hello, Katherine," said Lenox. "I say-^ what is the matter?" _
"Nothing," said Katherine, grabbing up |
Miss Viner's letter and thrusting it into her
handbag.
"You looked rather queer," said Lenox.
"I say--I hope you don't mind--I rang up
your detective friend, M. Poirot, and asked
him to lunch with us in Nice. I said you
wanted to see him, as I thought he might
not come for me."
"Did you want to see him then?" asked
Katherine.
"Yes," said Lenox. "I have rather lost my
heart to him. I never met a man before whose
eyes were really green like a cat's."
"All right," said Katherine. She spoke
listlessly. The last few days had been trying.
Derek Kettering's arrest had been the topic
of the hour, and the Blue Train Mystery had
been thrashed out from every conceivable
standpoint.
"I have ordered the car," said Lenox,
"and I have told Mother some lie or other
--unfortunately I can't remember exactly
what; but it won't matter, as she never remembers.
If she knew where we were going? she would want to come too, to pump M.
Poirot."
The two girls arrived at the Negresco to
[ind Poirot waiting.
He was full of Gallic politeness, and showered
so many compliments upon the two ^iris that they were soon helpless with laughLer;
yet for all that the meal was not a gay 3ne. Katherine was dreamy and distracted, md Lenox made bursts of conversation, interspersed
by silences. As they were sitting 3n the terrace sipping their coffee she sudienly
attacked Poirot bluntly.
"How are things going? You know what
[ mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. "They take their course," he said.
"And you are just letting them take their course?"
He looked at Lenox a little sadly.
"You are young. Mademoiselle, but there are three things that cannot be hurried--Ie
bon Dieu, Nature, and old people."
"Nonsense!" said Lenox. "You are not aid."
"Ah, it is pretty what you say there."
"Here is Major Knighton," said Lenox.
Katherine looked round quickly and then toned back again.
"He is with Mr. Van Aldin," continued
Lenox. "There is something I want to ask
Major Knighton about. I won't be a minute."

Left alone together, Poirot bent forward
and murmured to Katherine:
"You are distraite. Mademoiselle; your
thoughts, they are far away, are they not?55
"Just as far as England, no farther."
Guided by a sudden impulse, she took the
letter she had received that morning and
handed it across to him to read.
"That is the first word that has come to
me from my old life; somehow or other--it
hurts."
He read it through and then handed it
back to her. "So you are going back to St.
Mary Mead?" he said slowly.
"No, I am not," said Katherine; "why
should I?"
"Ah," said Poirot, "it is my mistake. You , will excuse me one little minute." j
He strolled across to where Lenox Tamplin
was talking to Van Aldin and Knighton.
The American looked old and haggard. He
greeted Poirot with a curt nod but without
any other sign of animation.
As he turned to reply to some observation
made by Lenox, Poirot drew Knighton
aside.
"M. Van Aldin looks ill" he said.
"Do you wonder?" asked Knighton. "The
scandal ofDerek Kettering's arrest has about
put the lid on things, as far as he is concerned.
He is even regretting that he asked
you to find out the truth."
"He should go back to England," said
Poirot.
"We are going the day after tomorrow."
"That is good news," said Poirot.
He hesitated, and looked across the terrace
to where Katherine was sitting.
"I wish," he murmured, "that you could
tell Miss Grey that."
"Tell her what?"
I "That you--I mean that M. Van Aldin is
I returning to England."
Knighton looked a little puzzled, but he
readily crossed the terrace and joined Kathlerine.

Poirot saw him go with a satisfied nod of
the head, and then joined Lenox and the
American. After a minute or two they joined
the others. Conversation was general for a
few minutes, then the millionaire and his
secretary departed. Poirot also prepared to
take his departure.
( "A thousand thanks for your hospitality, JMesdemoiselles," he cried; "it has been a
I most charming luncheon. Ma foi, 1 needed
it!" He swelled out his chest and thumped
it. "I am now a lion--a giant. Ah, Mademoiselle
Katherine, you have not seen me as
I can be. You have seen the gentle, the calm
Hercule Poirot; but there is another Hercule
Poirot. I go now to bully, to threaten, to
strike terror into the hearts of those who
listen to me."
He looked at them in a self-satisfied way, and they both appeared to be duly impressed,
though Lenox was biting her under
lip, and the corners of Katherine's mouth
had a suspicious twitch.
"And I shall do it," he said gravely. "Oh
yes, I shall succeed."
He had gone but a few steps when Katherine's
voice made him turn.
"M. Poirot, I--I want to tell you. I think
you were right in what you said. I am going
back to England almost immediately."
Poirot stared at her very hard, and under
the directness of his scrutiny she blushed.
"I see," he said gravely.
"I don't believe you do," said Katherine.
"I know more than you think. Mademoiselle,"
he said quietly.
He left her, with an odd little smile upon
his lips. Entering a waiting car, he drove to
Antibes.
r
Hippolyte, the Comte de la Roche's
wooden-faced man-servant, was busy at the
Villa Marina polishing his master's beautiful
|cut table glass. The Comte de la Roche himself
had gone to Monte Carlo for the day.
Chancing to look out of the window, Hipolyte
espied a visitor walking briskly up to
ie hall door, a visitor of so uncommon a
/pe that Hippolyte, experienced as he was,
[had some difficulty in placing him. Calling
to his wife, Marie, who was busy in the
kitchen, he drew her attention to what he
called ce type la.
"It is not the police again?" said Marie
anxiously.
"Look for yourself," said Hippolyte.
Marie looked.
"Certainly not the police," she declared.
"I am glad."
"They have not really worried us much,"
said Hippolyte. "In fact, but for Monsieur
Ie Comte's warning, I should never have
guessed that stranger at the wine-shop to be
what he was."
The hall bell pealed and Hippolyte, in a
grave and decorous manner, went to open
the door.
, "M. Ie Comte, I regret to say, is not at ^ome."
^i
The little man with the large moustaches
beamed placidly.
"I know that," he replied. "You are Hippolyte
Flavelle, are you not?"
"Yes, Monsieur, that is my name."
"And you have a wife, Marie Flavelle?"
"Yes, Monsieur, but——"
"I desire to see you both," said the
stranger, and he stepped nimbly past Hippoly
te into the hall.
"Your wife is doubtless in the kitchen,"
he said. "I will go there."
Before Hippolyte could recover his
breath, the other had selected the right door
at the back of the hall and passed along the
passage and into the kitchen, where Marie
paused open-mouthed to stare at him.
"Voild," said the stranger, and sank into
a wooden arm-chair; "I am Hercule Poirot."
"Yes, Monsieur?"
"You do not know the name?"
"I have never heard it," said Hippolyte.
"Permit me to say that you have been
badly educated. It is the name of one of the
great ones of this world."
He sighed and folded his hands across his
chest.
Hippolyte and Marie were staring at him
uneasily. They were at a loss what to make
of this unexpected and extremely strange visitor.

"Monsieur desires----" murmured Hippolyte
mechanically.
"I desire to know why you have lied to
ie police."
"Monsieur!" cried Hippolyte; "I--lied to
ie police? Never have I done such a thing."
M. Poirot shook his head.
"You are wrong," he said; "you have done
on several occasions. Let me see." He took
small notebook from his pocket and consulted
it. "Ah, yes; on seven occasions at
least. I will recite them to you."
In a gentle unemotional voice he proI
ceeded to outline the seven occasions.
Hippolyte was taken aback.
"But it is not of these past lapses that I
wish to speak," continued Poirot, "only, my
dear friend, do not get into the habit of
thinking yourself too clever. I come now to
the particular lie in which I am concerned
--your statement that the Comte de la Roche
arrived at this villa on the morning of 14th
January."
"But that was no lie. Monsieur; that was
the truth. Monsieur Ie Comte arrived here
on the morning of Tuesday, the 14th. That
is so, Marie, is it not?"
Marie assented eagerly.
"Ah, yes, that is quite right. I remember
it perfectly."
"Ah," said Poirot, "and what did you give
your good master for dejeuner that day?"
"I----" Marie paused, trying to collect
herself.
"Odd," said Poirot, "how one remembers
some things--and forgets others."
He leant forward and struck the table a
blow with his fist; his eyes flashed with anger.

"Yes, yes, it is as I say. You tell your lies
and you think nobody knows. But there are
two people who know. Yes--two people.
One is Ie bon Dieu----"
He raised a hand to heaven, and then settling
himself back in his chair and shutting
his eyelids, he murmured comfortably:
"And the other is Hercule Poirot."
"I assure you. Monsieur, you are completely
mistaken. Monsieur Ie Comte left
Paris on Monday night----"
"True," said Poirot--"by the Rapide. I
do not know where he broke his journey.
Perhaps you do not know that. What I do
know is that he arrived here on Wednesday
morning, and not on Tuesday morning."
"Monsieur is mistaken," said Marie stolidly.

Poirot rose to his feet.
"Then the law must take its course," he
murmured. "A pity."
"What do you mean. Monsieur?" asked
Marie, with a shade of uneasiness.
"You will be arrested and held as accomplices
concerned in the murder of Mrs.
Kettering, the English lady who was killed."
"Murder!"
The man's face had gone chalk white, his
knees knocked together. Marie dropped the
rolling-pin and began to weep.
"But it is impossible--impossible. I
thought----"
"Since you stick to your story, there is
nothing to be said. I think you are both foolish."

He was turning towards the door when an
agitated voice arrested him.
"Monsieur, Monsieur, just a little moment.
I--I had no idea that it was anything
of this kind. I--I thought it was just a matter
concerning a lady. There have been little
awkwardnesses with the police over ladies
before. But murder--that is very different."
"I have no patience with you," cried
Poirot. He turned round on them and angrily
shook his fist in Hippolyte's face. "Am I to
stop here all day, arguing with a couple of
imbeciles thus? It is the truth I want. If you
will not give it to me, that is your look out. For the last time, when did Monsieur Ie Comte
arrive at the Villa Marina--Tuesday morning
or Wednesday morning?"
"Wednesday," gasped the man, and behind
him Marie nodded confirmation.
Poirot regarded them for a minute or two, then inclined his head gravely.
"You are wise, my children," he said quietly.
"Very nearly you were in serious trouble."

He left the Villa Marina, smiling to himself.

"One guess confirmed," he murmured to himself. "Shall I take a chance on the
other?"
It was six o'clock when the card of Monsieur
Hercule Poirot was brought up to Mirelle.
She stared at it for a moment or two, and then nodded. When Poirot entered, he
found her walking up and down the room
feverishly. She turned on him furiously.
"Well?" she cried. "Well? What is it now?
Have you not tortured me enough, all of
you? Have you not made me betray my poor
Dereek? What more do you want?"

"Just one little question. Mademoiselle.
After the train left Lyons, when you entered
Mrs. Kettering's compartment----"
"What is that?"
Poirot looked at her with an air of mild
reproach and began again.
"I say when you entered Mrs. Kettering's
compartment----f'
"I never did."
"And found her----"
"I never did."
"Ah, sacrer
He turned on her in a rage and shouted
at her, so that she cowered back before him.
"Will you lie to me? I tell you I know
what happened as well as though I had been
there. You went into her compartment and
you found her dead. I tell you I know it. To
lie to me is dangerous. Be careful. Mademoiselle
Mirelle."
Her eyes wavered beneath his gaze and
fell.
"I--I didn't----" she began uncertainly
I and stopped.
"There is only one thing about which I Iwonder," said Poirot--"I wonder. Mademoiselle, if you found what you were looking
I for or whether----"
"Whether what?"
"Or whether some one else had been be- i
fore you." j
"I will answer no more questions,"
screamed the dancer. She tore herself away
from Poirot's restraining hand, and flinging
herself down on the floor in a frenzy, she
screamed and sobbed. A frightened maid
came rushing in.
Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders,
raised his eyebrows, and quietly left the
room.
But he seemed satisfied.
330
Chapter 30
Miss Viner Gives judgment
katherine looked out of Miss Viner's bedroom
window. It was raining, not violently, but with a quiet, well-bred persistence. The
window looked out on a strip of front garden
with a path down to the gate and neat little
flower-beds on either side, where later roses
and pinks and blue hyacinths would bloom.
Miss Viner was lying in a large Victorian
bedstead. A tray with the remains of breakfast
had been pushed to one side and she was
busy opening her correspondence and making
various caustic comments upon it.
Katherine had an open letter in her hand
and was reading it through for the second
time. It was dated from the Ritz Hotel, Paris.
"CHfeRE mademoiselle katherine (it
began),--"I trust that you are in good
health and that the return to the English
winter has not proved too depressing.
Me, I prosecute my inquiries with the
utmost diligence. Do not think that it is
the holiday that I take here. Very
shortly I shall be in England 5 and I hope
then to have the pleasure of meeting you
once more. It shall be so, shall it not?
On arrival in London I shall write to
you. You remember that we are the colleagues
in this affair? But indeed I think
you know that very well.
"Be assured. Mademoiselle, of my
most respectful and devoted sentiments.
"hercule poirot."
Katherine frowned slightly. It was as
though something in the letter puzzled and
intrigued her.
"A choir boys' picnic indeed," came from
Miss Viner. "Tommy Saunders and Albert
Dykes ought to be left behind, and I shan't
subscribe to it unless they are. What those
two boys think they are doing in church on
Sundays I don't know. Tommy sang, '0
God, make speed to save us,' and never
opened his lips again, and if Albert Dykes
wasn't sucking a mint humbug, my nose is
not what it is and always has been."
"I know, they are awful," agreed Katherine.

She opened her second letter, and a sudden
flush came to her cheeks. Miss Viner's
voice in the room seemed to recede into the
far distance.
When she came back to a sense of her
surroundings Miss Viner was bringing a long
speech to a triumphant termination.
"And I said to her, 'Not at all. As it happens, Miss Grey is Lady Tamplin's own
cousin." What do you think of that?"
"Were you fighting my battles for me?
That was very sweet of you."
"You can put it that way if you like. There
is nothing to me in a title. Vicar's wife or no
vicar's wife, that woman is a cat. Hinting
you had bought your way into Society."
"Perhaps she was not so very far wrong."
"And look at you," continued Miss Viner.
"Have you come back a stuck-up fine lady, as well you might have done? No, there you
are, as sensible as ever you were, with a pair
of good Balbriggan stockings on and sensible
shoes. I spoke to Ellen about it only yesterday.
'Ellen,5 I said, 'you look at Miss Grey.
She has been hobnobbing with some of the
greatest in the land, and does she go about
as you do with skirts up to her knees and
silk stockings that ladder when you look at
1/11
them, and the most ridiculous shoes that
ever I set eyes on?"
Katherine smiled a little to herself; it had
apparently been worth while to conform to
Miss Viner's prejudices. The old lady went
on with increasing gusto.
"It has been a great relief to me that you
have not had your head turned. Only the
other day I was looking for my cuttings. I
have several about Lady Tamplin and her
War Hospital and what not, but I cannot lay
my hand upon them. I wish you would look, my dear; your eyesight is better than mine.
They are all in a box in the bureau drawer."
Katherine glanced down at the letter in
her hand and was about to speak, but checked herself, and going over to the bureau
found the box of cuttings and began to
look over them. Since her return to St. Mary
Mead her heart had gone out to Miss Viner
in admiration of the old woman's stoicism
and pluck. She felt that there was little she
could do for her old friend, but she knew
from experience how much those seemingly
small trifles meant to old people.
"Here is one," she said presently. " 'Viscountess
Tamplin, who is running her villa
at Nice as an Officers' Hospital, has just been
the victim of a sensational robbery, her jew-
5A?
I
els having been stolen. Amongst them were
some very famous emeralds, heirlooms of the
Tamplin family.5"
"Probably paste," said Miss Viner; "a lot
of these Society women's jewels are."
"Here is another," said Katherine. "A
picture of her, 'A charming camera study of
Viscountess Tamplin with her little daughter
Lenox.'"
"Let me look," said Miss Viner. "You
can't see much of the child's face, can you?
But I dare say that is just as well. Things go
by contraries in this world and beautiful
mothers have hideous children. I dare say
the photographer realized that to take the
back of the child's head was the best thing
he could do for her."
Katherine laughed.
"'One of the smartest hostesses on the
Riviera this season is Viscountess Tamplin, who has a villa at Cap Martin. Her cousin, Miss Grey, who recently inherited a vast fortune
in a most romantic manner, is staying
with her there.'"
"That is the one I wanted," said Miss Viner.
"I expect there has been a picture of
you in one of the papers that I have missed, you know the kind of thing. Mrs. Somebody
or other Jones-Williams, at the something or
"» A »
other Point-to-point, usually carrying a
shooting-stick and having one foot lifted up
in the air. It must be a trial to some of them
to see what they look like."
Katherine did not answer. She was
smoothing out the cutting with her finger,
and her face had a puzzled, worried look.
Then she drew the second letter out of its
envelope and mastered its *******s once
more. She turned to her friend.
"Miss Viner? I wonder—there is a friend
of mine, some one I met on the Riviera, who
wants very much to come down and see me
here?"
"A man," said Miss Viner.
"Yes."
"Who is he?"
"He is secretary to Mr. Van Aldin, the
American millionaire.? ?
"What is his name?"
"Knighton. Major Knighton."
"Hm—secretary to a millionaire. And
wants to come down here. Now, Katherine,
I am going to say something to you for your
own good. You are a nice girl and a sensible
girl, and though you have your head screwed
on the right way about most things, every
woman makes a fool of herself once in her
-» A A
IT!
life. Ten to one what this man is after is your
money."
With a gesture she arrested Katherine's
reply. "I have been waiting for something
of this kind. What is a secretary to a millionaire?
Nine times out of ten it is a young
man who likes living soft. A young man with
nice manners and a taste for luxury and no
brains and no enterprise, and if there is anything
that is a softer job than being a secretary
to a millionaire it is marrying a rich
woman for her money. I am not saying that
you might not be some man's fancy. But you
are not young, and though you have a very
good complexion you are not a beauty, and
what I say to you is, don't make a fool of
yourself; but if you are determined to do so, do see that your money is properly tied up
pn yourself. There, now I have finished.
p^hat have you got to say?"
1 "Nothing," said Katherine; "but would
you mind if he did come down to see me?"
"I wash my hands of it," said Miss Viner.
"I have done my duty, and whatever happens
now is on your own head. Would you
like him to lunch or to dinner? I dare say
lien could manage dinner--that is, if she
idn't lose her head."
"Lunch would be very nice," said Kath-
erine. "It is awfully kind of you. Miss Viner.
He asked me to ring him up, so I will do so
and say that we shall be pleased if he will
lunch with us. He will motor down from
town."
"Ellen does a steak with grilled tomatoes
pretty fairly," said Miss Viner. "She doesn't
do it well, but she does it better than anything
else. It is no good having a tart because
she is heavy handed with pastry; but her
little castle puddings are not bad, and I dare
say you could find a nice piece of Stilton at
Abbot's. I have always heard that gentlemen
like a nice piece of Stilton, and there is a
good deal of father's wine left, a bottle of
sparkling Moselle, perhaps."
"Oh no, Miss Viner; that is really not necessary."

"Nonsense, my child. No gentleman is
happy unless he drinks something with his
meal. There is some good pre-war whisky if
you think he would prefer that. Now do as
I say and don't argue. The key of the winecellar
is in the third drawer down in the
dressing-table, in the second pair of stockings
on the left-hand side."
Katherine went obediently to the spot indicated.

"The second pair, now mind," said Miss
3/1^:
rr
Viner. "The first pair has my diamond earrings
and my filigree brooch in it."
"Oh," said Katherine, rather taken aback,
"wouldn't you like them put in your jewelcase?"
Miss
Viner gave vent to a terrific and prolonged
snort.
"No, indeed! I have much too much sense
for that sort of thing, thank you. Dear, dear,
ib I well remember how my poor father had a
J safe built in downstairs. Pleased as Punch
he was with it, and he said to my mother, 'Now, Mary, you bring me your jewels in
their case every night and I will lock them
away for you.5 My mother was a very tactful
woman, and she knew that gentlemen like
having their own way, and she brought him
the jewel-case locked up just as he said.
"And one night burglars broke in, and of
course--naturally--the first thing they went
for was the safe! It would be, with my father
talking up and down the village and bragging
about it until you might have thought he
kept all King Solomon's diamonds there.
They made a clean sweep, got the tankards,
^the silver cups, and the presentation gold
late that my father had had presented to m, and the jewel-case."
She sighed reminiscently. "My father was
in a great state over my mother's jewels.
There was the Venetian set and some very
fine cameos, and some pale pink corals 5 and
two diamond rings with quite large stones
in them. And then, of course, she had to tell
him that, being a sensible woman, she had
kept her jewellery rolled up in a pair of corsets, and there it was still as safe as anything."

"And the jewel-case had been quite
empty?"
"Oh no, dear," said Miss Viner, "it would
have been too light a weight then. My
mother was a very intelligent woman, she
saw to that. She kept her buttons in the
jewel-case, and a very handy place it was.
Boot buttons in the top tray, trouser buttons
in the second tray, and assorted buttons below.
Curiously enough, my father was quite
annoyed with her. He said he didn't like
deceit. But I mustn't go chattering on; you
want to go and ring up your friend, and mind
you choose a nice piece of steak, and tell
Ellen she is not to have holes in her stockings
when she waits at lunch."
"Is her name Ellen or Helen, Miss Viner?
I thought----"
Miss Viner closed her eyes.
"I can sound my h's, dear, as well as any
one, but Helen is not a suitable name for a
servant. I don't know what the mothers in
the lower classes are coming to nowadays."
The rain had cleared away when Knighton
arrived at the cottage. The pale fitful sunshine
shone down on it and burnished Katherine's
head as she stood in the doorway to
welcome him. He came up to her quickly, almost boyishly.
<(I say, I hope you don't mind. I simply
had to see you again soon. I hope the friend
you are staying with does not mind."
"Come in and make friends with her,"
said Katherine. "She can be most alarming, but you will soon find that she has the softest
heart in the world."
Miss Viner was enthroned majestically in
the drawing-room, wearing a complete set
of the cameos which had been so providentially
preserved in the family. She greeted
Knighton with dignity and an austere politeness
which would have damped many
men. Knighton, however, had a charm of
manner which was not easily set aside, and
after about ten minutes Miss Viner thawed t perceptibly. Luncheon was a merry meal, and Ellen, or Helen, in a new pair of silk
stockings devoid of ladders performed prodigies
of waiting. Afterwards, Katherine and
Knighton went for a walk and they came
back to have tea tete-d-tete, since Miss Viner
had gone to lie down.
When the car had finally driven off Katherine
went slowly upstairs. A voice called her
and she went in to Miss Viner's bedroom.
"Friend gone?"
"Yes. Thank you so much for letting me
ask him down."
"No need to thank me. Do you think I
am the sort of old curmudgeon who will
never do anything for anybody?"
"I think you are a dear," said Katherine
affectionately.
"Humph," said Miss Viner mollified.
As Katherine was leaving the room she
called her back
"Katherine?"
"Yes."
"I was wrong about that young man of
yours. A man when he is making up to anybody
can be cordial and gallant and full of
little attentions and altogether charming.
But when a man is really in love he can't
help looking like a sheep. Now, whenever
that young man looked at you he looked like
a sheep. I take back all I said this morning.
It is genuine."
Chapter 31
Mr. Aarons Lunches
"ah!" said Mr. Joseph Aarons appreciatively.

He took a long draught from his tankard, set it down with a sigh, wiped the froth from
his lips, and beamed across the table at his
host. Monsieur Hercule Poirot.
"Give me," said Mr. Aarons, "a good Porterhouse
steak and a tankard of something
worth drinking, and any one can have your
French fallals and whatnots, your ordoovres
and your omelettes and your little bits of
quail. Give me," he reiterated, "a Porterhouse
steak."
Poirot, who had just complied with this
request, smiled sympathetically.
"Not that there is much wrong with a
steak and kidney pudding," continued Mr.
Aarons. "Apple tart? Yes, I will take apple
tart, thank you. Miss, and a jug of cream."
The meal proceeded. Finally, with a long
sigh, Mr. Aarons laid down his spoon and
fork preparatory to toying with some cheese
before turning his mind to other matters.
"There was a little matter of business I
think you said. Monsieur Poirot," he remarked.
"Anything I can do to help you I
am sure I shall be most happy."
"That is very kind of you," said Poirot.
"I said to myself, 'If you want to know anything
about the dramatic profession there is
one person who knows all that is to be known
and that is my old friend, Mr. Joseph
Aarons.5"
"And you don't say far wrong," said Mr.
Aarons complacently, "whether it is past,
present, or future, Joe Aarons is the man to
come to."
"Precisement. Now I want to ask you, Monsieur Aarons, what you know about a
young woman called Kidd."
"Kidd? Kitty Kidd?"
"Kitty Kidd."
"Pretty smart, she was. Male impersonator,
song and a dance---- That one?"
"That is the one."
"Very smart, she was. Made a good income.
Never out of an engagement. Male
impersonation mostly, but, as a matter of
3C^
fact, you could not touch her as a character
actress."
"So I have heard," said Poirot; "but she
has not been appearing lately, has she?"
"No. Dropped right out of things. Went
over to France and took up with some swell
nobleman there. She quitted the stage then
for good and all, I guess."
"How long ago was that?"
"Let me see. Three years ago. And she
has been a loss--let me tell you that."
"She was clever?"
"Clever as a cartload of monkeys."
"You don't know the name of the man she
became friends with in Paris?"
"He was a swell, I know that. A Count--
or was it a Marquis? Now I come to think
of it, I believe it was a Marquis."
"And you know nothing about her since?"
"Nothing. Never even run across her accidentally
like. I bet she is tooling it round
some of these foreign resorts. Being a Marquise
to the life. You couldn't put one over
on Kitty. She would give as good as she got
any day."
"I see," said Poirot thoughtfully.
"I am sorry I can't tell you more. Monsieur
Poirot " said the other. "I would like
to be of use to you if I could. You did me a
good turn once."
"Ah, but we are quits on that; you, too, did me a good turn."
"One good turn deserves another. Ha, ha!" said Mr. Aarons.
"Your profession must be a very interesting
one," said Poirot.
"So-so," said Mr. Aarons non-committally.
"Taking the rough with the smooth, it is all right. I don't do so badly at it, all
things considered, but you have to keep your
eyes skinned. Never know what the public
will jump for next."
"Dancing has come very much to the fore
in the last few years," murmured Poirot reflectively.

"/ never saw anything in this Russian ballet, but people like it. Too highbrow for
me."
"I met one dancer out on the Riviera--
Mademoiselle Mirelle.? 5
"Mirelle? She is hot stuff, by all accounts.
There is always money going to back her--
though, so far as that goes, the girl can
dance; I have seen her, and I know what I
am talking about. I never had much to do
with her myself, but I hear she is a terror to
deal with. Tempers and tantrums all the
time."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully; "yes, so
I should imagine."
"Temperament!" said Mr. Aarons, "temperament!
That is what they call it themselves.
My missus was a dancer before she
married me, but I am thankful to say she
never had any temperament. You don't want
temperament in the home. Monsieur
Poirot."
"I agree with you, my friend; it is out of
place there."
"A woman should be calm and sympathetic, and a good cook," said Mr. Aarons.
"Mirelle has not been long before the public, has she?" asked Poirot.
"About two and a half years, that is all,"
said Mr. Aarons. "Some French Duke
started her. I hear now that she has taken
up with the ex-Prime Minister of Greece.
These are the chaps who manage to put
money away quietly."
"That is news to me," said Poirot.
"Oh, she's not one to let the grass grow
under her feet. They say that young Kettering
murdered his wife on her account. I
don't know, I am sure. Anyway, he is in
prison, and she had to look round for herself,
and pretty smart she has been about it. They
say she is wearing a ruby the size of a pigeon's
egg--not that I have ever seen a pigeon's
egg myself, but that is what they
always call it in works of fiction."
"A ruby the size of a pigeon's egg!" said
Poirot. His eyes were green and catlike.
"How interesting!"
"I had it from a friend of mine," said Mr.
Aarons. "But, for all I know, it may be coloured
glass. They are all the same, these
women--they never stop telling tall stories
about their jewels. Mirelle goes about bragging
that it has got a curse on it. 'Heart of
Fire,' I think she calls it."
"But if I remember rightly," said Poirot, "the ruby that is named "Heart of Fire' is
the centre stone in a necklace."
"There you are! Didn't I tell you there is
no end to the lies women will tell about their
jewellery? This is a single stone, hung on a
platinum chain round her neck; but, as I said
before, ten to one it is a bit of coloured
glass."
"No," said Poirot gently, "no--somehow
I do not think it is coloured glass."
-»c^
Chapter 32
Katherine and Poirot
Compare Notes
"You have changed. Mademoiselle," said
Poirot suddenly. He and Katherine were
seated opposite each other at a small table at
the Savoy.
"Yes, you have changed," he continued.
"In what way?"
"Mademoiselle, these nuances are difficult
to express."
"I am older."
"Yes, you are older. And by that I do not
mean that the wrinkles and the crows' feet
are coming. When I first saw you, Made1
moiselle, you were a looker-on at life. You
I had the quiet, amused look of one who sits
I back in the stalls and watches the play."
"And now?"
"Now, you no longer watch. It is an absurd
thing, perhaps, that I say here, but you
have the wary look of a fighter who is playing
a difficult game."
"My old lady is difficult sometimes," said
Katherine, with a smile; "but I can assure
you that I don't engage in deadly contests
with her. You must go down and see her
some day. Monsieur Poirot. I think you are
one of the people who would appreciate her
pluck and her spirit."
There was a silence while the waiter deftly
served them with chicken en casserole. When
he had departed, Poirot said:
"You have heard me speak of my friend
Hastings?--he who said that I was a human
oyster. Eh bien, Mademoiselle, I have met
my match in you. You, far more than I, play
a lone hand."
"Nonsense," said Katherine lightly.
"Never does Hercule Poirot talk nonsense.
It is as I say."
Again there was a silence. Poirot broke it
by inquiring:
"Have you seen any of our Riviera friends
since you have been back. Mademoiselle?"
"I have seen something of Major Knighton."
"A-ha!
Is that so?"
Something in Poirofs twinkling eyes
made Katherine lower hers.
"So Mr. Van Aldin remains in London?"
"Yes."
"I must try to see him to-morrow or the
next day."
"You have news for him?"
"What makes you think that?"
"I—wondered, that is all."
Poirot looked across at her with twinkling
eyes.
"And now. Mademoiselle, there is much
that you wish to ask me, I can see that. And
why not? Is not the affair of the Blue Train
our own 'Roman Policier'?"
"Yes, there are things I should like to ask
you."
"Eh bien?"
Katherine looked up with a sudden air of
resolution.
"What were you doing in Paris, Monsieur
Poirot?"
I Poirot smiled slightly.
"I made a call at the Russian Embassy."
"Oh."
"I see that that tells you nothing. But I
will not be a human oyster. No, I will lay
my cards on the table, which is assuredly a
thing that oysters do not do. You suspect,
do you not, that I am not satisfied with the
case against Derek Kettering?"
"That is what I have been wondering. I
thought, in Nice, that you had finished with
the case."
"You do not say all that you mean. Mademoiselle.
But I admit everything. It was
I--my researches--which placed Derek
Kettering where he is now. But for me the
Examining Magistrate would still be vainly
trying to fasten the crime on the Comte de
la Roche. Eh bien. Mademoiselle, what I |
have done I do not regret. I have only one
duty--to discover the truth, and that way
led straight to Mr. Kettering. But did it end
there? The police say yes, but I, Hercule
Poirot, am not satisfied."
He broke off suddenly. "Tell me. Mademoiselle, have you heard from Mademoiselle
Lenox lately?"
"One very short, scrappy letter. She is, I
think, annoyed with me for coming back to
England."
Poirot nodded.
"I had an interview with her the night that
Monsieur Kettering was arrested. It was an
interesting interview in more ways than
one."
Again he fell silent, and Katherine did not
interrupt his train of thought.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last, "I am
now on delicate ground, yet I will say this
to you. There is, I think, some one who loves
Monsieur Kettering--correct me if I am
wrong--and for her sake--well--for her
sake I hope that I am right and the police
are wrong. You know who that some one
is?"
There was a pause, then Katherine said:
"Yes--I think I know."
Poirot leant across the table towards her.
"I am not satisfied. Mademoiselle; no, I
am not satisfied. The facts, the main facts, led straight to Monsieur Kettering. But there
is one thing that has been left out of account."
"And what is that?"
"The disfigured face of the victim. I have
asked myself. Mademoiselle, a hundred
times, 'Was Derek Kettering the kind of
man who would deal that smashing blow after
having committed murder?5 What end
would it serve? What purpose would it accomplish?
Was it a likely action for one of
Monsieur Kettering's temperament? And, Mademoiselle, the answer to these questions
is profoundly unsatisfactory. Again and
again I go back to that one point--'why?5 And the only things I have to help me to a
solution of the problem are these."
He whipped out his pocket-book and extracted
something from it which he held between
his finger and thumb.
"Do you remember. Mademoiselle? You
saw me take these hairs from the rug in the
railway carriage."
Katherine leant forward, scrutinizing the
hairs keenly.
Poirot nodded his head slowly several
times.
"They suggest nothing to you, I see that, Mademoiselle. And yet--I think somehow
that you see a good deal."
"I have had ideas," said Katherine slowly, "curious ideas. That is why I ask you what
you were doing in Paris, Monsieur Poirot."
"When I wrote to you----"
"From the Ritz?"
A curious smile came over Poirot's face.
"Yes, as you say, from the Ritz. I am a
luxurious person sometimes--when a millionaire
pays."
"The Russian Embassy," said Katherine, frowning. "No, I don't see where that comes
in."
"It does not come in directly. Mademoiselle.
I went there to get certain information.
I saw a particular personage and I threatened
him--yes. Mademoiselle, I, Hercule Poirot, threatened him."
"With the police?"
"No," said Poirot drily, "with the Press
--a much more deadly weapon."
He looked at Katherine and she smiled at
him, just shaking her head.
"Are you not just turning back into an
oyster again. Monsieur Poirot?"
"No, no! I do not wish to make mysteries.
See, I will tell you everything. I suspect this
man of being the active party in the sale of
the jewels of Monsieur Van Aldin. I tax him
with it, and in the end I get the whole story
out of him. I learn where the jewels were
handed over, and I learn, too, of the man
who paced up and down outside in the
street--a man with a venerable head of white
hair, but who walked with the light, springy
step of a young man--and I give that man a
name in my own mind--the name of 'Monsieur
Ie Marquis.'"
"And now you have come to London to
see Mr. Van Aldin?"
"Not entirely for that reason. I had other
work to do. Since I have been in London I
have seen two more people--a theatrical
agent and a Harley Street doctor. From each
of them I have got certain information. Put
these things together. Mademoiselle, and see 1
if you can make of them the same as I do."
"I?"
"Yes, you. I will tell you one thing. Mademoiselle.
There has been a doubt all along
in my mind as to whether the robbery and
the murder were done by the same person.
For a long time I was not sure----"
"And now?"
"And now I know,"
There was a silence. Then Katherine lifted
her head. Her eyes were shining.
"I am not clever like you. Monsieur
Poirot. Half the things that you have been
telling me don't seem to me to point anywhere
at all. The ideas that came to me came
from such an entirely different angle----"
"Ah, but that is always so," said Poirot
quietly. "A mirror shows the truth, but
every one stands in a different place for looking
into the mirror."
"My ideas may be absurd--they may be
entirely different from yours, but----"
"Yes?"
"Tell me, does this help you at all?"
He took a newspaper cutting from her outstretched
hand. He read it and, looking up, he nodded gravely.
"As I told you. Mademoiselle, one stands
i y a
at a different angle for looking into the mirror, but it is the same mirror and the same
things are reflected there."
Katherine got up. "I must rush," she said.
"I have only just time to catch my train.
Monsieur Poirot----"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"It--it mustn't be much longer, you understand.
I--I can't go on much longer."
There was a break in her voice.
He patted her hand reassuringly.
"Courage, Mademoiselle, you must not
fail now; the end is very near."
Chapter 33
A New Theory
"monsieur poirot wants to see you, sir."
"Damn the fellow!" said Van Aldin.
Knighton remained sympathetically silent.

Van Aldin got up from his chair and paced
up and down.
"I suppose you have seen the cursed newspapers
this morning?"
"I have glanced at them, sir."
"Still at it hammer and tongs?"
"I am afraid so, sir."
The millionaire sat down again and
pressed his hand to his forehead.
"If I had had an idea of this," he groaned.
"I wish to God I had never got that little
Belgian to ferret out the truth. Find Ruth's
murderer--that was all I thought about."
"You wouldn't have liked your son-in-law
to go scot free?"
Van Aldin sighed.
"I would have preferred to take the law
into my own hands."
"I don't think that would have been a very
wise proceeding, sir."
"All the same--are you sure the fellow
wants to see me?"
"Yes, Mr. Van Aldin. He is very urgent
about it."
"Then I suppose he will have to. He can
come along this morning if he likes."
It was a very fresh and debonair Poirot
who was ushered in. He did not seem to see
any lack of cordiality in the millionaire's
manner, and chatted pleasantly about various
trifles. He was in London, he explained, to see his doctor. He mentioned the name
of an eminent surgeon.
"No, no, pas la guerre--a memory of my
days in the police force, a bullet of a rascally
Apache."
He touched his left shoulder and winced
realistically.
"I always consider you a lucky man. Monsieur
Van Aldin, you are not like our popular
idea of American millionaires, martyrs to the
dyspepsia."
"I am pretty tough," said Van Aldin. "I
lead a very simple life, you know; plain fare
and not too much of it."
"You have seen something of Miss Grey, have you not?" inquired Poirot, innocently
turning to the secretary.
"I--yes; once or twice," said Knighton.
He blushed slightly and Van Aldin exclaimed
in surprise:
"Funny you never mentioned to me that
you had seen her, Knighton?"
"I didn't think you would be interested,
sir."
"I like that girl very much," said Van Aldin.
"It
is a thousand pities that she should
have buried herself once more in St. Mary
Mead," said Poirot.
"It is very fine of her," said Knighton
hotly. "There are very few people who
would bury themselves down there to look
after a cantankerous old woman who has no
earthly claim on her."
"I am silent," said Poirot, his eyes twinkling
a little; "but all the same I say it is a
pity. And now. Messieurs, let us come to
business."
Both the other men looked at him in some
surprise.
"You must not be shocked or alarmed at
what I am about to say. Supposing, Mon-
sieur Van Aldin, that, after all, Monsieur
Derek Kettering did not murder his wife?"
"What?"
Both men stared at him in blank surprise.
| "Supposing, I say, that Monsieur Derek 1 Kettering did not murder his wife?"
i "Are you mad. Monsieur Poirot?"
It was Van Aldin who spoke.
"No," said Poirot, "I am not mad. I am
eccentric, perhaps--at least certain people
say so; but as regards my profession, I am
very much, as one says, 'all there." I ask you, I Monsieur Van Aldin, whether you would be
i glad or sorry if what I tell you should be the
; case?"
i Van Aldin stared at him. 1 "Naturally I should be glad," he said at
last. "Is this an exercise in suppositions, Monsieur Poirot, or are there any facts heir
hind it?"
j Poirot looked at the ceiling.
"There is an off-chance," he said quietly, "that it might be the Comte de la Roche after
all. At least I have succeeded in upsetting
his alibi."
"How did you manage that?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders modestly.
"I have my own methods. The exercise of
a little tact, a little cleverness--and the thing
is done."
"But the rubies," said Van Aldin, "these
rubies that the Count had in his possession
were false."
"And clearly he would not have committed
the crime except for the rubies. But you
are overlooking one point. Monsieur Van Aldin.
Where the rubies were concerned, some
one might have been before him."
"But this is an entirely new theory," cried
Knighton.
"Do you really believe all this rigmarole, Monsieur Poirot?" demanded the millionaire.

"The thing is not proved," said Poirot
quietly. "It is as yet only a theory, but I tell
you this. Monsieur Van Aldin, the facts are
worth investigating. You must come out
with me to the south of France and go into
the case on the spot."
"You really think this is necessary--that
I should go, I mean."
"I thought it would be what you yourself
would wish," said Poirot.
There was a hint of reproach in his tone
which was not lost upon the other.
"Yes, yes, of course," he said. "When do
you wish to start. Monsieur Poirot?"
"You are very busy at present, sir," murmured
Knighton.
But the millionaire had now made up his
mind, and he waved the other's objections
aside.
"I guess this business comes first," he
said. "All right. Monsieur Poirot, to-morrow.
What train?"
"We will go, I think, by the Blue Train," said Poirot, and he smiled.
Chapter 34
The Blue Train Again
"the millionaire's train," as it is sometimes
called, swung round a curve of line at
what seemed a dangerous speed. Van Aldin, Knighton and Poirot sat together in silence.
Knighton and Van Aldin had two compartments
connecting with each other, as Ruth
Kettering and her maid had had on the fateful
journey. Poirot's own compartment was
further along the coach.
The journey was a painful one for Van
Aldin, recalling as it did the most agonizing
memories. Poirot and Knighton conversed
occasionally in low tones without disturbing
him.
When, however, the train had completed
its slow journey round the ceinture and
reached the Gare de Lyon, Poirot became
suddenly galvanized into activity. Van Aldin
realized that part of his object in travelling
by the train had been to attempt to recon struct the crime. Poirot himself acted every
part. He was in turn the maid, hurriedly shut
into her own compartment, Mrs. Kettering, recognizing her husband with surprise and
a trace of anxiety, and Derek Kettering discovering
that his wife was travelling on the
train. He tested various possibilities, such as
the best way for a person to conceal himself
in the second compartment.
Then suddenly an idea seemed to strike
him. He clutched at Van Aldin's arm.
"Mon Dieu, but that is something I have
not thought of! We must break our journey
in Paris. Quick, quick, let us alight at once."
Seizing suit-cases he hurried from the
train. Van Aldin and Knighton, bewildered
but obedient, followed him. Van Aldin having
once formed his opinion of Poirofs ability
was slow to part from it. At the barrier
they were held up. Their tickets were in
charge of the conductor of the train, a fact
which all three of them had forgotten.
Poirot's explanations were rapid, fluent, and impassioned, but they produced no effect
upon the stolid-faced official.
"Let us get quit of this," said Van Aldin
abruptly. "I gather you are in a hurry. Monsieur
Poirot. For God's sake pay the fares
'?"73
from Calais and let us get right on with whatever
you have got in your mind."
But Poirot's flood of language had suddenly
stopped dead, and he had the appearance
of a man turned to stone. His arm still
outflung in an impassioned gesture, remained
there as though stricken with paralysis.

"I have been an imbecile," he said simply. ^Ma foi, I lose my head nowadays. Let us
return and continue our journey quietly.
With reasonable luck the train will not have
gone."
They were only just in time, the train moving
off as Knighton, the last of the three, swung himself and his suit-case on board.
The conductor remonstrated with them
feelingly, and assisted them to carry their
luggage back to their compartments. Van
Aldin said nothing, but he was clearly disgusted
at Poirofs extraordinary conduct.
Alone with Knighton for a moment or two,
he remarked:
"This is a wildgoose chase. The man has
lost his grip on things. He has got brains up
to a point, but any man who loses his head
and scuttles round like a frightened rabbit
is no earthly darned good."
Poirot came to them in a moment or two,
3T/1
full of abject apologies and clearly so crestfallen
that harsh words would have been superfluous.
Van Aldin received his apologies
gravely, but managed to restrain himself
from making acid comments.
They had dinner on the train, and afterwards, somewhat to the surprise of the other
two, Poirot suggested that they should all
three sit up in Van Aldin's compartment.
The millionaire looked at him curiously.
"Is there anything that you are keeping
back from us. Monsieur Poirot?"
"I?" Poirot opened his eyes in innocent
surprise. "But what an idea."
Van Aldin did not answer, but he was not
satisfied. The conductor was told that he
need not make up the beds. Any surprise he
might have felt was obliterated by the largeness
of the tip which Van Aldin handed to
him. The three men sat in silence. Poirot
fidgeted and seemed restless. Presently he
turned to the secretary.
"Major Knighton, is the door of your
compartment bolted? The door into the corridor, I mean."
"Yes; I bolted it myself just now."
"Are you sure?" said Poirot.
"I will go and make sure, if you like," said
Knighton smiling.
"No, no, do not derange yourself. I will
see for myself."
He passed through the connecting door
and returned in a second or two, nodding
his head.
"Yes, yes, it is as you said. You must
pardon an old man's fussy ways."
He closed the connecting door and resumed
his place in the right-hand corner.
The hours passed. The three men dozed
fitfully, waking with uncomfortable starts.
Probably never before had three people
booked berths on the most luxurious train
available, then declined to avail themselves
of the accommodation they had paid for.
Every now and then Poirot glanced at his
watch, and then nodded his head and composed
himself to slumber once more. On one
occasion he rose from his seat and opened
the connecting door, peered sharply into the
adjoining compartment, and then returned
to his seat, shaking his head.
"What is the matter?" whispered Knighton.
"You are expecting something to happen, aren't you?"
"I have the nerves," confessed Poirot. "I
am like the cat upon the hot tiles. Every little
noise it makes me jump."
Knighton yawned.
-»t^
"Of all the darned uncomfortable journeys," he murmured. "I suppose you know
what you are playing at, Monsieur Poirot."
He composed himself to sleep as best he
could. Both he and Van Aldin had succumbed
to slumber, when Poirot, glancing
for the fourteenth time at his watch, leant
across and tapped the millionaire on the
shoulder.
"Eh? What is it?"
"In five or ten minutes. Monsieur, we
shall arrive at Lyons."
"My God!" Van Aldin's face looked white
and haggard in the dim light. "Then it must
have been about this time that poor Ruth
was killed."
He sat staring straight in front of him. His
lips twitched a little, his mind reverting back
to the terrible tragedy that had saddened his
life.
There was the usual long screaming sigh
of the brake, and the train slackened speed
and drew into Lyons. Van Aldin let down
the window and leant out.
"If it wasn't Derek--if your new theory
is correct, it is here that the man left the
train?" he asked over his shoulder.
Rather to his surprise Poirot shook his
head.
"No," he said thoughtfully, "no man left
the train, but I think--yes, I think, a woman may have done so."
Knighton gave a gasp.
"A woman?" demanded Van Aldin
sharply.
"Yes, a woman," said Poirot, nodding his
head. "You may not remember. Monsieur
Van Aldin, but Miss Grey in her evidence
mentioned that a youth in a cap and overcoat
descended on to the platform ostensibly to
stretch his legs. Me, I think that that youth
was most probably a woman."
"But who was she?"
Van Aldin's face expressed incredulity, but Poirot replied seriously and categorically.

"Her name--or the name under which she
was known, for many years--is Kitty Kidd, but you. Monsieur Van Aldin, knew her by
another name--that of Ada Mason."
Knighton sprang to his feet.
"What?" he cried.
Poirot swung round to him.
"Ah!--before I forget it." He whipped
something from a pocket and held it out.
"Permit me to offer you a cigarette--out
of your own cigarette-case. It was careless of
2TO I
you to drop it when you boarded the train
on the ceinture at Paris."
Knighton stood staring at him as though
stupefied. Then he made a movement, but
Poirot flung up his hand in a warning gesture.

"No, don't move," he said in a silky voice;
"the door into the next compartment is
open, and you are being covered from there
this minute. I unbolted the door into the
corridor when we left Paris, and our friends
the police were told to take their places there.
As I expect you know, the French police
want you rather urgently. Major Knighton
--or shall we say--Monsieur Ie Marquis?"
inc\
Chapter 35
Explanations
"explanations?"
Poirot smiled. He was sitting opposite the
millionaire at a luncheon table in the latter's
private suite at the Negresco. Facing him
was a relieved but very puzzled man. Poirot
leant back in his chair, lit one of his tiny
cigarettes, and stared reflectively at the ceiling.

"Yes, I will give you explanations. It began
with the one point that puzzled me. You
know what that point was? The disfigured
face. It is not an uncommon thing to find
when investigating a crime and it rouses an
immediate question, the question of identity.
That naturally was the first thing that
occurred to me. Was the dead woman really
Mrs. Kettering? But that line led me nowhere, for Miss Grey's evidence was positive
and very reliable, so I put that idea aside.
The dead woman was Ruth Kettering."
2on
"When did you first begin to suspect the
maid?"
"Not for some time, but one peculiar little
point drew my attention to her. The cigarette-case
found in the railway carriage and
which she told us was one which Mrs. Kettering
had given to her husband. Now that
was, on the face of it, most improbable,
seeing the terms that they were on. It awakened
a doubt in my mind as to the general
veracity of Ada Mason's statements. There
was the rather suspicious fact to be taken
into consideration, that she had only been
with her mistress for two months. Certainly
it did not seem as if she could have had
anything to do with the crime since she had
been left behind in Paris and Mrs. Kettering
had been seen alive by several people afterwards, but----"
Poirot leant forward. He raised an emphatic
forefinger and wagged it with intense
emphasis at Van Aldin.
"But I am a good detective. I suspect.
There is nobody and nothing that I do not
suspect. I believe nothing that I am told. I
say to myself: how do we know that Ada
Mason was left behind in Paris? And at first
the answer to that question seemed completely
satisfactory. There was the evidence
of your secretary. Major Knighton, a complete
outsider whose testimony might be
supposed to be entirely impartial, and there
was the dead woman's own words to the
conductor on the train. But I put the latter
point aside for the moment, because a very
curious idea--an idea perhaps fantastic and
impossible--was growing up in my mind. If
by any outside chance it happened to be true, that particular piece of testimony was worthless.

"I concentrated on the chief stumblingblock
to my theory. Major Knighton's statement
that he saw Ada Mason at the Ritz after
the Blue Train had left Paris. That seemed
conclusive enough, but yet, on examining
the facts carefully, I noted two things. First, that by a curious coincidence he, too, had
been exactly two months in your service.
Secondly, his initial letter was the same-- 'K.' Supposing--just supposing--that it
was his cigarette case which had been found
in the carriage. Then, if Ada Mason and he
were working together, and she recognized
it when we showed it to her, would she not
act precisely as she had done? At first, taken
aback, she quickly evolved a plausible theory
that would agree with Mr. Kettering's guilt. Bien entendu, that was not the original idea.
The Comte de la Roche was to be the scapegoat, though Ada Mason would not make
her recognition of him too certain, in case
he should be able to prove an alibi. Now, if
you will cast your mind back to that time, you will remember a significant thing that
happened. I suggested to Ada Mason that
the man she had seen was not the Comte de
la Roche, but Derek Kettering. She seemed
uncertain at the time, but after I had got
back to my hotel you rang me up and told
me that she had come to you and said that, on thinking it over, she was now quite convinced
that the man in question was Mr.
Kettering. I had been expecting something
of the kind. There could be but one explanation
of this sudden certainty on her part.
After my leaving your hotel, she had had
time to consult with somebody, and had received
instructions which she acted upon.
Who had given her these instructions? Major
Knighton. And there was another very small
point, which might mean nothing or might
mean a great deal. In casual conversation
Knighton had talked of a jewel robbery in
Yorkshire in a house where he was staying.
Perhaps a mere coincidence--perhaps another
small link in the chain."
"But there is one thing I do not under stand. Monsieur Poirot. I guess I must be
dense or I would have seen it before now.
Who was the man in the train at Paris? Derek
Kettering or the Comte de la Roche?"
"That is the simplicity of the whole thing. There was no man. Ah--mille tonnerres! --
do you not see the cleverness of it all? Whose
word have we for it that there ever was a
man there? Only Ada Mason's. And we believe
in Ada Mason because of Knighton's
evidence that she was left behind in Paris."
"But Ruth herself told the conductor that
she had left her maid behind there," demurred
Van Aldin.
"Ah! I am coming to that. We have Mrs.
Kettering's own evidence there, but, on the
other hand, we have not really got her evidence, because. Monsieur Van Aldin, a dead
woman cannot give evidence. It is not her evidence, but the evidence of the conductor
of the train--a very different affair altogether."

"So you think the man was lying?"
"No, no, not at all. He spoke what he
thought to be the truth. But the woman who
told him that she had left her maid in Paris
was not Mrs. Kettering."
Van Aldin stared at him.
"Monsieur Van Aldin, Ruth Kettering
was dead before the train arrived at the Gare
de Lyon. It was Ada Mason, dressed in her
mistress's very distinctive clothing, who purchased
a dinner basket and who made that
very necessary statement to the conductor."
"Impossible!"
"No, no. Monsieur Van Aldin; not impossible.
Lesfemmes, they look so much alike
nowadays that one identifies them more by
their clothing than by their faces. Ada Mason
was the same height as your daughter.
Dressed in that very sumptuous fur coat and
the little red lacquer hat jammed down over
her eyes, with just a bunch of auburn curls
showing over each ear, it was no wonder that
the conductor was deceived. He had not previously
spoken to Mrs. Kettering, you remember.
True, he had seen the maid just
for a moment when she handed him the tickets, but his impression had been merely that
of a gaunt, black-clad female. If he had been
an unusually intelligent man, he might have
gone so far as to say that mistress and maid were not unlike, but it is extremely unlikely
that he would even think that. And remember,
Ada Mason, or Kitty Kidd, was an actress, able to change her appearance and tone
of voice at a moment's notice. No, no, there
was no danger of his recognizing the maid
in the mistress's clothing, but there was the
danger that when he came to discover the
body he might realize it was not the woman
he had talked to the night before. And now
we see the reason for the disfigured face. The
chief danger that Ada Mason ran was that
Katherine Grey might visit her compartment
after the train left Paris, and she provided
against that difficulty by ordering a dinner
basket and by locking herself in her compartment."

"But who killed Ruth--and when?" "First, bear it in mind that the crime was
planned and undertaken by the two of
them--Knighton and Ada Mason, working
together. Knighton was in Paris that day on
your business. He boarded the train somewhere
on its way round the ceinture. Mrs.
Kettering would be surprised, but she would
be quite unsuspicious. Perhaps he draws her
attention to something out the window, and
as she turns to look he slips the cord round
her neck--and the whole thing is over in a
second or two. The door of the compartment
is locked, and he and Ada Mason set to work.
They strip off the dead woman's outer
clothes. Mason and Knighton roll the body
up in a rug and put it on the seat in the
adjoining compartment amongst the bags
ooz:
and suitcases. Knighton drops off the train 5
taking the jewel-case containing the rubies
with him. Since the crime is not supposed
to have been committed until nearly twelve
hours later he is perfectly safe, and his evidence
and the supposed Mrs. Kettering's
words to the conductor will provide a perfect
alibi for his accomplice.
"At the Gare de Lyon Ada Mason gets a
dinner basket, and shutting herself into the
toilet compartment she quickly changes into
her mistress's clothes, adjusts two false
bunches of auburn curls, and generally
makes up to resemble her as closely as possible.
When the conductor comes to make
up the bed, she tells him the prepared story
about having left her maid behind in Paris, and whilst he is making up the berth, she
stands looking out of the window, so that
her back is towards the corridor and people
passing along there. That was a wise precaution,
because, as we know. Miss Grey was
one of those passing, and she among others, was willing to swear that Mrs. Kettering was
still alive at that hour."
"Go on," said Van Aldin.
"Before getting to Lyons, Ada Mason arranged
her mistress's body in the bunk, folded up the dead woman's clothes neatly
on the end of it, and herself changed into a
man's clothes and prepared to leave the
train. When Derek Kettering entered his
wife's compartment, and, as he thought, saw
her asleep in her berth, the scene had been
set, and Ada Mason was hidden in the next
compartment waiting for the moment to
leave the train unobserved. As soon as the
conductor had swung himself down on to
the platform at Lyons, she follows, slouching
along as though just taking a breath of air.
At a moment when she is unobserved, she
hurriedly crosses to the other platform, and
takes the first train back to Paris and the
Ritz Hotel. Her name has been registered
there as taking a room the night before by
one of Knighton's female accomplices. She
has nothing to do but wait there placidly for
your arrival. The jewels are not, and never
have been, in her possession. No suspicion
attaches to him, and, as your secretary, he
brings them to Nice without the least fear
of discovery. Their delivery there to Monsieur
Papopolous is already arranged for and
they are entrusted to Mason at the last moment
to hand over to the Greek. Altogether
a very neatly planned coup, as one would
expect from a master of the game such as the
Marquis."
388
"And you honestly mean that Richard
Knighton is a well-known criminal, who has
been at this business for years?"
Poirot nodded.
"One of the chief assets of the gentleman
called the Marquis was his plausible, ingratiating
manner. You fell a victim to his
charm, Monsieur Van Aldin, when you engaged
him as a secretary on such a slight
acquaintanceship.? ?
"I could have sworn that he never angled
for the post," cried the millionaire.
"It was very astutely done--so astutely
done that it deceived a man whose knowledge
of other men is as great as yours is."
"I looked up his antecedents too. The fellow's
record was excellent."
"Yes, yes; that was part of the game. As
Richard Knighton his life was quite free
from reproach. He was well born, well connected, did honourable service in the War, and seemed altogether above suspicion; but
when I came to glean information about the
mysterious Marquis, I found many points of 1 similarity. Knighton spoke French like a
Frenchman, he had been in America, France, and England at much the same time
as the Marquis was operating. The Marquis
was last heard of as engineering various jewel
robberies in Switzerland, and it was in Switzerland
that you had come across Major
Knighton; and it was at precisely that time
that the first rumours were going round of
your being in treaty for the famous rubies."
"But why murder?" murmured Van Aldin
brokenly. "Surely a clever thief could have
stolen the jewels without running his head
into a noose."
Poirot shook his head. "This is not the
first murder that lies to the Marquis's
charge. He is a killer by instinct; he believes, too, in leaving no evidence behind him.
Dead men and women tell no tales.
"The Marquis had an intense passion for
famous and historical jewels. He laid his
plans far beforehand by installing himself as
your secretary and getting his accomplice to
obtain the situation of maid with your
daughter, for whom he guessed the jewels
were destined. And, though this was his matured
and carefully thought-out plan, he did
not scruple to attempt a short-cut by hiring
a couple of Apaches to waylay you in Paris
on the night you bought the jewels. That
plan failed, which hardly surprised him, I
think. This plan was, so he thought, completely
safe. No possible suspicion could attach
to Richard Knighton. But like all great
men--and the Marquis was a great man--
he had his weaknesses. He fell genuinely in
love with Miss Grey, and suspecting her liking
for Derek Kettering, he could not resist
the temptation to saddle him with the crime
when the opportunity presented itself. And
now. Monsieur Van Aldin, I am going to tell
you something very curious. Miss Grey is
not a fanciful woman by any means, yet she
firmly believes that she felt your daughter's
presence beside her one day in the Casino
Gardens at Monte Carlo, just after she had
been having a long talk with Knighton. She
was convinced, she says, that the dead
woman was urgently trying to tell her something, and it suddenly came to her that what
the dead woman was trying to say was that
Knighton was her murderer! The idea
seemed so fantastic at the time that Miss
Grey spoke of it to no one. But she was so
convinced of its truth that she acted on it--
wild as it seemed. She did not discourage
Knighton's advances, and she pretended to
him that she was convinced of Derek Kettering's
guilt."
"Extraordinary," said Van Aldin.
"Yes, it is very strange. One cannot explain
these things. Oh, by the way, there is
one little point that baffled me considerably.
Your secretary has a decided limp--the result
of a wound that he received in the War.
Now the Marquis most decidedly did not
limp. That was a stumbling-block. But Miss
Lenox Tamplin happened to mention one
day that Knighton's limp had been a surprise
to the surgeons who had been in charge of
the case in her mothers hospital. That suggested
camouflage. When I was in London
I went to the surgeon in question, and I got
several technical details from him which confirmed
me in that belief. I mentioned the
name of that surgeon in Knighton's hearing
the day before yesterday. The natural thing
would have been for Knighton to mention
that he had been attended by him during the
War, but he said nothing--and that little
point, if nothing else, gave me the last final
assurance that my theory of the crime was
correct. Miss Grey, too, provided me with a
cutting, showing that there had been a robbery
at Lady Tamplin's hospital during the
time that Knighton had been there. She realized
that I was on the same track as herself
when I wrote to her from the Ritz in Paris.
"I had some trouble in my inquiries there, but I got what I wanted--evidence that Ada
Mason arrived on the morning after the
crime and not on the evening of the day
before."
There was a long silence, then the millionaire
stretched out a hand to Poirot across
the table.
"I guess you know what this means to me, Monsieur Poirot," he said huskily. "I am
sending you round a cheque in the morning, but no cheque in the world will express what
I feel about what you have done for me. You
are the goods. Monsieur Poirot. Every time, you are the goods."
Poirot rose to his feet; his chest swelled.
"I am only Hercule Poirot," he said modestly, "yet, as you say, in my own way I am
a big man, even as you also are a big man.
I am glad and happy to have been of service
to you. Now I go to repair the damages
caused by travel. Alas! my excellent Georges
is not with me."
In the lounge of the hotel he encountered
a friend--the venerable Monsieur Papopolous, his daughter Zia beside him.
"I thought you had left Nice, Monsieur
Poirot," murmured the Greek as he took the
detective's affectionately proffered hand.
"Business compelled me to return, my
dear Monsieur Papopolous."
"Business?"
"Yes, business. And talking of business, I hope your health is better, my dear
friend?"
"Much better. In fact, we are returning
to Paris tomorrow."
"I am enchanted to hear such good news.
You have not completely ruined the Greek
ex-Minister, I hope."
"I?"
"I understand you sold him a very wonderful
ruby which--strictly entre nous--is
being worn by Mademoiselle Mirelle, the
dancer?"
"Yes," murmured Monsieur Papopolous;
"yes, that is so."
"A ruby not unlike the famous 'Heart of
Fire\"
"It has points of resemblance, certainly,"
said the Greek casually.
"You have a wonderful hand with jewels, Monsieur Papopolous. I congratulate you.
Mademoiselle Zia, I am desolate that you are
returning to Paris so speedily. I had hoped
to see some more of you now that my business
is accomplished."
"Would one be indiscreet if one asked
what that business was?" asked Monsieur
Papopolous.
"Not at all, not at all. I have just succeeded
in laying the Marquis by the heels."
A far-away look came over Monsieur Papopolous'
noble countenance.
"The Marquis?" he murmured; "now
why does that seem familiar to me? No--I
cannot recall it."
"You would not, I am sure," said Poirot.
"I refer to a very notable criminal and jewel
robber. He has just been arrested for the
murder of the English lady, Madame Kettering."

"Indeed? How interesting these things
are!"
A polite exchange of farewells followed, and when Poirot was out of earshot. Monsieur
Papopolous turned to his daughter.
"Zia," he said, with feeling, "that man is
the devil!"
"I like him."
"I like him myself," admitted Monsieur
Papopolous. "But he is the devil, all the
same."
Chapter 36
By the Sea
the mimosa was nearly over. The scent of
it in the air was faintly unpleasant. There
were pink geraniums twining along the balustrade
of Lady Tamplin's villa, and masses
of carnations below sent up a sweet, heavy
perfume. The Mediterranean was at its
bluest. Poirot sat on the terrace with Lenox
Tamplin. He had just finished telling her the
same story he had told to Van Aldin two
days before. Lenox had listened to him with
absorbed attention, her brows knitted and
her eyes sombre.
When he had finished she said simply:
"And Derek?"
"He was released yesterday."
"And he has gone--where?"
"He left Nice last night."
"For St. Mary Mead?"
"Yes, for St. Mary Mead."
There was a pause.
"I was wrong about Katherine," said
Lenox. "I thought she did not care."
"She is very reserved. She trusts no one."
"She might have trusted me," said Lenox, with a shade of bitterness.
"Yes," said Poirot gravely, "she might
have trusted you. But Mademoiselle Katherine
has spent a great deal of her life listening, and those who have listened do not
find it easy to talk; they keep their sorrows
and joys to themselves and tell no one."
"I was a fool," said Lenox; "I thought she
really cared for Knighton. I ought to have
known better. I suppose I thought so
because--well, I hoped so."
Poirot took her hand and gave it a little
friendly squeeze. "Courage, Mademoiselle,"
he said gently.
Lenox looked very straight out across the
sea, and her face, in its ugly rigidity, had for
the moment a tragic beauty.
"Oh, well," she said at last, "it would not
have done. I am too young for Derek; he is
like a kid that has never grown up. He wants
the Madonna touch."
There was a long silence, then Lenox
turned to him quickly and impulsively. "But
I did help. Monsieur Poirot--at any rate I
did help."
"Yes, Mademoiselle. It was you who gave
me the first inkling of the truth when you
said that the person who committed the
crime need not have been on the train at all.
Before that, I could not see how the thing
had been done."
Lenox drew a deep breath.
"I am glad," she said; "at any rate—that
is something."
From far behind them there came a longdraw-out
scream of an engine's whistle.
"That is that damned Blue Train," said
Lenox. "Trains are relentless things, aren't
they. Monsieur Poirot? People are murdered
and die, but they go on just the same. I am
talking nonsense, but you know what I
mean."
"Yes, yes, I know. Life is like a train,
Mademoiselle. It goes on. And it is a good
thing that that is so."
"Why?"
"Because the train gets to its journey's end
at last, and there is a proverb about that in
your language. Mademoiselle."
"'Journeys end in lovers meeting.'"
Lenox laughed. "That is not going to be true
for me."
9 99
"Yes—yes, it is true. You are young,
younger than you yourself know. Trust the
ff\0
train, Mademoiselle, for it is Ie bon Dieu who
drives it."
The whistle of the engine came again.
"Trust the train. Mademoiselle," murmured
Poirot again. "And trust Hercule
Poirot. He knows."

 
 

 

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agatha christie - cards on the table



CHAPTER 1
Mr. Shaitana


"My dear M. Poirot!"

It was a soft purring voicc a voice/used deliberately as an
inStrument--nothing impulsive or unpremeditated about it.
Hercule Poirot swung round.
He bowed.

He shook hands ceremoniously.

There was something in his eye that was unusual. One would have said that
this chance encounter awakened in him an emotion that he seldom had occasion to
feel.

"My dear Mr. Shaitana," he said.

They both paused. They were like duellists en garde.

Around them a well-dressed languid London crowd eddied mildly. Voices
drawled or murmured.

"Darlingxquisite!"

"Simply divine, aren't they, my dear?"

It was the Exhibition of Snuff-Boxes at Wessex House. Admission one guinea,
in aid of the London hospitals.

"My dear man," said Mr. Shaitana, "how nice to see you! Not hanging or
guillotining much just at present? Slack season in the criminal world? Or is there to
be a robbery here this afternoon--that would be too delicious."

"Alas, Monsieur," said Poirot. "I am here in a purely private capacity."

Mr. Shaitana was diverted for a moment by a Lovely Young Thing with tight
poodle curls up one side of her head and three cornucopias in black straw on the
other.

He said:

"My dear--why didn't you come to my party? It really was a marvellous party!
Quite a lot of people actually spoke to me! One woman even said 'How do you do,'
and 'Good-bye' and 'Thank you so much' but of course she came from a Garden
City, poor dear!"

While the Lovely Young Thing made a suitable reply, Poirot allowed himselfa
good study of the hirsute adornment on Mr. Shaitana's upper lip.

A fine moustache a very fine moustache--the only moustache in London,
perhaps, that could compete with that of M. Hercule Poirot.

"But it is not so luxuriant," he murmured to himself. "No, decidedly it is
inferior in every respect. Tout de rrme, it catches the eye."

The whole of Mr. Shaitana's person caught the eyc it was designed to do so.
He deliberately attempted a Mephistophelian effect. He was tall and thin, his face
was long and melancholy, his. eyebrows were heavfiy accented and jet black, he


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wore a moustache with stiffwaxed ends and a tiny black imperial. His clothes were
works of art--of exquisite cut but with a suggestion of the bizarre.
Every healthy Englishman who saw him longed earnestly and fervently to kick
him! They said, with a singular lack of originality, "There's that damned Dago,
Shaitana!"
Their wives, daughters, sisters, aunts, mothers, and even grandmothers said,
varying the idiom according to their generation, words to this effect: "I know, my
dear. Of course, he is too terrible. But so rich! And such marvellous parties! And
he's always got something amusing and spiteful to tell you about people."
Whether Mr. Shaitana was an Argentine, or a Portuguese, or a Greek, or some
other nationality rightly despised by the insular Briton, nobody knew.
But three facts were quite certain:
He existed richly and beautifully in a super flat in Park Lane.
He gave wonderful parties--large parties, small parties, macabre parties,
respectable parties and definitely "queer" parties.
He was a man of whom nearly everybody was a little afraid.
Why this last was so can hardly be stated in definite words. There was a
feeling, perhaps, that he knew a little too much about everybody. And there was a
feeling, too, that his sense of humour was a curious one.
People nearly always felt that it would be better not to risk offending Mr.
Shaitana.
It was his humour this afternoon to bait that ridiculous-looking little man,
Hercule Poirot.
"So even a policeman needs recreation?" he said. "You study the art in your
old age, M. Poirot."
Poirot smiled good-humouredly.
"I see," he said, "that you yourself have lent three snuffboxes to the
Exhibition."
Mr. Shaitana waved a deprecating hand.
"One picks up trifles here and there. You must come to my flat one day. I have
some interesting pieces. I do not confine myself to any particular period or class of
object.'
"Your tastes are catholic," said Poirot smiling.
"As you say."
Suddenly Mr. Shaitana's eyes danced, the corners of his lips curled up, his
eyebrows assumed a fantastic tilt.
"I could even show you objects in your own line, M. Poirot!"
"You have then a private 'Black Museum.'"
"Bah!" Mr. Shaitana snapped disdainful fingers. "The cup used by the
Brighton murderer, the jemmy of a celebrated burglar absurd childishness! I
should never burden myself with rubbish like that. I collect only the best objects of
their kind."
"And what do you consider the best objects, artistically speaking, in crime?"
inquired Poirot.
Mr. Shaitana leaned forward and laid two fingers on Poirot's shoulder. He
hissed his words dramatically.
"The human beings who commit them, M. Poirot."
Poirot's eyebrows rose a trifle.
"Aha, I have startled you," said Shaitana. "My dear, dear man, you and I look
on these things as from poles apart! For you crime is a matter of routine: a murder,
an investigation, a clue, and ultimately (for you are undoubtedly an able fellow) a


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conviction. Such banalities would not interest me! I am not interested in poor
specimens of any kind. And the caught murderer is necessarily one of the failures.
He is second-rate. No, I look on the matter from the artistic point of view. I collect
only the best!"
"The best being ?" asked Poirot.
"My dear fellow--the ones who have got away with it! The successes! The

criminals who lead an agreeable life which no breath of suspicion has ever touched.

Admit that it is an amusing hobby."

"It was another word I was thinking of not amusing."

"An idea!" cried Shaitana, paying no attention to Poirot. "A little dinner! A

dinner to meet my exhibits! Really that is a most amusing thought. I cannot think

why it has never occurred to me before. Yes--yes, I see it allI see it exactly ....

You must give me a little time--not next week--let us sa the week after next. You
are free? What day shall we say?"

"Any day of the week after next would suit me," saidoirot with a bow.
"Good then let us say Friday. Friday the 18th, that will be. I will write it
down at once in my little book. Really, the idea pleases me enormously."
"I am not quite sure if it pleases me," said Poirot slowly. "I do not mean that I
am insensible to the kindness of your invitation--no---not that
"
Shaitana interrupted him.
"But it shocks your bourgeois sensibilities? My dear fellow, you must free
yourself from the limitations of the policeman mentality."
Poirot said slowly:
"It is true that I have a thoroughly bourgeois attitude to murder."
"But, my dear, why? A stupid, bungled, butchering business--yes, I agree
with you. But murder can be an art! A murderer can be an artist."
"Oh, I admit it."
"Well then?" Mr. Shaitana asked.
"But he is still a murderer!"
"Surely, my dear M. Poirot, to do a thing supremely well is a justification! You
want, very unimaginatively, to take every murderer, handcuff him, shut him up,
and eventually break his neck for him in the early hours of the morning. In my
opinion a really successful murderer should be granted a pension out of the public
funds and asked out to dinner!"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I am not as insensitive to art in crime as you think. I can admire the perfect
murderer--I can also admire a tiger--that splendid tawny-striped beast. But I will
admire him from outside his cage. I will not go inside. That is to say, not unless it is
my duty to do so. For you see, Mr. Shaitana, the tiger might spring "
Mr.
Shaitana laughed.
"I see. And the murderer?"
"Might
murder," said Poirot gravely.
"My dear fellow--what an alarmist you are! Then you will not come to meet
my collection of--tigers?"
"On the contrary, I shall be enchanted."
"How brave!"
"You do not quite understand me, Mr. Shaitana. My words were in the nature
of a warning. You asked me just now to admit that your idea of a collection, of
murderers was amusing. I said I could think of another word other than amusing.
That word was dangerous. I fancy, Mr. Shaitana, that your hobby might be a
dangerous one!"


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Mr. Shaitana laughed, a very Mephistophelian laugh.

He said:

"I may expect you, then, on the 18th?'

Poirot gave a little bow.

"You may expect me on the 18th. Mille remerciments."

"I shall arrange a little party," mused Shaitana. "Do not forget. Eight o'clock."

He moved away. Poirot stood a minute or two looking after him.

He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.

CHAPTER 2
Dinner at Mr. Shaitana's

The door of Mr. Shaitana's flat opened noiselessly. A grey-haired butler drew it
back to let Poirot enter. He closed it equally noiselessly and deftly relieved the
guest of his overcoat and hat.
He murmured in a low expressionless voice:
"What name shall I say?" "M. Hercule Poirot."
There was a little hum of talk that eddied out into the hall as the butler opened
a door and announced:
"M. Hercule Poirot."
Sherry-glass in hand, Shaitana came forward to meet him. He was, as usual,
immaculately dressed. The Mephistophelian suggestion was heightened tonight,
the eyebrows seemed accentuated in their mocking twist.
"Let me introduce you--do you know Mrs. Oliver?"
The showman in him enjoyed the little start of surprise that Poirot gave.
Mrs. Ariadne Oliver was extremely well known as one of the foremost writers
of detective and other sensational stories. She wrote chatty (if not particularly
grammatical) articles on The Tendency of the Criminal; Famous Crimes Passion-nels;
Murder for Love v. Murder for Gain. She was also a hot-headed feminist, and
when any murder of importance was occupying space in the Press there was sure to
be an interview with Mrs. Oliver, and it was mentioned that Mrs. Oliver had said,
"Now ifa woman were the head of Scotland Yard!" She was an earnest believer in
woman's intuition.
For the rest she was an agreeable woman of middle age, handsome in a rather
untidy fashion with fine eyes, substantial shoulders and a large quantity of
rebellious grey hair with which she was continually experimenting. One day her
appearance would be highly intellectual--a brow with the hair scraped back from it
and coiled in a large bun in the neck--on another Mrs. Oliver would suddenly
appear with Madonna loops, or large masses of slightly untidy curls. On this
particular evening Mrs. Oliver was trying out a fringe.
She greeted Poirot, whom she had met before at a literary dinner, in an
agreeable bass voice.


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385

"And Superintendent Battle you doubtless know," said Mr. Shaitana.
A big square, wooden-faced man moved forward. Not only did an onlooker feel that Superintendent Battle was carved out of wood he also managed to
convey the impression that the wood in question was the timber out of a battleship.
Superintendent Battle was supposed to be Scotland Yard's best representative.
He always looked stolid and rather stupid.
"I know M. Poirot," said Superintendent Battle.
And his wooden face creased into a smile and then returned to its former
unexpressiveness.
"Colonel Race," went on Mr. Shaitana.
Poirot had not previously met Colonel Race, but he knew something about
him. A dark, handsome, deeply bronzed man of fifty, he was usually to be found in
some outpost of empire especially if there were trouble brewing. Secret Service
is a melodramatic term, but it described pretty accurately to the lay mind the
nature and scope of Colonel Race's activities.
Poirot had by now taken in and appreciated te particular essence of his host's
humorous intentions.
"Our other guests are late," said Mr. Shaitana. 'ly fault, perhaps. I believe I
told them 8:15."
But at that moment the door opened and the butler announced:
"Dr. Roberts."
The man who came in did so with a kind of parody of a brisk bedside manner.
He was a cheerful, highly-coloured individual of middle age. Small twinkling eyes,
a touch of baldness, a tendency to embonpoint and a general air of well-scrubbed
and disinfected medical practitio/er. His manner was cheerful and confident. You
felt that his diagnosis would be correct and his treatments agreeable and
practical "a little champagne in convalescence perhaps." A man of the world!
"Not late, I hope?" said Dr. Roberts genially.
He shook hands with his host and was introduced to the others. He seemed
particularly gratified at meeting Battle.
"Why, you're one of the big noises at Scotland Yard, aren't you? This is
interesting! Too bad to make you talk shop but I warn you I shall have a try at it.
Always been interested in crime. Bad thing for a doctor, perhaps. Mustn't say so to
my nervous patients--ha ha!"
Again the door opened.
"Mrs. Lorrimer."
Mrs. Lorrimer was a well-dressed woman of sixty. She had finely-cut features,
beautifully arranged grey hair, and a clear, incisive voice.
"I hope I'm not late," she said, advancing to her host.
She turned from him to greet Dr. Roberts, with whom she was acquainted.
The butler announced:
"Major Despard."
Major Despard was a tall, lean, handsome man, his face slightly marred by a
scar on the temple. Introductions completed, he gravitated naturally to the side of
Colonel Race--and the two men were soon talking sport and comparing their
experiences on safari.
For the last time the door opened and the butler announced:
"Miss Meredith."
A girl in the early twenties entered. She was of medium height and pretty.
Brown curls clustered in her neck, her grey eyes were large and wide apart. Her
face was powdered but not made-up. Her voice was slow and rather shy.


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Agatha Chrtie

She said:
"Oh dear, am I the last?"
Mr. Shaitana descended on her with sherry and an ornate and complimentary
reply. His introductions were formal and almost ceremonious.
Miss Meredith was left sipping her sherry by Poirot's side.
"Our friend is very punctilious," said Poirot with a smile.
The girl agreed.
"I know. People rather dispense with introductions nowadays. They just say 'I
expect you know everybody' and leave it at that."
"Whether you do or you don't?"
"Whether you do or don't. Sometimes it makes it awkward
but I think this is
more awe-inspiring."

She hesitated and then said:

"Is that Mrs. Oliver, the novelist?"
Mrs. Oliver's bass voice rose powerfully at that minute, speaking to Dr.
Roberts.
"You can't get away from a woman's 'instinct, doctor. Women know these
things."
Forgetting that she no longer had a brow she endeavoured to sweep her hair
back from it but was foiled by the fringe.
"That is Mrs. Oliver," said Poirot.
"The one who wrote The Body in the Library?"
"That identical one."
Miss Meredith frowned a little.
"And that wooden-looking man--a superintendent did Mr. Shaitana say?"
"From Scotland Yard."
"And you?"
"And me?"
"I know all about you, M. Poirot. It was you who really solved the A.B.C.
Crimes."
"Mademoiselle, you cover me with confusion."
Miss Meredith drew her brows together.
"Mr. Shaitana," she began and then stopped. "Mr. Shaitana--
Poirot said quietly:
"One might say he was 'crime-minded.' It seems so. Doubtless he wishes to
hear us dispute ourselves. He is already egging on Mrs. Oliver and Dr. Roberts.
They are now discussing untraceable poisons."
Miss Meredith gave a little gasp as she said:

"What a queer man he is!"

"Dr. Roberts?"

"No, Mr. Shaitana.'
She shivered a little and said:
"There's always something a little frightening about him, I think. You never
know what would strike him as amusing. It might--it might be something cruel." "Such as fox-hunting, eh?"
Miss Meredith threw him a reproachful glance.
"I meant-oh! something Oriental!"
"He has perhaps the tortuous mind," admitted Poirot.
"Torturer's?"
"No, no, tortuous, I said."


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387

"I don't think I like him frightfully," confided Miss Meredith, her voice
dropping.
"You will like his dinner, though," Poirot assured her. "He has a marvellous
cook."
She looked at him doubtfully and then laughed.
"Why," she exclaimed, "I believe you are quite human."
"But certainly I am human!"
"You see," said Miss Meredith, "all these celebrities are rather intimidating."
"Mademoiselle, you should not be intimidated--you should be thrilled! You
should have all ready your autograph book and your fountain-pen."
"Well, you see, I'm not really terribly interested in crime. I don't think
women are: it's always men who read detective stories."
Hercule Poirot sighed affectedly.
"Alasl" he murmured. "What would I not give at this minute to be even the
most minor of film stars!"
The butler threw the door open.
"Dinner is served," he murmured.
Poirot's prognostication was amply justified. The dinner was delicious and its
serving perfection. Subdued light, polished wood, the blue gleam of Irish glass. In
the dimness, at the head of the table, Mr. Shaitana looked more than ever
diabolical.
He apologised gracefully for the uneven number of the sexes.
Mrs. Lorrimer was on his right hand, Mrs. Oliver on his left. Miss Meredith
was between Superintendent Battle and Major Despard. Poirot was between Mrs.
Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts.
The latter murmured facetiously to him.
"You're not going to be allowed to monopolise the only pretty girl all the
evening. You French fellows, you don't waste your time, do you?"
"I happen to be Belgian," murmured Poirot.
"Same thing where the ladies are concerned, I expect, my boy," said the
doctor cheerfully.
Then, dropping the facetiousness, and adopting a professional tone, he began
to talk to Colonel Race on his other side about the latest developments in the
treatment of sleeping sickness.
Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Poirot and began to talk of the latest plays. Her
judgments were sound and her criticisms apt. They drifted on to books and then to
world politics. He found her a well-informed and thoroughly intelligent woman.
On the opposite side of the table Mrs. Oliver was asking Major Despard if he
knew of any unheard-of out-of-the-way poisons.
"Well, there's curare.'
"My dear man, vieux jeu! That's been done hundreds of times. I mean
something new!"
Major Despard said dryly:
"Primitive tribes are rather old-fashioned. They stick to the good old stuff
their grandfathers and great-grandfathers used before them."
"Very tiresome of them," said Mrs. Oliver. "I should have thought they were
always experimenting with pounding up herbs and things. Such a chance for
explorers, I always think. They could come home and kill off all their rich old
uncles with some new drug that no one's ever heard of."
"You should go to civilisation, not to the wilds for that," said Despard. "In the


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modern laboratory, for instance. Cultures of innocent-looking germs that will
produce bona ride diseases."
"That wouldn't do for mq public," said Mrs. Oliver. "Besides one is so apt to
get the names wrong--staphylococcus and streptococcus and all those things---so
difficult for my secretary and anyway rather dull, don't you think so? What do you think, Superintendent Battle?"
"In real life people don't bother about being too subtle, Mrs. Oliver," said the
superintendent. "They usually stick to arsenic because it's nice and handy to get
hold of."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Oliver. "That's simply because there are lots of crimes
you people at Scotland Yard never find out. Now if you hada woman there
"As a matter of fact we have "
"Yes, those dreadful policewomen in funny hats who bother people in parks. I
mean a woman at the head of things. Women know about crime."
"They're usually very successful criminals," said Superintendent Battle.
"Keep their heads well. It's amazing how they'll brazen things out."
Mr. Shaitana laughed gently.
"Poison is a woman's weapon," he said. "There must be many secret women
poisoners--never found out."
"Of course there are," said Mrs. Oliver happily, helping herself lavishly to a mousse of foie gras.
"A doctor, too, has opportunities," went on Mr. Shaitana thoughtfully.
"I protest," cried Dr. Roberts. "When we poison our patients it's entirely by
accident." He laughed heartily.
"But if I were to commit a crime," went on Mr. Shaitana.
He stopped; something in that pause compelled attention.
All faces were turned to him.
"I should make it very simple, I think. There's always accident--a shooting
accident, for instance or the domestic kind of accident."
Then he shrugged his shoulders and picked up his wineglass.
"But who am I to pronounce--with so many experts present ....
He drank. The candlelight threw a red shade from the wine on to his face with
its waxed moustache, its little imperial, its fantastic eyebrows ....
There was a momentary silence.
Mrs. Oliver said:
"Is it twenty-to or twenty-past? An angel passing My
feet aren't
crossed
it must be a black angel!"

CHAPTER
3
A
Game of Bridge

When
the company returned to the drawing-room a bridge table had been set out. Coffee
was handed round.
"Who
plays bridge?" asked Mr. Shaitana. "Mrs. Lorrimer, I know. And Dr. Roberts.
Do you play, Miss Meredith?"


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389

"Yes. I'm not frightfully good, though."
"Excellent. And Major Despart? Good. Supposing you four play here."
"Thank goodness there's to be bridge," said Mrs. Lorrimer in an aside to
Poirot. "I'm one of the worst bridge fiends that ever lived. It's growing on me. I
simply will not go out to dinner now if there's no bridge afterwards! I just fall
asleep. I'm ashamed of myself, but there it is."
They cut for partners. Mrs. Lorrimer was partnered with Anne Meredith
against Major Despard and Dr. Roberts.
"Women against men," said Mrs. Lorrimer as she took her seat and began
shuffling the cards in an expert manner. "The blue cards, don't you think, partner?
I'm a forcing two."
"Mind you win," said Mrs. Oliver, her feminist feelings rising. "Show the men
they can't have it all their own way."
"They haven't got a hope, the poor dears," said Dr. Roberts cheerfully as he
started shuffling the other pack. "Your teal, I think, Mrs. Lorrimer."
Major Despard sat down rather slowly. He was looking at Anne Meredith as
though he had just made the discovery that she was remarkably pretty.
"Cut, please," said Mrs. Lorrimer impatiently. And with a start of apology he
cut the pack she was presenting to him.
Mrs. Lorrimer began to deal with a practised hand.
"There is another bridge table in the other room," said Mr. Shaitana.
He crossed to a second door and the other four followed him into a small
comfortably furnished smoking-room where a second bridge table was set ready. "We must cut out," said Colonel Race.
Mr. Shaitana shook his head.
"I do not play," he said. "Bridge is not one of the games that amuse me."
The others protested that they would much rather not play, but he overruled
them firmly and in the end they sat down. Poirot and Mrs. Oliver against Battle
and Race.
Mr. Shaitana watched them for a little while, smiled in a Mephistophelian
manner as he observed on what hand Mrs. Oliver declared Two No Trumps, and
then went noiselessly through into the other room.
There they were well down to it, their faces serious, the bids coming quickly.
"One heart." "Pass." "Three clubs." "Three spades." "Four diamonds." "Double."
"Four hearts."
Mr. Shaitana stood watching a moment, smiling to himself.
Then he crossed the room and sat down in a big chair by the fireplace. A tray
of drinks had been brought in and placed on an adjacent table. The firelight
gleamed on the crystal stoppers.
Always an artist in lighting, Mr. Shaitana had simulated the appearance of a
merely firelit room. A small shaded lamp at his elbow gave him light to read by if
he so desired. Discreet floodlighting gave the room a subdued glow. A slightly
stronger light shone over the bridge table, from whence the monotonous
ejaculations continued.
"One no trump" an aggressive note in the voiceDr. Roberts.
"No bid" a quiet voice--Anne Meredith's.
A slight pause always before Despard's voice came. Not so much a slow
thinker as a man who liked to be sure before he spoke.
"Four hearts."
"Double."
His face lit up by the flickering firelight, Mr. Shaitana smiled.


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Agatha Christie


He smiled and he went on smiling. His eyelids flickered a little ....

His party was amusing him.


"Five diamonds. Game and rubber," said Colonel Race.

"Good for you, partner," he said to Poirot. "I didn't think you'd do it. Lucky
they didn't lead a spade."

"Wouldn't have made much difference, I expect," said Superintendent Battle,
a man of gentle magnanimity.

He had called spades. His partner, Mrs. Oliver, had had a spade, but

"something had told her" to lead a club--with disastrous results.
Colonel Race looked at his watch.
"Ten-past-twelve. Time for another?"

"You'll excuse me," said Superintendent Battle. "But I'm by way of being an
'early-to-bed' man."

"I, too," said Hercule Poirot.

"We'd better add up," said Race.

The result of the evening's five rubbers was an overwhelming victory for the
male sex. Mrs. Oliver had lost three pounds and seven shillings to the other three.
The biggest winner was Colonel Race.

Mrs. Oliver, though a bad bridge player, was a sporting loser. She paid up
cheerfully.

"Everything went wrong for me tonight," she said. "It is like that sometimes. I
held the most beautiful cards ysterday. A hundred and fifty honours three times
running."

She rose and gathered up her embroidered evening bag, just refraining in
time from stroking her hair off her brow.

"I suppose our host is next door," she said.

She went through the communicating door, the others behind her.

Mr. Shaitana was in his chair by the fire. The bridge players were absorbed in
their game.

"Double five clubs," Mrs. Lorrimer was saying in her cool, incisive voice.
"Five No Trumps."

Mrs. Oliver came up to the bridge table. This was likely to be an exciting
hand.

Superintendent Battle came with her.

Colonel Race went towards Mr. Shaitana, Poirot behind him.

"Got to be going, Shaitana," said Race.

Mr. Shaitana did not answer. His head had fallen forward, and he seemed to
be asleep. Race gave a momentary whimsical glance at Poirot and went a little
nearer. Suddenly he uttered a muffled ejaculation, bent forward. Poirot was beside
him in a minute, he, too, looking where Colonel Race was pointing--something
that might have been a particularly ornate shirt stud but it was not ....

Poirot bent, raised one of Mr. Shaitana's hands, then let it fall. He met Race's

inquiring glance and nodded. The latter raised his voice.

"Superintendent Battle, just a minute."

The superintendent came over to them. Mrs. Oliver continued to watch the
play of Five No Trumps doubled.

Superintendent Battle, despite his appearance of stolidity, was a very quick

man. His eyebrows went up and he said in a low voice as he joined them:
"Something wrong?"

With a nod Colonel Race indicated the silent figure in the chair.

As Battle bent over it, Poirot looked thoughtfully at what he could see of Mr.



Cards on the Table
391


Shaitana's face. Rather a silly face it looked now, the mouth drooping open--the
devilish expression lacking ....

Hercule Poirot shook his head.

Superintendent Battle straightened himself. He had examined, without
touching, the thing which looked like an extra stud in Mr. Shaitana's shirt--and it
was not an extra stud. He had raised the limp hand and let it fall.

Now he stood up, unemotional, capable, soldierly--prepared to take charge
efficiently of the situation.

"Just a minute, please," he said.

And the raised voice was his official voice, so different that all the heads at the
bridge table turned to him, and Anne Meredith's hand remained poised over an
ace of spades in dummy.

"I'm sorry to tell you all," he said, "that our host, Mr. Shaitana, is dead."

Mrs. Lorrimer and Dr. Roberts rose to their feet. Despard stared and

frowned. Anne Meredith gave a little gasp.

"Are you sure, man?"

Dr. Roberts, his professional instincts aroused?.came briskly across the floor
with a bounding medical "in-at-the-death" step.

Without seeming to, the bulk of Superintendent Battle impeded his progress.

"Just a minute, Dr. Roberts. Can you tell me first who's been in and out of this
room this evening?"

Roberts stared at him.

'"In and out? I don't understand you. Nobody has."
The superintendent transferred his gaze. "Is that right, Mrs. Lorrimer?"
"Quite right."

"Not the butler nor any of the servants?"

"No. The butler brought in that tray as we sat down to bridge. He has not
been in since."

Superintendent Battle looked at Despard.

Despard nodded in agreement.

Anne said rather breathlessly, "Yes--yes, that's right."

"What's all this, man," said Roberts impatiently. "Just let me examine him;
may be just a fainting fit."

"It isn't a fainting fit, and I'm sorry--but nobody's going to touch him until the

divisional surgeon comes. Mr. Shaitana's been murdered, ladies and gentlemen." "Murdered?" A horrified incredulous sigh from Anne.
A stare---a very blank stare from Despard.

A sharp incisive "Murdered?" from Mrs. Lorrimer.

A "Good God!" from Dr. Roberts.

Superintendent Battle nodded his head slowly. He looked rather like a

Chinese porcelain mandarin. His expression was quite blank.
"Stabbed," he said. "That's the way of it. Stabbed."
Then he shot out a question:

"Any of you leave the bridge table during the evening?"

He saw four expressions break up--waver. He saw fearomprehensionm

indignation-dismay--horror; but he saw nothing definitely helpful.

"Well?"

There was a pause, and then-Major Despard said quietly (he had risen now
and was standing like a soldier on parade, his narrow, intelligent face turned to
Battle):

"i think every one of us, at one time or another, moved from the bridge



392
Agatha Christie


table--either to get drinks or to put wood on the fire. I did both. When I went to

the fire Shaitana was asleep in the chair."

"Asleep?"

"I thought so--yes."

"He may have been," said Battle. "Or he may have been dead then. We'll go
into that presently. I'll ask you now to go into the room next door." He turned to

the quiet figure at his elbow: "Colonel Race, perhaps you'll go with them?"
Race gave a quick nod of comprehension.
"Right, superintendent."

The four bridge players went slowly through the doorway.

Mrs. Oliver sat down in a chair at the far end of the room and began to sob
quietly.

Battle took up the telephone receiver and spoke. Then he said:

"The local police will be round immediately. Orders from headquarters are
that I'm to take on the case. Divisional surgeon will be here almost at once. How
long should you say he's been dead, M. Poirot? I'd say well over an hour myself."

"I agree. Alas, that one cannot be more exact--that one cannot say, 'This man

has been dead one hour, twenty-five minutes and forty seconds.'"

Battle nodded absently.

"He was sitting right in front of the fire. That makes a slight difference. Over
an hour--not more than two and a half: that's what our doctor will say, I'll be
bound. And nobody heard anything and nobody saw anything. Amazing! What a
desperate chance to take. He might have cried out."

"But he did not. The murderer's luck held. As you say, mon ami, it was a very
desperate business."

"Any idea, M. Poirot, as to motive? Anything of that kind?"

Poirot said slowly:

"Yes, I have something to say on that score. Tell me, M. Shaitana--he did not

give you any hint of what kind of a party you were coming to tonight?"
Superintendent Battle looked at him curiously.

"No, M. Poirot. He didn't say anything at all. Why?"

A bell whirred in the distance and a knocker was plied.

"That's our people," said Superintendent Battle. "I'll go and let 'em in. We'll

have your story presently. Must get on with the routine work."
Poirot nodded.
Battle left the room.

Mrs. Oliver continued to sob.

Poirot went over to the bridge table. Without touching anything, he examined
the scores. He shook his head once or twice.

"The stupid little man! Oh, the stupid little man," murmured Hercule Poirot. "To dress up as the devil and try to frighten people. Quel enfantillage!"

The door opened, The divisional surgeon came in, bag in hand. He was
followed by the divisional inspector, talking to Battle. A camera man came next.
There was a constable in the hall.

The routine of the detection of crime had begun.



Cards on the Table
393


CHAPTER 4
First Murderer?


Hercule Poirot, Mrs. Oliver, Colonel Race and Superintendent Battle sat round
the dining-room table.

It was an hour later. The body had been examined, photographed and

removed. A fingerprint expert had been and gone.

Superintendent Battle looked at Poirot.

"Before I have those four in, I want to hear what you've got to tell me.
According to you there was something behind this party tonight?"

Very deliberately and carefully Poirot retold the conversation he had held
with Shaitana at Wessex House.

Superintendent Battle pursed his lips. He verynead'y whistled.

"Exhibitsh? Murderers all alive oh! And yiu think he meant it? You don't

think he was pulling your leg?"

Poirot shook his head.

"Oh, no, he meant it. Sbaitana was a man who prided himself on his
Mephistophelian attitude to life. He was a man of great vanity. He was also a
stupid man--that is why he is dead."

"I get you," said Superintendent Battle, following things out in his mind. "A
party of eight and himself. Four 'sleuths,' so to speak--and four murderers!"

"It's impossible!" cried Mrs. Oliver. "Absolutely impossible. None of those
people can be criminals."

Superintendent Battle shook his head thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't be so sure of that, Mrs. Oliver. Murderers look and behave very
much like everybody else. Nice, quiet, well-behaved, reasonable folk very often."

"In that case, it's Dr. Roberts," said Mrs. Oliver firmly. "I felt instinctively
that there was something wrong with that man as soon as I saw him. My instincts
never lie."

Battle turned to Colonel Race.

"What do you think, sir?"

Race shrugged his shoulders. He took the question as referring to Poirot's
statement and not to Mrs. Oliver's suspicions.

"It could be," he said. "It could be. It shows that Shaitana was right in one case at least! After all, he can only have suspected that these people were
murderers--he can't have been sure. He may have been right in all four cases, he
may have been right in only one case but he was right in one case; his death
proved that."

"One of them got the wind up. Think that's it, M. Poirot?"

Poirot nodded.

"The late Mr. Shaitana had a reputation," he said. "He had a dangerous sense
of humour, and was reputed to be merciless. The victim thought that Shaitana was
giving himself an evening's amusement, leading up to a moment when he'd hand
the victim over to the policeyou.t He (or she) must have thought that Shaitana
had definite evidence."



394
Agatha Christie

"Had he?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"That we shall never know."
"Dr. Roberts!" repeated Mrs. Oliver firmly. "Such a hearty man. Murderers
are often hearty--as a disguise! If I were you, Superintendent Battle, I should
arrest him at once."
"I dare say we would if there was a Woman at the Head of Scotland Yard," said
Superintendent Battle, a momentary twinkle showing in his unemotional eye.
"But, you see, mere men being in charge, we've got to be careful. We've got to get
there slowly."
"Oh, men--men," sighed Mrs. Oliver, and began to compose newspaper
articles in her head.
"Better have them in now," said Superintendent Battle. "It won't do to keep
them hanging about too long."
Colonel Race half rose.
"If you'd like us to go "
Superintendent Battle hesitated a minute as he caught Mrs. Oliver's eloquent
eye. He was well aware of Colonel Race's official position, and Poirot had worked
with the police on many occasions. For Mrs. Oliver to remain was decidedly
stretching a point. But Battle was a kindly man. He remembered that Mrs. Oliver
had lost three pounds and seven shillings at bridge, and that she had been a
cheerful loser.
"You can all stay," he said, "as far as I'm concerned. But no interruptions,
please (he looked at Mrs. Oliver), and there mustn't be a hint of what M. Poirot has
just told us. That was Shaitana's little secret, and to all intents and purposes it died
with him. Understand?"
"Perfectly," said Mrs. Oliver.
Battle strode to the door and called the constable who was in duty in the hall.
"Go to the little smoking-room. You'll find Anderson there with the four
guests. Ask Dr. Roberts if he'll be so good as to step this way."
"I should have kept him to the end," said Mrs. Oliver. "In a book, I mean,"
she added apologetically.
"Real life's a bit different," said Battle.
"I know," said Mrs. Oliver. "Badly constructed."
Dr. Roberts entered with the springiness of his step slightly subdued.
"I say, Battle," he said. "This is the devil of a business! Excuse me, Mrs.
Oliver, but it is. Professionally speaking, I could hardly have believed it! To stab a
man with three other people a few yards away." He shook his head. "Whew! I
wouldn't like to have done it!" A slight smile twitched up the corners of his mouth.
"What can I say or do to convince you that I didn't do it?"
"Well, there's motive, Dr. Roberts."
The doctor nodded his head emphatically.
"That's all clear. I hadn't the shadow of a motive for doing away with poor
Shaitana. I didn't even know him very well. He amused me--he was such a
fantastic fellow. Touch of the Oriental about him. Naturally, you'll investigate my
relations with him closely--I expect that. I'm not a fool. But you won't find
anything. I'd no reason for killing Shaitana, and I didn't kill him."
Superintendent Battle nodded woodenly.
"That's all right, Dr. Roberts. I've got to investigate, as you know. You're a
sensible man. Now, can you tell me anything about the other three people?"
"I'm afraid I don't know very much. Despard and Miss Meredith I met for the


Cards on the Table
395

first time tonight. I knew of Despard beforeread his travel book, and a jolly good
yarn it is."
"Did you know that he and Mr. Shaitana were acquainted?"
"No. Shaitana never mentioned him to me. As I say, I'd heard of him, but
never met him. Miss Meredith I've never seen before. Mrs. Lorrimer I know
slightly."
"What do you know about her?"
Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
"She's a widow. Moderately well off. Intelligent, well-bred woman first-class
bridge player. That's where I've met her, as a matter of fact--playing bridge."
"And Mr. Shaitana never mentioned her, either?" "No."
"H'm--that doesn't help us much. Now, Dr. Roberts, perhaps you'll be so
kind as to tax your memory carefully and tell me how often you yourself left your
seat at the bridge table, and all you can remember about the movements of the
others."
Dr. Roberts took a few minutes to think.
"It's difficult," he said frankly. "I can remeb, ermy own movements, more or
less. I got up three times--that is, on three occasions when I was dummy I left my
seat and made myself useful. Once I went over and put wood on the fire. Once
I brought drinks to the two ladies. Once I poured out a whisky and soda for
myself."
"Can you remember the times?"
"I could only say very roughly. We began to play about nine-thirty, I imagine.
I should say it was about an hour later that I stoked the fire, quite a short time after
that I fetched the drinks (next hand but one, I think), and perhaps half-past eleven
when I got myself a whisky and soda--but those times are quite approximate. I
couldn't answer for their being correct."
"The table with the drinks was beyond Mr. Shaitana's chair?"
"Yes. That's to say, I passed quite near him three times."
"And each time, to the best of your belief, he was asleep?"
"That's what I thought the first time. The second time I didn't even look at
him. Third time I rather fancy the thought just passed through my mind: 'How the
beggar does sleep.' But I didn't really look closely at him."
"Very good. Now, when did your fellow-players leave their seats?"
Dr. Roberts frowned.
"Difficult--very difficult. Despard went and fetched an extra ash-tray, I think.
And he went for a drink. That was before me, for I remember he asked me if I'd
have one, and I said I wasn't quite ready."
"And the ladies?"
"Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once. Poked it, I think. I rather fancy she
spoke to Shaitana, but I don't know. I was playing a rather tricky no trump at the
time."
"And Miss Meredith?"
"She certainly left the table once. Came round and looked at my hand--I was
her partner at the time. Then she looked at the other people's hands, and then she
wandered round the room. I don't know what she was doing exactly. I wasn't
paying attention."
Superintendent Battle said thoughtfully:
"As you were sitting at the bridge-table, no one's chair was directly facing the
fireplace?"


396
Agatha Christie

"No, sort of sideways on, and there was a big cabinet betweenhinese
piece, very handsome. I can see, of course, that it would be perfectly possible to
stab the old boy. After all, when you're playing bridge, you're playing bridge.
You're not looking round you and noticing what is going on. The only person who's
likely to be doing that is dummy. And in this case--"
"In this case, undoubtedly, dummy was the murderer,'said Superintendent
Battle.
"All the same," said Dr. Roberts, "it wanted nerve, you know. After all, who
is to say that somebody won't look up just at the critical moment?"
"Yes," said Battle. "It was a big risk. The motive must have been a strong one.
I wish we knew what it was," he added with unblushing mendacity.
"You'll find out, I expect," said Roberts. "You'll go through his papers, and all
that sort of thing. There will probably be a clue."
"We'll hope so," said Superintendent Battle gloomily.
He shot a keen glance at the other.
"I wonder if you'd oblige me, Dr. Roberts, by giving me a personal opinion--as
man to man."
"Certainly."
"Which do you fancy yourself of the three?"
Dr. Roberts shrugged his shoulders.
"That's easy. Off-hand, I'd say Despard. The man's got plenty of nerve; he's
used to a dangerous life where you've got to act quickly. He wouldn't mind taking a
risk. It doesn't seem to me likely the women are in on this. Take a bit of strength, I
should imagine."
"Not so much as you might think. Take a look at this."
Rather like a conjurer, Battle suddenly produced a long thin instrument of
gleaming metal with a small round jewelled head.
Dr. Roberts leaned forward, took it, and examined it with rich professional
appreciation. He tried the point and whistled.
"What a tool! What a tool! Absolutely made for murder, this little toy. Go in
like butter absolutely like butter. Brought it with him, I suppose."
Battle shook his head.
"No. It was Mr. Shaitana's. It lay on the table near the door with a good many
other knickknacks."
"So the murderer helped himself. A bit of luck finding a tool like that."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," said Battle slowly.

"Well, of course, it wasn't luck for Shaitana, poor fellow."
"I didn't mean that, Dr. Roberts. I meant that there was another angle of
looking at the business. It occurs to me that it was noticing this weapon that put the
idea of murder into our criminal's mind."
"You mean it was a sudden inspiration--that the murder wasn't premeditated?
He conceived the idea after he got here? Er--anything to suggest that idea to
you?"
He glanced at him searchingly.
"It's just an idea," said Superintendent Battle stolidly.

"Well, it might be so, of course," said Dr. Roberts slowly

Superintendent Battle cleared his throat.
"Well, I won't keep you any longer, doctor. Thank you for your help. Perhaps
you'll leave your address."
"Certainly. 200 Gloucester Terrace, W.2. Telephone No. Bayswater 23896."

"Thank you. I may have to call upon you shortly."


Cards on the Table
397


"Delighted to see you any time. Hope there won't be too much in the papers.

I don't want my nervous patients upset."

Superintendent Battle looked round at Poirot.

"Excuse me, M. Poirot. If you'd like to ask any questions, I'm sure the doctor

wouldn't mind."

"Of course not. Of course not. Great admirer of yours, M. Poirot. Little grey

cells---order and method. I know all about it. I feel sure you'll think Of something

most intriguing to ask me."

Hercule Poirot spread out his hands in his most foreign manner.

"No, no. I just like to get all the details clear in my mind. For instance, how

many rubbers did you play?"

"Three," said Roberts promptly. "We'd got to one game all, in the fourth

rubber, when you came in."

"And who played with who?"

"First rubber, Despard and I against the ladies. They beat us, God bless 'em.

Walk over; we never held a card.

"Second rubber, Miss Meredith and I against Despard and Mrs. Lorrimer.

Third rubber, Mrs. Lorrimer and I against Miss Meredith and Despard. We cut

each time, but it worked out like a pivot. Fourth ruboer, Miss Meredith and I

again."
/

"Who won and who lost?"

"Mrs. Lorrimer won every rubber. Miss Meredith won the first and lost the
next two. I was a bit up and Miss Meredith and Despard must have been down."

Poirot said, smiling, "The good superintendent has asked you your opinion of
your companions as candidates for murder. I now ask you for your opinion of them
as bridge players."

"Mrs. Lorrimer's first class," Dr. Roberts replied promptly. "I'll bet she
makes a good income a year out of bridge. Despard's a good player, toowhat I
call a sound player--long-headed chap. Miss Meredith you might describe as quite

a safe player. She doesn't make mistakes, but she isn't brilliant."
"And you yourself, doctor?"
Roberts' eyes twinkled.

"I overcall my hand a bit, or so they say. But I've always found it pays."

Poirot smiled.

Dr. Roberts rose.

"Anything more?"

Poirot shook his head.

"Well, good-night, then. Good-night, Mrs. Oliver. You ought to get some
copy out of this. Better than your untraceable poisons, eh?"

Dr. Roberts left the room, his bearing springy once more. Mrs. Oliver said
bitterly as the door closed behind him

"Copy! Copy, indeed! People are so unintelligent. I could invent a better
murder any day than anything real. I'm never at a loss for a plot. And the people
who read my books like untraceable poisons!"



398
Agatha Christie

CHAPTER 5
Second Murderer?

Mrs. Lorrimer came into the dining-room like a gentlewoman. She looked a little
pale, but composed.
"I'm sorry to have to bother you," Superintendent Battle began.
"You must do your duty, of course," said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly. "It is, I
agree, an unpleasant position in which to be placed, but there is no good shirking
it. I quite realise that one of the four people in that room must be guilty. Naturally,
I can't expect you to take my word that I am not the person."
She accepted the chair that Colonel Race offered her and sat down opposite
the superintendent. Her intelligent grey eyes met his. She waited attentively.
"You knew Mr. Shaitana well?" began the superintendent.
"Not very well. I have known him over a period of some years, but never
intimately."
"Where did you meet him?"
"At a hotel in Egypt--the Winter Palace at Luxor, I think."
"What did you think of him?"
Mrs. Lorrimer shrugged her shoulders slightly.
"I thought him--I may as well say so--rather a charlatan."
"You had---excuse me for asking--no motive for wishing him out of the way?"
Mrs. Lorrimer looked slightly amused.
"Really, Superintendent Battle, do you think I should admit it if I had?"
"You might," said Battle. "A really intelligent person might know that a thing
was bound to come out."
Mrs. Lorrimer inclined her head thoughtfully.
"There is that, of course. No, Superintendent Battle, I had no motive for
wishing Mr. Shaitana out of the way. It is really a matter of indifference to me
whether he is alive or dead. I thought him a poseur, and rather theatrical, and
sometimes he irritated me. That is--or rather was--my attitude towards him."
"That is that, then. Now, Mrs. Lorrimer, can you tell me anything about your
three companions?"
"I'm afraid not. Major Despard and Miss Meredith I met for the first time tonight.
Both of them seem charming people. Dr. Roberts I know slightly. He's a
very popular doctor, I believe."
"He is not your own doctor?"
"Oh, no."
"Now, Mrs. Lorrimer, can you tell me how often you got up from your seat tonight,
and will you also describe the movements of the other three?"
Mrs. Lorrimer did not take any time to think.
"I thought you would probably ask me thatl I have been trying to think it out.
I got up once myself when I was dummy. I went over to the fire. Mr. Shaitana was
alive then. I mentioned to him how nice it was to see a wood fire."
"And he answered?"
"That he hated radiators."
"Did any one overhear your conversation?"


Cards on the Table
399


"I don't think so. I lowered my voice, not to interrupt the players." She added
dryly: "In fact you have only my word for it that Mr. Shaitana was alive and spoke
to me."

Superintendent Battle made no protest. He went on with his quiet methodical
questioning.

"What time was that?"

"I should think we had been playing a little over an hour."

"What about the others?"

"Dr. Roberts got me a drink. He also got himself one--that was later. Major

Despard also Went to get a drink at about 11:15, I should say."

"Only once?"

"No---twice, I think. The men moved about a fair amount but I didn't notice
what they did. Miss Meredith left her seat once only, I think. She went round to
look at her partner's hand."

"But she remained near the bridge-table?"

"I couldn't say at all. She may have move! away."

Battle nodded.

"It's all very vague," he grumbled.

"I am sorry."

Once again Battle did his conjuring trick and produced the long delicate
stiletto.

"Will you look at this, Mrs. Lorrimer?"
Mrs. Lorrimer took it without emotion.
"Have you ever seen that before?"
"Never."

"Yet it was lying on a table in the drawing-room."

"I didn't notice it."

"You realise, perhaps, Mrs. Lorrimer, that with a weapon like that a woman
could do the trick just as easily as a man."

"I suppose she could," said Mrs. Lorrimer quietly.

She leaned forward and handed the dainty little thing back to him.

"But all the same," said Superintendent Battle, "the woman would have to be
pretty desperate. It was a long chance to take."

He waited a minute, but Mrs. Lorrimer did not speak.

"Do you know anything of the relations between the other three and Mr.
Shaitana?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing at all."

"Would you care to give me an opinion as to which of them you consider the
most likely person?"

Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up stiffly.

"I should not care to do anything of the kind. I consider that a most improper
question."

The superintendent looked like an abashed little boy who had been reprimanded
by his grandmother.

"Address, please," he mumbled, drawing his notebook towards him.
"111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea."
"Telephone number?"
"Chelsea 45632."
Mrs. Lorrimer rose.

"Anything you want to ask, M. Poirot?" said Battle hurriedly.



400
Agatha Christie

Mrs. Lorrimer paused, her head slightly inclined.
"Would it be a proper question, Madame, to ask you your opinion of your
companions, not as potential murderers but as bridge players?"
Mrs. Lorrimer answered coldly:
"I have no objection to answering that--if it bears upon the matter at issue in
any way--though I fail to see how it can."
"I will be the judge of that. Your answer, if you please, Madame."
In the tone of a patient adult humouring an idiot child, Mrs. Lorrimer replied:
"Major Despard is a good sound player. Dr. Roberts overcalls, but plays his
hand brilliantly. Miss Meredith is quite a nice little player, but a bit too cautious.
Anything more?"
In his turn doing a conjuring trick, Poirot produced four crumpled bridge
scores.
"These scores, Madame, is one of these yours?"
She examined them.
"This is my writing. It is the score of the third rubber.'
"And this score?"
"That must be Major Despard's. He cancels as he goes."
"And this one?"
"Miss Meredith's. The first rubber."
"So this unfinished one is Dr. Roberts'?"
"Yes."
"Thank you, Madame, I think that is all."
Mrs. Lorrimer turned to Mrs. Oliver.
"Good-night, Mrs. Oliver. Good-night, Colonel Race."
Then, having shaken hands with all four of them, she went out.

CHAPTER 6
Third Murderer?

"Didn't get any extra change out of her," commented Battle. "Put me in my place,
too. She's the old-fashioned kind, full of consideration for others, but arrogant as
the devil! I can't believe she did it, but you never know! She's got plenty of
resolution. What's the idea of the bridge scores, M. Poirot?"
Poirot spread them out on the table.
"They are illuminating, do you not think? What do we want in this case? A
clue to character. And a clue not to one character, but to four characters. And this
is where we are most likely to find it--in these scribbled figures. Here is the first
rubber, you see a tame business, soon over. Small neai figures-careful addition
and subtraction--that is Miss Meredith's score. She was playing with Mrs.
Lorrimer. They had the cards, and they won.
"In this next one it is not so easy to follow the play, since it is kept in the
cancellation style. But it tells us perhaps something about Major Desparda man
who likes the whole time to know at a glance where he stands. The figures are
small and full character.
"This next score is Mrs. Lorrimer's--she and Dr. Roberts against the other


Cards on the Table
401
two--a Homeric combat--figures mounting up above the line each side. Overcalling
on the doctor's part, and they go down; but, since they are both first-class
players, they never go down very much. If the doctor's overcalling induces rash
bidding on the other side there is the chance seized of doubling. See--these
figures here are doubled tricks gone down. A characteristic handwriting, graceful,
very legible, firm.
"Here is the last scorethe unfinished rubber. I collected one score in each
person's handwriting, you see. Figures rather flamboyant. Not such high scores as
the preceding rubber. That is probably because the doctor was playing with Miss
Meredith, and she is a timid player. His calling would make her more so!
"You think, perhaps, that they are foolish, these questions that I ask? But it is
not so. I want to get at the characters of these four players, and when it is only
about bridge I ask, every one is.ready and willing to speak."
"I never think your questions foolish, M. Poirot," said Battle. "I've seen too
much of your work. Every one's ggt their own ways of working. I know that. I give
my inspectors a free hand always. JEvery one's got to find out for themselves what
method suits them best. But we'd better not discuss that now. We'll have the girl
in."
Anne Meredith was upset. She stopped in the doorway. Her breath came
unevenly.
Superintendent Battle was immediately fatherly. He rose, set a chair for her at
a slightly different angle.
"Sit down, Miss Meredith, sit down. Now, don't be alarmed. I know all this
seems rather dreadful, but it's not so bad, really."
"I don't think anything could be worse," said the girl in a low voice. "It's so
awful--so awful---to think that one of us--that one of us--"
"You let me do the thinking," said Battle kindly. "Now, then, Miss Meredith,
suppose we have your address first of all."
"Wendon Cottage, Wallingford." "No address in town?"
"No, I'm staying at my club for a day or two."
"And your club is?"
"Ladies' Naval and Military."
"Good. Now, then, Miss Meredith, how well did you know Mr. Shaitana?" "I,, didn't know him well at all. I always thought he was a most frightening
man,
"Why?"
"Oh, well, he was! That awful smile! And a way he had of bending over you.
As though he might bite you."
"Had you known him long?"
"About nine months. I met him in Switzerland during the winter sports."
"I should never have thought he went in for winter sports," said Battle,
surprised.
"He only skated. He was a marvellous skater. Lots of figures and tricks."
"Yes, that sounds more like him. And did you see much of him after that?"
"Well--a fair amount. He asked me to parties and things like that. They were
rather fun."
"But you didn't like him himself?."
"No, I thought he was a shivery kind of man."
Battle said gently:
"But you'd no special reason for being afraid of him?"


404
Agatha Christie

Anne Meredith raised wide limpid eyes to his.

"Special reason? Oh, no."

"That's all right, then. Now about tonight. Did you leave your seat at all?"

"I don't think so. Oh, yes, I may have done once. I went round to look at the
others' hands."
"But you stayed by the bridge-table all the time?"
"Yes."
"Quite sure, Miss Meredith?"

The girl's cheeks flamed suddenly.

"No--no, I think I walked about."
"Right. You'll excuse me, Miss Meredith, but try and speak the truth. I know
you're nervous, and when one's nervous one's apt to--well, to say the thing the
way you want it to be. But that doesn't really pay in the end. You walked about.
Did you walk over in the direction of Mr. Shaitana?"
The girl was silent for a minute, then she said: "Honestly--honestly--I don't remember."
"Well, we'll leave it that you may have done. Know anything about the other
three?"
The girl shook her head.
"I've never seen any of them before."
"What do you think of them? Any likely murderers amongst them?"
"I can't believe it. I just can't believe it. It couldn't be Major Despard. And I
don't believe it could be the doctor after all, a doctor could kill any one in much
easier ways. A drug--something like that."
"Then, if it's any one, you think it's Mrs. Lorrimer."
"Oh, I don't. I'm sure she wouldn't. She's so charming--and so kind to play
bridge with. She's so good herself, and yet she doesn't make one feel nervous, or
point out one's mistakes."
"Yet you left her name to the last," said Battle.
"Only because stabbing seems somehow more like a woman."

Battle did his conjuring trick. Anne Meredith shrank back.

"Oh, horrible. Must I--take it?"
"I'd rather you did."
He watched her as she took the stiletto gingerly, her face contracted with
repulsion.
"With this tiny thing--with this. "
"Go in like butter," said Battle with gusto. "A child could do it."
"You mean--you mean" wide, terrified eyes fixed themselves on his face--"that
I might have done it? But I didn't. Oh, I didn't. Why should I?"
"That's just the question we'd like to know," said Battle. "What's the motive?
Why did any one want to kill Shaitana? He was a picturesque person, but he wasn't
dangerous, as far as I can make out."
Was there a slight indrawing of her breath--a sudden lifting of her breast?
"Not a blackmailer,, for instance, or anything of that sort?" went on Battle.
"And anyway, Miss Meredith, you don't look the sort of girl who's got a lot of guilty
secrets."
For the first time she smiled, reassured by his geniality.
"No, indeed I haven't. I haven't got any secrets at all."
"Then don't you worry, Miss Meredith. We shall have to come round and ask
you a few more questions, I expect, but it will be all a matter of routine.'
He got up.


II

Cards on the Table
405

"Now you go off. My constable will get you a taxi; and don't you lie awake
worrying yourself. Take a couple of aspirins."
He ushered her out. As he came back Colonel Race said in a low, amused
voice:
"Battle, what a really accomplished liar .you are! Your fatherly air was
unsurpassed."
"No good dallying about with her, Colonel Race. Either the poor kid is dead
scared in which case it's cruelty, and I'm not a cruel man; I never have been--or
she's a highly accomplished little actress, and we shouldn't get any further if we
were to keep her h/ere half the night."
Mrs. Oliver gfve a sigh and ran her hands freely through her fringe until it
stood upright andjgave her a wholly drunken appearance.
"Do you knffw," she said, "I rather believe now that she did it! It's lucky it's
not in a bvok. They don't really like the young and beautiful girl to have done it. All
the same, I rather think she did. What do you think, M. Poirot?" "Me, I have just made a discovery." "In the bridge scores again?"
"Yes. Miss Anne Meredith turns her score over, draws lines and uses the
back."
"And what does that mean?"
"It means she has the habit of poverty or else is of a naturally economical turn
of mind."
"She's expensively dressed," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Send in Major Despard," said Superintendent Battle.

CHAPTER 7
Fourth Murderer?

·
Despard entered the room with a quick springing step--a step that reminded
Poirot of something or some one.
"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting all this while, Major Despard," said
Battle. "But I wanted to let the ladies get away as soon'as possible."
"Don't apologise. I understand."
He sat down and looked ihquiringly at the superintendent.
"How well did you know Mr. Shaitana?" began the latter.
"I've met him twice," said Despard crisply.
"Only twice?"
"That's all."
"On what occasions?"
"About a month ago we were both dining at the same house. Then he asked
me to a cocktail party a week later."
"A cocktail party here?"
"Yes."
"Where did it take place--this room or the drawing-room?" "In all the rooms."
"See this little thing lying about?"


406
Agatha Christie


Battle once more produced the stilleto.

Major Despard's lip twisted slightly.

"No," he said. "I didn't mark it down on that occasion for future use."

"There's no need to go ahead of what I say, Major Despard."

"I beg your pardon. The inference was fairly obvious."

There was a moment's pause, then Battle resumed his inquiries.

"Had you any motive for disliking Mr. Shaitana?'

"Every motive."

"Eh?" The superintendent sounded startled.

"For disliking him--not for killing him," said Despard. "I hadn't the least wish

to kill him, but I would thoroughly have enjoyed kicking him. A pity. It's too late

now."

"Why did you want to kick him, Major Despard?"

"Because he was the sort of Dago who needed kicking badly. He used to make
the toe of my boot fairly itch."

"Know anything about him--to his discredit, I mean?"

"He was too well dressed he wore his hair too long--and he smelt of scent."
"Yet you accepted his invitation to dinner," Battle pointed out.

"If I were only to dine in houses where I thoroughly approved of my host I'm

afraid I shouldn't dine out very much, Superintendent Battle," said Despard dryly.
"You like society, but you don't approve of it?" suggested the other.

"I like it for very short periods. To come back from the wilds to lighted rooms
and women in lovely clothes, to dancing and good food and laughter--yes, I enjoy
that for a time. And then the insincerity of it all sickens me, and I want to be off


"It must be a dangerous sort of life that you lead, Major Despard, wandering
about in these wild places."

Despard shrugged his shoulders. He smiled slightly.

"Mr. Shaitana didn't lead a dangerous life--but he is dead, and I am alive!"

"He may have led a more dangerous life than you think," said Battle
meaningly.

"What do you mean?"

"The late Mr. Shaitana was a bit of a Nosey Parker," said Battle.

The other leaned forward.

"You mean that he meddled with other people's lives--that he discovered
what?"

"I really meant that perhaps he was the sort of man who meddled---er--well,
with women."

Major Despard leant back in his chair. He laughed, an amused but indifferent
laugh.

"I don't think women would take a mountebank like that seriously."
"What's your theory of who killed him, Major Despard?"

"Well, I know I didn't. Little Miss Meredith didn't. I can't imagine Mrs.
Lorrimer doing so--she reminds me of one of my more God-fearing aunts. That
leaves the medical gentleman."

"Can you describe your own and other people's movements this evening?"

"I got up twice once for an ash-tray, and I also poked the fireand once for a
drink "

"At what times?"

"I couldn't say. First time might have been about half-past ten, the second
time eleven, but that's pure guesswork. Mrs. Lorrimer went over to the fire once



Cards on the Table
407


and said something to Shaitana. I didn't actually hear him answer, but then, I
wasn't paying attention. I couldn't swear he didn't. Miss Meredith wandered about
the room a bit, but I don't think she went over near the fireplace. Roberts was
always jumping up and down--three or four times at least."

"I'll ask you M. Poirot's question," said Battle with a smile. "What did you
think of them as bridge players?"

"Miss Meredith's quite a good player. Roberts overcalls his hand disgracefully.
He deserves to go down more than he does. Mrs. Lorrimer's damned
good."

Battle turned to Poirot.
"Anything else, M. Poirot?"
Poirot shook his head.

Despard gave his address as the Albany, wished them good-night and left the
room.

As he closed the door behind him, Poirot made a slight movement. "W' demanded Battle.

"Nothing,' said Poirot. "It just occurred to me that he walked like a tiger--yes,
just so--lithe, easy, does the tiger move along."

"H'm!" said Battle. "Now, then" his eye glanced round at his three companions"which of'em did it?"


CHAPTER 8
Which of Them?


Battle looked from one face to another. Only one person answered his question.

Mrs. Oliver, never averse to giving her views, rushed into speech.

"The girl or the doctor," she said.

Battle looked questioningly at the other two. But both the men were unwilling
to make a pronouncement. Race shook his head. Poirot carefully smoothed his
crumpled bridge scores.

"One of 'em did it," said Battle musingly. "One of 'em's lying like hell. But
which? It's not easy--no, it's not easy."

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

"If we're to go by what they say, the medico thinks Despard did it, Despard
thinks the medico did it, the girl thinks Mrs. Lorrimer did it--and Mrs. Lorrimer

won't say! Nothing very illuminating there."
"Perhaps not," said Poirot.
Battle shot him a quick glance.
"You think there is?" -Poirot
waved an airy hand.

"A nuance--nothing more! Nothing to go upon."

Battle continued:

"You two gentlemen won't say what you think
"

"No evidence," said Race curtly.

"Oh, you raen!" sighed Mrs. Oliver, despising such reticence.

"Let's look at the rough possibilities," said Battle. He considered a minute. "I



408
Agatha Christie

put the doctor first, I think. Specious sort of customer. Would know the right spot
to shove the dagger in. But there's not much more than that to it. Then take
Despard. There's a man with any amount of nerve. A man accustomed to quick
decisions and a man who's quite at home doing dangerous things. Mrs. Lorrimer?
She's got any amount of nerve, too, and she's the sort of woman who might have a
secret in her life. She looks as though she's known trouble. On the other hand, I'd
say she's what I call a high-principled woman--sort of. woman who might be
headmistress of a girls' school. It isn't easy to think of her sticking a knife into any
one. In fact, I don't think she did. And lastly, there's little Miss Meredith. We
don't know anything about her. She seems an ordinary good-looking, rather shy
girl. But one doesn't know, as I say, anything about her."
"We know that Shaitana believed she had committed murder," said Poirot.
"The angelic face masking the demon," mused Mrs. Oliver. "This getting us anywhere, Battle?" asked Colonel Race.
"Unprofitable speculation, you think, sir? Well, there's bound to be speculation
in a case like this."
"Isn't it better to find out something about these people?"
Battle smiled.
"Oh, we shall be hard at work on that. I think you could help us there."
"Certainly. How?"
"As regards Major Despard. He's been abroad a lot--in South America, in
East Africa, in South Africa--you've means of knowing those parts. You could get
information about him."
Race nodded.
"It shall be done. I'll get all available data."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Oliver. "I've got a plan. There are four of us--four sleuths,
as you might say--and four of them! How would it be if we each took one. Backed
our fancy! Colonel Race takes Major Despard, Superintendent Battle takes Dr.
Roberts, I'll take Anne Meredith, and M. Poirot takes Mrs. Lorrimer. Each of us to
follow our own line!"
Superintendent Battle shook his head decisively.
"Couldn't quite do that, Mrs. Oliver. This is official, you see. I'm in charge.
I've got to investigate all lines. Besides, it's all very well to say back your fancy.
Two of us might want to back the same horse! Colonel Race hasn't said he suspects
Major Despard. And M. Poirot mayn't be putting his money on Mrs. Lorrimer."
Mrs. Oliver sighed.
"It was such a good plan," she sighed regretfully. "So neat." Then she cheered
up a little. "But you don't mind me doing a little investigating on my own, do you?"
"No," said Superintendent Battle slowly. "I can't say I object to that. In fact,
it's out of my power to object. Having been at this party tonight, you're naturally
free to do anything your own curiosity or interest suggests. But I'd like to point out
to you, Mrs. Oliver, that you'd better be a little careful."
"Discretion itself," said Mrs. Oliver. "I shan't breathe a word of-of
anything- "she ended a little lamely.
"I do not think that was quite Superintendent Battle's meaning," said Hercule
Poirot. "He meant that you will be dealing with a person who has already, to the
best of our belief, killed twice. A person, therefore, who will not hesitate to kill a
third time--if he considers it necessary."
Mrs. Oliver looked at him thoughtfully. Then she smiled---an agreeable
engaging smile, rather like that of an impudent small child.


Cards on the Table
409

"You HAVE BEEN WARNED," she quoted. "Thank you, M. Poirot. I'll watch
my step. But I'm not going to be out of this."
Poirot bowed gracefully.
"Permit me to say--you are the sport, Madame."
"I presume," said Mrs. Oliver, sitting up very straight and speaking in a
business-like committee-meeting manner, "that all information we receive will be
pooled--that is, that we will not keep any knowledge to ourselves. Our own
deductions and impressions, of course, we are entitled to keep up our sleeves."
Superintendent Battle sighed.
"This isn't a detective story, Mrs. Oliver," he said.
Race said:
"Naturally, all information must be handed over to the police."
Having said this in his most "Orderly Room" voice, he added with a slight
twinkle in his eye: "I'm sure you'll play fair, Mrs. Oliver--the stained glove, the
fingerprint on the tooth-glass, the fragment of burnt paper--you'll turn them over
to Baffle here."
"You may laugh," said Mrs. Oliver. "But a woman's intuition "
She nodded her head with decision.

Race rose to his feet.
"I'll have Despard looked up for you. It may take a little time. Anything else I
can do?"
"I don't think so, thank you, sir. You've no hints? I'd value anything of that
kind."
"H'm. Well--I'd keep a special lookout for shooting or poison or accidents,
but I expect you're on to that already."
"I'd made a note of that--yes, sir."
"Good man, Battle. You don't need me to teach you your job. Goodnight,
Mrs. Oliver. Good-night, M. Poirot."
And, with a final nod to Battle, Colonel Race left the room.
"Who is he?" asked Mrs. Oliver.
"Very fine Army record," said Battle. "Travelled a lot, too. Not many parts of
the world he doesn't know about."
"Secret Service, I suppose," said Mrs. Oliver. "You can't tell me so--I know;
but he wouldn't have been asked otherwise this evening. The four murderers and
the four sleuths--Scotland Yard. Secret Service. Private. Fiction. A clever idea."
Poirot shook his head.
"You are in error, Madame. It was a very stupid idea. The tiger was alarmed--and
the tiger sprang."
"The tiger? Why the tiger?"
"By the tiger I mean the murderer," said Poirot.
Battle said bluntly:
"What's tour idea of the right line to take, M. Poirot? That's one question.
And I'd also like to know what you think of the psychology of these four people.
You're rather hot on that."
Still smoothing his bridge scores, Poirot said:
"You are right--psychology is very important. We know the kind of murder
that has been committed, the way it was committed. If we have a person who from
the psychological point of view could not have committed that particular type of
murder, then we can dismiss that person from our calculations. We know something about these people. We have our own impression of them, we know the


410 Agatha Christie

line that each has elected to take, and we know something about their minds and
their characters from what we have learned about them as card players and from
the study of their handwriting and of these scores. But alas! it is not too easy to give
a definite pronouncement. This murder required audacity and nerva person
who was willing to take a risk. Well, we have Dr. Roberts--a bluffer--an overcaller
of his hand--a man with complete confidence in his own powers to pull off a risky
thing. His psychology fits very well with the crime. One might say, then, that that
automatically wipes out Miss Meredith. She is timid, frightened of overcalling her
hand, careful, economical, prudent and lacking in self-confidence. The last type of
person to carry out a bold and risky coup. But a timid person will murder out of
fear. A frightened nervous person can be made desperate, can turn like a rat at bay if driven into a corner. If Miss Meredith had committed a crime in the past, and if
she believed that Mr. Shaitana knew the circumstances of that crime and was about
to deliver her up to justice she would be wild with terror--she would stick at
nothing to save herself. It would be the same result, though brought about through
a different reaction--not cool nerve and daring, but desperate panic. Then take
Major Despard--a cool, resourceful man willing to try a long shot if he believed it
absolutely necessary. He would weigh the pros and cons and might decide that
there was a sporting chance in his favour--and he is the type of man to prefer
action to inaction, and a man who would never shrink from taking the dangerous
way if he believed there was a reasonable chance of success. Finally, there is Mrs.
Lorrimer, an elderly woman, but a woman in full possession of her wits and
faculties. A cool woman. A woman with a mathematical brain. She has probably the
best brain of the four. I confess that if Mrs. Lorrimer committed a crime, I should
expect it to be a premeditated crime. I can see her planning a crime slowly and
carefully, making sure that there were no flaws in her scheme. For that reason she
seems to me slightly more unlikely than the other three. She is, however, the most
dominating personality, and whatever she undertook she would probably carry
through without a flaw. She is a thoroughly efficient woman."
He paused.
"So, you see, that does not help us much. No--there is only one way in this
crime. We must go back into the past."
Battle signed.
"You've said it," he murmured.
"In the opinion of Mr. Shaitana, each of those four people had committed
murder. Had he evidence? Or was it a guess? We cannot tell. It is unlikely, I think,
that he could have had actual evidence in all four cases- "
"I agree with you there," said Battle, nodding his head. "That would be a bit
too much of a coincidence."
"I suggest that it might come. about this way--murder or a certain form of
murder is mentioned, and Mr. Shaitana surprised a look on some one's face. He
was very quick very sensitive to expression. It amuses him to experiment--to
probe gently in the course of apparently aimless conversation he is alert to notice
a wince, a reservation, a desire to turn the conversation. Oh, it is easily done. If
you suspect a certain secret, nothing is easier than to confirm your suspicion.
Every time a word goes home you notice it--if you are watching for such a thing."
"It's the sort of game would have amused our late friend," said Battle,
nodding.
"We may assume, then, that such was the procedure in one or more cases: He
may have come across a piece of actual evidence in another case and followed it up.


Cards on be Tab
411

I doubt whether, in any of the cases, he had sufficient actual knowledge with
which, for instance, to have gone to the police."
"Or it mayn't have been the kind of case," said Battle. "Often enough there's a
fishy business--we suspect foul play, but we can't ever prove it. Anyway, the
course is clear. We've got to go through the records of all these people--and note
any deaths that may be significant. I expect you noticed, just as the Colonel did,
what Shaitana said at dinner."
"The black angel," murmured Mrs. Oliver.
"A neat little reference to poison, to accidents, to a doctor's opportunities, to
shooting accidents. I shouldn't be surprised if he signed his death-warrant when he
said those words."
"It was a nasty sort of pause," said Mrs. Oliver.
"Yes," said Poirot. "Those words went home to one person at least--that
person probably thought that Shaitana knew far more than he really did. That
licner thought that they were the prelude to the end--that the party was a
dramahe entertainment arranged by Shaitana leading up to arrest for murder as its
climax! Yes, as you say, he signed his death-warrant when he baited his guests with
these words."
There was a moment's silence.
"This will be a long business," said Battle with a sigh. "We can't find out all we
want in a moment--and we've got to be careful. We don't want any of the four to
suspect what we're doing. All our questioning and so on must seem to have to do
with this murder. There mustn't be a suspicion that we've got any idea of the
motive for the crime. And the devil of it is we've got to check up on four possible
murders in the past, not one."
Poirot demurred.
"Our friend Mr. Shaitana was not infallible," he said. "He may--it is just
possible have made a mistake."
"About all four?"
"No--he was more intelligent than that."
"Call it fifty-fifty?"
"Not even that. For me, I say one in four."
"One innocent and three guilty? That's bad enough. And the devil of it is,
even if we get at the truth it mayn't help us. Even if somebody did push their
great-aunt down the stairs in 1912, it won't be much use to us in 1937."
"Yes, yes, it will be of use to us." Poirot encouraged him. "You know that. You
know it as well as I do."
Battle nodded slowly.
"I know what you mean," he said. "Same hallmark."
"Do you mean," said Mrs. Oliver, "that the former victim will have been
stabbed with a dagger too?"
"Not quite as crude as that, Mrs. Oliver," said Battle turning to her. "But I
don't doubt it will be essentially the same type of crime. The details may be
different, but the essentials underlying them will be the same. It's odd, but a
criminal gives himself away every time by that."
"Man is an unoriginal animal," said Hercule Poirot.
"Women," said Mrs. Oliver, "are capable of infinite variation. I should never
commit the same type of murder twice running."
"Don't you ever write the same plot twice running?" asked Battle.
"The Lotus Murder," murmured Poirot. "The Clue of the Candle Wax."


412
Agatha Chrtie

Mrs. Oliver turned on him, her eyes beaming appreciation.

"That's clever of you--that's really very clever of you. Because, of course,

those two are exactly the same plot--but nobody else has seen it. One is stolen

papers at an informal week-end party of the Cabinet, and the other's a murder in

Borneo in a rubber planter's bungalow."

"But the essential point on which the story turns is the same," said Poirot.

"One of your neatest tricks. The rubber planter arranges his own murder--the

Cabinet Minister arranges the robbery of his own papers. At the last minute the

third person steps in and turns deception into reality."

"I enjoyed your last, Mrs. Oliver," said Superintendent Battle kindly. "The

one where all the Chief Constables were shot simultaneously. You just slipped up

once or twice on official details. I know you're keen on accuracy, so I wondered

if-"

Mrs. Oliver interrupted him.

"As a matter of fact I don't care two pins about accuracy. Who is accurate?

Nobody nowadays. If a reporter writes that a beautiful girl of twenty-two dies by

turning on the gas after looking out over the sea and kissing her favourite labrador,

Bob, good-bye, does anybody make a fuss because the girl was twenty-six, the

room faced inland, and the dog was a Sealyham terrier called Bonnie? If a journalist

can do that sort of thing, I don't see that it matters if I mix up police ranks and say a

revolver when I mean an automatic, and a dictograph when I mean a phonograph,

and use a poison that just allows you to gasp one dying sentence and no more.

What really matters is plenty of bodies! If the thing's getting a little dull, some
more blood cheers it up. Somebody is going to tell something--and then they're

killed first! That always goes down well. It comes in all my books-camoufiaged

different ways, of course. And people like untraceable poisons, and idiotic police

inspectors and girls tied up in cellars with sewer gas or water pouring in (such a

troublesome way of killing any one really) and a hero who can dispose of anything

from three to seven villains single-handed. I've written thirty-two books by now--

and of course they're all exactly the same really, as M. Poirot seems to have

noticed--but nobody else has--and I only regret one thing--making my detective

a Finn. I don't really know anything about Finns and I'm always getting letters

from Finland pointing out something impossible that he's said or done. They seem

to read detective stories a good deal in Finland. I suppose it's the long winters with

no daylight. In Bulgaria and Roumania they don't seem to read at all. I'd have done

better to have made him a Bulgar."

She broke off.

"I'm so sorry. I'm talking shop. And this is a real murder." Her face lit up.

"What a good idea it would be if none of them had murdered him. If he'd asked

them all, and then quietly committed suicide just for the fun of making a

schemozzle."

Poirot nodded approvingly.

"An admirable solution. So neat. So ironic. But, alas, Mr. Shaitana was not

that sort of man. He was very fond of life."

"I don't think he was really a nice man," said Mrs. Oliver slowly.

"He was not nice, no," said Poirot. "But he was alive--and now he is dead,

and as I told him once, I have a bourgeois attitude to murder. I disapprove of it."

He added softly:
"And soI am prepared to go inside the tiger's cage "


Cards on the Table
413


CHAPTER 9
Dr. Roberts


"Good-morning, Superintendent Battle."

Dr. Roberts rose from his chair and offered a large pink hand smelling of a
mixture of good soap and faint carbolic.

"How are things going?" he went on.

/uperintendent Battle glanced round the comfortable consulting-room before
swering.

"Well, Dr. Roberts, strictly speaking, they're not going. They're standing
still."

"There's been nothing much in the papers, I've been glad to see."

"Sudden death of the well-known Mr. Shaitana at an evening party in his own
house. It's left at that for the moment. We've had the' autopsy--I brought a report
of the findings along--thought it might interest you- "

"That's very kind of you--it would--h'm--h'm. Yes, very interesting."

He handed it back.

"And we've interviewed Mr. Shaitana's solicitor. We know the terms of his
will. Nothing of interest there. He has relatives in Syria, it seems. And then, of
course, we've been through all his private papers."

Was it fancy or did that broad, clean-shaven countenance look a little
strained--a little wooden?

"And?" said Dr. Roberts.

"Nothing," said Superintendent Battle, watching him.

There wasn't a sigh of relief. Nothing so blatant as that. But the doctor's figure

seemed to relax just a shade more comfortably in his chair.

"And so you've come to me?"

"And so, as you say, I've come to you."

The doctor's eyebrows rose a little and his shrewd eyes looked into Battle's.
"Want to go through my private papers---eh?" "That was my idea."
"Got a search-warrant?" "No."

"Well, you could get one easily enough, I suppose. I'm not going to make
difficulties. It's not very pleasant being suspected of murder but I suppose I can't
blame you for what's obviously your duty."

"Thank you, sir," said Superintendent Battle with real gratitude. "I appreciate
your attitude, if I may say so, very much. I hope all the others will be as
reasonable, I'm sure."

"What can't be cured must be endured," said the doctor good-humouredly.
He went on:

"I've finished seeing my patients here. I'm just offon my rounds. I'll leave you
my keys and just say a word to my secretary and you can rootle to your heart's
*******."

"That's all very nice and pleasant, I'm sure," said Battle. "I'd like to ask you a
few more questions before you go."



414
Agatha Christie

"About the other night? Really, I told you all I know."

"No, not about the other night. About yourself."

"Well, man, ask away, what do you want to know?"

"I'd just like a rough sketch of your career, Dr. Roberts. Birth, marriage, and
SO on."
"It will get me into practice for Who's Who," said the doctor dryly. 'My
career's a perfectly straightforward one. I'm a Shropshire man, born at Ludlow. My
father was in practice there. He died when I was fifteen. I was educated at
Shrewsbury and went in for medicine like my father before me. I'm a St.
Christopher's man but you'll have all the medical details already, I expect."
"I looked you up, yes, sir. You an only child or have you any brothers or
sisters?"
"I'm an only child. Both my parents are dead and I'm unmarried. Will that do
to get on with? I came into partnership here with Dr. Emery. He retired about
fifteen years ago. Lives in Ireland. I'll give you his address if you like. I live here
with a cook, a parlourmaid and a housemaid. My secretary comes in daily. I make a
good income and I only kill a reasonable number of my patients. How's that?"
Superintendent Battle grinned.
"That's fairly comprehensive, Dr. Roberts. I'm glad you've got a sense of
humour. Now I'm going to ask you one more thing."
"I'm a strictly moral man, superintendent."
"Oh, that wasn't my meaning. No, I was just going to ask you if you'd give me
the names of four friends--people who've known you intimately for a number of
years. Kind of references, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, I think so. Let me see now. You'd prefer people who are actually in
London now?"
"It would make it a bit easier, but it doesn't really matter."
The doctor thought for a minute or two, then with his fountain-pen he
scribbled four names and addresses on a sheet of paper and pushed it across the
desk to Battle.
"Will those do? They're the best I can think of on the spur of the moment."
Battle read carefully, nodded his head in satisfaction and put the sheet of
paper away in an inner pocket.
"It's just a question of elimination," he said. "The sooner I can get one person
eliminated and go on to the next, the better it is for every one concerned. I've got
to make perfectly certain that you weren't on bad terms with the late Mr. Shaitana,
that you had no private connections or business dealings with him, that there was
no question of his having injured you at any time and your bearing resentment. I
may believe you when you say you only knew him slightly--but it isn't a question
of my belief. I've got to say I've made sure."
"Oh, I understand perfectly. You've got to think everybody's a liar till he's
proved he's speaking the truth. Here are my keys, superintendent. That's the
drawers of the desk--that's the bureau--that little one's the key of the poison
cupboard. Be sure you lock it up again. Perhaps I'd better just have a word with my
secretary."
He pressed a button on his desk.
Almost immediately the door opened and a competent-looking young woman
appeared.
"You rang, doctor?"
"This is Miss Burgess--Superintendent Battle from Scotland Yard."
Miss Burgess turned a cool gaze on Battle. It seemed to say:


Cards on the Table
415

"Dear me, what sort of an animal is this?"

"I should be glad, Miss Burgess, ffyou will answer any questions Superinten
dent Battle may put to you, and give him any help he may need."

"Certainly, if you say so, doctor."

"Well," said Roberts, rising, "I'll be off. Did you put the morphia in my case?

I shall need it for the Lockheart case."

He bustled out, still talking, and Miss Burgess followed him.

She returned a minute or two later to say:

"Will you press that button when you want me, Superintendent Battle?"

Superintendent Battle thanked her and said he would do so. Then he set to

work.

His search was careful and methodical, though he had no great hopes of

finding anything of importance· Roberts' ready acquiescence dispelled the chance

of that. Roberts was no fool. He would realise that a search would be bound to

come md he would make provisions accordingly· There was, however, a faint

chanfe that Battle might come across a hint of the information he was really after,

sincRoberts would not know the real object of his search.

Superintendent Battle opened and shut drawers, rifled pigeon-holes, glanced

through a cheque-book, estimated the unpaid bills--noted what those same bills

were for, scrutinised Roberts' pass-book, ran through his case notes and generally

left no written document unturned. The result was meagre in the extreme· He next

took a look through the poison cupboard, noted the wholesale firms with which the

doctor dealt, and the system of checking, relocked the cupboard and passed on to

the bureau. The *******s of the latter were'of a more personal nature, but Battle

found nothing germane to his search. He shook his head, sat down in the doctor's
·
.
chair and pressed the desk button.

Miss Burgess appeared with commendable promptitude.

Superintendent Battle asked her politely to be seated and then sat studying

her for a moment, before he decided which way to tackle her. He had sensed

immediately her hostility and he was uncertain whether to provoke her into

unguarded speech by increasing that hostility or whether to try a softer method of

approach.

"I suppose you know what all this is about, Miss Burgess?" he said at last.

"Dr. Roberts told me," said Miss Burgess shortly.

"The whole thing's rather delicate," said Superintendent Battle·

"Is it?" said Miss Burgess.

"Well, it's rather a nasty business. Four people are under suspicion and one of

them must have done it. What I want to know is whether you've ever seen this Mr.

Shaitana?"

"Never."

"Ever heard Dr. Roberts speak of him?"

"Never--no, I am wrong. About a week ago Dr. Roberts told me to enter up a

dinner appointment in his engagement-book. Mr. Shaitana, 8:15, on the 18th."

"And that is the first you ever heard of this Mr. Shaitana?"

"Yes."
"Never seen his name in the papers? He was often in the fashionable news."

"I've got better things to do than reading the fashionable news."

"I expect you have. Oh, I expect you have," said the superintendent mildly.

"Well,' he went on. "There it is. All four of these people will only admit to

knowing Mr. Shaitana slightly. But one of them knew him well enough to kill him.

It's my job to find out which of them it was."


416
Agatha Christie

There was an unhelpful pause. Miss Burgess seemed quite uninterested in the
performance of Superintendent Battle's job. It was her job to obey her employer's
orders and sit here listening to what Superintendent Battle chose to say and answer
any direct questions he might choose to put to her.
"You know, Miss Burgess," the superintendent found it uphill work but he
persevered, ,"I doubt if you appreciate half the difficulties of our job. People say
things, for instance. Well, we mayn't believe a word of it, but we've got to take
notice of it all the same. It's particularly noticeable in a case of this kind. I don't
want to say anything against your sex but there's no doubt that a woman, when
she's rattled, is apt to lash out with her tongue a bit. She makes unfounded
accusations, hints this, that and the other, and rakes up all sorts of old scandals that
have probably nothing whatever to do with the ease."
"Do you mean," demanded Miss Burgess, "that one of these other people
have been saying things against the doctor?"
"Not exactly said anything," said Battle cautiously. "But all the same, I'm
bound to take notice. Suspicious circumstances about the death of a patient.
Probably all a lot of nonsense. I'm ashamed to bother the doctor with it."
"I suppose some one's got hold of that story about Mrs. Graves," said Miss
Burgess wrathfully. "The way people talk about things they know nothing whatever
about is disgraceful. Lots of old ladies get like that they think everybody is
poisoning them--their relations and their servants and even their doctors. Mrs.
Graves had had three doctors before she came to Dr. Roberts and then when she
got the same fancies about him he was quite willing for her to have Dr. Lee
instead. It's the only thing to do in these cases, he said. And after Dr. Lee she had
Dr. Steele, and then Dr. Farmer--until she died, poor old thing."
"You'd be surprised the way the smallest thing starts a story," said Battle.
"Whenever a doctor benefits by the death of a patient somebody has something ill-natured
to say. And yet why shouldn't a grateful patient leave a little something, or
even a big something to her medical attendant."
"It's the relations," said Miss Burgess. "I always think there's nothing like
death for bringing out the meanness of human nature. Squabbling over who's to
have what before the body's cold. Luckily, Dr. Roberts has never had any trouble
of that kind. He always says he hopes his patients won't leave him anything. I
believe he once had a legacy of fifty pounds and he's had two walking-sticks and a
gold watch, but nothing else."
"It's a difficult life, that of a professional man," said Battle with a sigh. "He's
always open to blackmail. The most innocent occtrrences lend themselves
sometimes to a scandalous appearance. A doctor's got to avoid even the appearance
of evil--that means he's got to have his wits about him good and sharp."
"A lot of what you say is true," said Miss Burgess. "Doctors have a dicult
time with hysterical women."
"Hysterical women. That's right. I thought, in my own mind, that that was all
it amounted to."
"I suppose you mean that dreadful Mrs. Craddock?"
Battle pretended to think.
"Let me see, was it three years ago? No, more."
"Four or five, I think. She was a most unbalanced woman! I was glad when she
went abroad and so was Dr. Roberts. She told her husband the most frightful lies--they
always do, of course. Poor man, he wasn't quite himself he'd begun to be ill.
He died of anthrax, you know, an infected shaving brush."
"I'd forgotten that," said Battle untruthfully.


Cards on the Table 417
"And then she ent abroad and died not long afterwards. But I always thought
she was a nasty type,f woman--man-mad, you know."
"I know the kind, said Battle. "Very dangerous, they are. A doctor's got to give
them a wide berth. Whereabouts did she die abroad I don't seem to remember." "Egypt, I think it was. She got blood-poisoning--some native infection."
"Another thing that must be difficult for a doctor," said Battle, making a
conversational leap, "is when he suspects that one of his patients is being poisoned
by one of their relatives. What's he to do? He's got to be sure--or else hold his
tongue. And if he's done the latter, then it's awkward for him if there's talk of foul
play afterwards. I wonder if any case of that kind has ever come Dr. Roberts' way?"
"I really don't think it has," said Miss Burgess, considering. "I've never heard
of anything like that."
"From the statistical point of view, it would be interesting to know how many
deaths occur among a doctor's pr,,actice per year. For instance now, you've been
with Dr. Roberts some years
"Seven." '
"Seven. Well, how many deaths have there been in that time offhand?"
"Really, it's difficult tO say." Miss Burgess gave herself up to calculation. She
was by now quite thawed and unsuspicious. "Seven, eight--of course, I can't
remember exact]y--I shouldn't say more than thirty in the time."
"Then I fancy Dr. Roberts must be a better doctor than most," said Battle
genially. "I suppose, too, most of his patients are upper-class. They can afford to
take care of themselves.'
"He's a very popular doctor. He's so good at diagnosis.'
Battle sighed and rose to his feet.
"I'm afraid I've been wandering from my duty, which is to find out a
connection between the doctor and this Mr. Shaitana. You're quite sure he wasn't a
patient of the doctor's?"
"Quite sure.'
"Under another name, perhaps?" Battle handed her a photograph. "Recognise
him at all?"
"What a very theatrical-looking person. No, I've never seen him here at any
time."
"Well, that's that." Battle sighed. "I'm much obliged to the doctor, I'm sure,
for being so pleasant about everything. Tell him so from me, will you? Tell him I'm
passing on to No. 2. Good-bye, Miss Burgess, and thank you for your help."
He shook hands and departed. Walking along the street he took a small notebook
from his pocket and made a couple of entries in it under the letter R.

Mrs. Graves? unlikely.
Mrs. Craddock?
No legacies.
No wife. (Pity.)
Investigate deaths of patients. Difficult.

He closed the book and turned into the Lancaster Gate branch of the London &
Wessex Bank.
The display of his offleial card brought him to a private interview with the
manager.
"Good-morning, sir. One of your clients is a Dr. Geoffrey Roberts, I
understand."


418
Agatha Christie


"Quite correct, superinterdent."

"I shall want some information about that gentleman's account going back over
a period of years."

"I will see what I can do for you."

A complicated half-hour followed. Finally Battle, with a sigh, tucked away a
sheet of pencilled figures.

"Got what you want?" inquired the bank manager curiously.

"No, I haven't. Not one suggestive lead. Thank you all the same."

At the same moment, Dr. Ro!erts, washing his hands in his consulting-room, said
over his shoulder to Miss Burgess:

"What about our stolid sleuth, eh? Did he turn the place upside down and you
inside out?"

"He didn't get much out of me, I can tell you," said Miss Burgess, setting her
lips tightly.

"My dear girl, no need to be an oyster. I told you to tell him all he wanted to
know. What did he want to ktow, by the way?"

"Oh, he kept harping oh your knowing that man Shaitana--suggested even
that he might have come her as a patient under a different name. He showed me
his photograph. Such a theatrical-looking man!"

"Shaitana? Oh, yes, fond of posing as a modern Mephistopheles. It went down
rather well on the whole. What else did Battle ask you?"

"Really nothing very much. Except---oh, yes somebody had been telling him
some absurd nonsense about Mrs. Graves--you know the way she used to go on."

"Graves? Graves? Oh, ys, old Mrs. Graves! That's rather funny!" The doctor
laughed with considerable arusement. "That's really very funny indeed."

And in high good humohr he went in to lunch.


CHAPTER 10

Dr. Roberts (continued)


Superintendent Battle was ltmching with M. Hercule Poirot.

The former looked downcast, the latter sympathetic.

"Your morning, then, has not been entirely successful," said Poirot
thoughtfully.

Battle shook his head.

"It's going to be uphill work, M. Poirot."

"What do you think of him?"

"Of the doctor? Well, frankly, I think Shaitana was right. He's a killer.
Reminds me of Westaway. And of that lawyer chap in Norfolk. Same hearty, self-confident
manner. Same /)opularity. Both of them were clever devils--so's
Roberts. All the same, it doesn't follow that Roberts killed Shaitana--and as a
matter of fact I don't think he did. He'd know the risk too well better than a
layman would--that Shaitaaa might wake and cry out. No, I don't think Roberts
murdered him."



Cards on the Table
419


"But you think he has murdered some one?"

"Possibly quite a lot of people. Westaway had. But it's going to be hard to get
at. I've looked over his bank account--nothing suspicious there--no large sums
suddenly. At any rate, in the last seven years he's not had any legacy from a
patient. That wipes out murder for direct gain. He's never married--that's a pity--so
ideally simple for a doctor to kill his own wife. He's well-to-do, but then he's got
a thriving practice among well-to-do people."

"In fact he. appears to lead a thoroughly blameless life--and perhaps does do

SO."

"Maybe. But I prefer to believe the worst."

He went on:

"There's the hint of a scandal over a woman---one of his patients--name of
Craddock. That's worth looking up, I think. I'll get some one on to that
straightaway. Woman actually died out in Egypt of some local disease, so I don't

think there's anything in that
but it might throw a light on his general character

and morals."

"Was there a husband?"

"Yes. Husband died of anthrax."

"Anthrax?"

"Yes, there were a lot of cheap shaving brushes on the market just then--some

of them infected. There was a regular scandal about it."

"Convenient," suggested Poirot.

"That's what I thought. If her husband were threatening to kick up a row
But there, it's all conjecture. We haven't a leg to stand upon."

"Courage, my friend. I know your patience. In the end, you will have perhaps
as many legs as a centipede."

"And fall into the ditch as a result of thinking about them," grinned Battle.

Then he asked curiously:

"What about you, M. Poirot? Going to take a hand?"

"I too, might call on Dr. Roberts."

"Two of us in one day. That ought to put the wind up him."

"Oh, I shall be very discreet. I shall not inquire into his past life."

"I'd like to know just exactly what line you'll take," said Battle curiously, "but
don't tell me unless you want to."

"Du tout--du tout. I am most willing. I shall talk a little of bridge, that is all."
"Bridge again. You harp on that, don't you, M. Poirot?" "I find the subject very useful."

"Well, every man to his taste. I don't deal much in these fancy approaches.
They don't suit my style."

"What is your style, superintendent?"

The superintendent met the twinkle in Poirot's eye with an answering twinkle
in his own.

"A straightforward, honest, zealous officer doing his duty in the most laborious
manner--that's my style. No frills. No fancy work. Just honest perspiration. Stolid

and a bit stupid--that's my ticket."

Poirot raised his glass.

"To our respective methodsand may success crown our joint efforts."

"I expect Colonel Race may get us something worth having about Despard,"
said Battle. "He's got a good many sources of information."

"And Mrs. Oliver?"



420
Agatha Christie

"Bit of a toss-up there. I rather like that woman. Talks a lot of nonsense, but
she's a sport. And women get to know things about other women that men can't get
at. She may spot something useful."
They separated. Battle went back to Scotland Yard to issue instructions for
certain lines to be followed up. Poirot betook himself to 200 Gloucester Terrace.
Dr. Roberts' eyebrows rose comically as he greeted his guest.
"Two sleuths in one day," he asked. "Handcuffs by this evening, I suppose."

Poirot smiled.
"I can assure you, Dr. Roberts, that my attentions are being equally divided
between all four of you."
"That's something to be thankful for, at all events. Smoke?"
"If you permit, I prefer my own."
Poirot lighted one of his tiny Russian cigarettes.
"Well, what can I do for you?" asked Roberts.
Poirot was silent for a minute or two puffing, then he said:

"Are you a keen observer of human nature, doctor?"

"I don't know. I suppose I am. A doctor has to be."
"That was exactly my reasoning. I said to myself, 'A doctor has always to be
studying his patients--their expressions, their colour, how fast they breathe, any
signs of restlessness--a doctor notices these things automatically almost without
noticing he notices! Dr. Roberts is the man to help me.'"
"I'm willing enough to help. What's the trouble?"
Poirot produced from a neat little pocket-case three carefully folded bridge
scores.
"These are the first three rubbers the other evening," he explained. "Here is
the first one--in Miss Meredith's handwriting. Now can you tell me with this to
******* your memory--exactly what the calling was and how each hand went?"
Roberts stared at him in astonishment.
"You're joking, M. Poirot. How can I possibly remember?"
"Can't you? I should be so very grateful if you could. Take this first rubber.
The first game must have resulted in a game call in hearts or spades, or else one or
other side must have gone down fifty."
"Let me seethat was the first hand. Yes, I think they went out in spades."

"And the next hand?"
"I suppose one or other of us went down fifty--but I can't remember which or
what it was in. Really, M. Poirot, you can hardly expect me to do so."
"Can't you remember any of the calling or the hands?"
"I got a grand slam--I remember that. It was doubled too. And I also
remember going down a nasty smack--playing three no trumps, I think it was--went
down a packet. But that was later on."
"Do you remember with whom you were playing?"
"Mrs. Lorrimer. She looked a bit grim, I remember. Didn't like my overcalling, I expect."
"And you can't remember any other of the hands or the calling?"
Roberts laughed.
"My dear M. Poirot, did you really expect I could. First there was the
murder---enough to drive the most spectacular hands out of one's mind
and in
addition I've played at least half a dozen rubbers since then."

Poirot sat looking rather crestfallen.

"I'm sorry," said Roberts.
"It does not matter very much," said Poirot slowly. "I hoped that you might


Cards on the Table
421

remember one or two, at least, of the hands, because I thought they might be
valuable landmarks in remembering other things."
"What other things?"
"Well, you might have noticed, for instance, that your partner made a mess of
playing a perfectly simple no trumper, or that an opponent, say, presented you
with a couple of unexpected,rieks by failing to lead an obvious card."
Dr. Roberts became suddenly serious. He leaned forward in his chair.
"Ah," he said. "Now I see what you're driving at. Forgive me. I thought at
first you were talking pure nonsense. You mean that the murder--the successful
accomplishment of the murder--might have made a definite difference in the
guilty party's play?"
Poirot nodded.
"You have seized the idea correctly. It would be a clue of the first excellence if
you had been four players who knew each other's game well. A variation, a sudden
lack of brilliance, a missed oppOrtunity--that would have been immediately
noticed. Unluckily, you were all strangers to each other. Variation in play would
not be so noticeable. But think, M. le docteur, I beg of you to think. Do you
remember any inequalities--any sudden glaring mistakes--in the play of any one?"
There was silence for a minute or two, then Dr. Roberts shook his head.
"It's no good. I can't help you," he said frankly. "I simply don't remember. All
I can tell you is what I told you before: Mrs. Lorrimer is a first-class player--she
never made a slip that I noticed. She was brilliant from start to finish. Despard's
play was uniformly good too. Rather a conventional player--that is, his bidding is
strictly conventional. He never steps outside the rules. Won't take a long chance.
Miss Meredith "He hesitated.
"Yes? Miss Meredith?" Poirot prompted him.
"She did make mistakes--once or twiceI remember--towards the end of the
evening, but that may simply have been because she was tired--not being a very
experienced player. Her hand shook, too
"
He stopped.

"When did her hand shake?"

"When was it now? I can't remember I
think she was just nervous. M.
Poirot,
you're making me imagine things."
"I apologise. There is another point on which I seek your help."
"Yes?"
Poirot
said slowly:
"It is difficult. I do not, you see, wish to ask you a leading question. If I say, did you
notice so and so--well, I have put the thing into your head. Your answer will
not be so valuable. Let me try to get at the matter another way. If you will be so
kind, Dr. Roberts, describe to me the *******s of the room in which you played."
Roberts
looked thoroughly astonished.
"The
*******s of the room?"
"If you will be so good."
"My dear fellow, I simply don't know where to begin."
"Begin
anywhere you choose."
"Well,
there was a good deal of furniturc "
"Non,
non, non, be precise, I pray of you."

Dr. Roberts sighed.
He began facetiously after the manner of an auctioneer.
"One large settee upholstered in ivory brocadeone ditto in green ditto--


422
Agatha Christie

four or five large chairs. Eight or nine Persian rugs--a set of twelve small gilt

Empire chairs. William and Mary bureau. (I feel just like an auctioneer's clerk.)

Very beautiful Chinese cabinet. Grand piano. There was other furniture but I'm

afraid I didn't notice it. Six first-class Japanese prints. Two Chinese pictures on

looking-glass. Five or six very beautiful snuff-boxes. Some Japanese ivory netsuke

figures on a table by themselves. Some old silver--Charles I. tazzas, I think. One

or two pieces of Battersea enamel--"

"Bravo, bravo!" Poirot applauded.

"A couple of old English slipware birds--and, I think, a Ralph Wood figure.
Then there was some Eastern stuff--intricate silver work. Some jewellery, I don't
know much about that. Some Chelsea birds, I remember. Oh, and some
miniatures in a case-pretty good ones, I fancy. That's not all by a long way--but
it's all I can think of for the minute."

"It is magnificent," said Poirot with due appreciation. "You have the true
observer's eye."

The doctor asked curiously:

"Have I included the object you had in mind?"

"That is the interesting thing about it,"said Poirot. "If you had mentioned the
object I had in mind it would have been extremely surprising to me. As I thought,

you would not mention it."

"Why?"

Poirot twinkled.

"Perhaps--because it was not there to mention."

Roberts stared.

"That seems to remind me of something."

"It reminds you of Sherlock Holmes, does it not? The curious incident of the
dog in the night. The dog did not howl in the night. That is the curious thing! Ah,
well, I am not above stealing the tricks of others."

"Do you know, M. Poirot, I am completely at sea as to what you are driving


"That is excellent, that. In confidence, that is how I get my little effects."

Then, as Dr. Roberts still looked rather dazed, Poirot said with a smile as he
rose to his feet:

"You may at least comprehend this, what you have told me is going to be very

helpful to me in my next interview."

The doctor rose also.

"I can't see how, but I'll take your work for it," he said.

They shook hands.

Poirot went down the steps of the doctor's house, and hailed a passing taxi.
"111 Cheyne Lane, Chelsea," he told the driver.


CHAPTER 11
Mrs. Lorrimer


111 Cheyne Lane was a small house of very neat and trim appearance standing in a
quiet street. The door was painted black and the steps were particularly well
whitened, the brass of the knocker and handle gleamed in the afternoon sun.



Cards on the Table
423

The door was opened by an elderly parlourmaid with an immaculate white cap

and apron.

In answer to Poirot's inquiry she said that her mistress was at home.

She preceded him up the narrow staircase.

"What name, sir?"

"M. Hercule Poirot."

He was ushered into a drawing-room of the usual L shape. Poirot looked about

him, noting details. Good furniture, well polished, of the old family type. Shiny

chintz on the chairs and settees. A few silver photograph frames about in the old
fashioned
manner. Otherwise an agreeable amount of spe and light, and some

really beautiful chrysanthemums arranged in a tall

Mrs. Lorrimer came forward to meet him. She shook hands without showing

any particular surprise at seeing him, indicated a chair, took one herself and

remarked favourably on the weather.

There was a pause.

"I hope, Madame," said Hercule Poirot, "that you will forgive this visit."

Looking directly at him, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:

"Is this a professional visit?"

"I confess it."

"You realise, I suppose, M0 Poirot, that though I shall naturally give

Superintendent Battle and the official police any information and help they may

require, I am by no means bound to do the same for any unofficial investigator?"

"I am quite aware of that fact, Madame. If you show me the door, me, I march

to that door with complete submission."

Mrs. Lorrimer smiled very slightly.

"I am not yet prepared to go to those extremes, M. Poirot, I can give you ten

minutes. At the end of that time I have to go out to a bridge party."

"Ten minutes will be ample for my purpose. I want you to describe to me,

madame, the room in which you played bridge the other evening--the room in

which Mr. Shaitana was killed."

Mrs. Lorrimer's eyebrows rose.

"What an extraordinary questionl I do not see the point of it."

"Madame, if when you were playing bridge, some one were to say to you--

why do you play that ace or why do you put on the knave that is taken by the queen

and not the king which would take the trick? If people were to ask you such

questions, the answers would be rather long and tedious, would they not?"

Mrs. Lorrimer smiled slightly.

"Meaning that in this game you are the expert and I am the novice. Very

well." She reflected a minute. "It was a large room. There were a good many things

in it."

"Can you describe 'some of those things?"
"There were some glass flowers--modern--rather beautiful And
I think
there
were some Chinese or Japanese pictures. And there was a bowl of tiny red
tulips--amazingly
early for them."
"Anything
else?"
"I'm afraid I didn't notice anything in detail."
"The
furniturc do you remember the colour of the upholstery?"
"Something
silky, I think. That's all I can say."
"Did
you notice any of the small objects?"
"I'm
afraid not. There were so many. I know it struck me as quite a collector's room."
There
was a silence for a minute. Mrs. Lorrimer said with a faint smile:


424
Agatha Christie

"I'm afraid I have not been very helpful,"
"There is something else." He produced the bridge scores. "Here are the first
three rubbers played. I wondered if you could help me with the aid of these scores
to reconstruct the hands."
"Let me see." Mrs. Lorrimer looked interested. She bent over the scores. "That was the first rubber. Miss Meredith and I were playing against the two
men. The first game was played in four spades. We made it and an over trick. Then
the next hand was left at two diamonds and Dr. Roberts went down one trick on it.
There was quite a lot of bidding on the third hand, I remember. Miss Meredith
passed. Major Despard went a heart. I passed. Dr. Roberts gave a jump bid of
three clubs. Miss Meredith went three spades. Major Despard bid four diamonds.
I doubled. Dr. Roberts took it into four hearts. They went down one."
"Epatant,'" said Poirot. "What a memory!"
Mrs. Lorrimer went on, disregarding him:
"On the next hand Major Despard passed and I bid a no trump. Dr. Roberts
bid three hearts. My partner said nothing. Despard put his partner to four. I
doubled and they went down two tricks. Then I dealt and we went out on a four-spade
call."
She took up the next score.
"It is difficult, that," said Poirot. "Major Despard scores in the cancellation
manner."
"I rather fancy both sides went down fifty to start with--then Dr. Roberts
went down to five diamonds and we doubled and got him down three tricks. Then
we made three clubs, but immediately after the others went game in spades. We
made the second game in five clubs. Then we went down a hundred. The others
made one heart, we made two no trumps and we finally won the rubber with a
four-club call."
She picked up the next score.
"This rubber was rather a battle, I remember. It started tamely. Major
Despard and Miss Meredith made a one-heart call. Then we went down a couple of
fifties trying for four hearts and four spades. Then the others made game in
spades--no use trying to stop them. We went down three hands running after that
but undoubled. Then we won the second game in no trumps. Then a battle royal
started. Each side went down in turn. Dr. Roberts overcalled but though he went
down badly once or twice, his calling paid, for more than once he frightened
Miss Meredith out of bidding her hand. Then he bid an original two spade, I
gave him three diamonds, he bid four no trumps, I bid five spades and he
suddenly jumped to seven diamonds. We were doubled, of course. He had no
business to make such a call. By a kind of miracle we got it. I never thought
we should when I saw his hand go down. If the others led a heart we would
have been three tricks down. As it was they led the king of clubs and we got it.
It was really very exciting."
'Je crois bien--a Grand Slam Vulnerable doubled. It causes the emotions,
that! Me, I admit it, I have not the nerve to go for the slams. I ******* myself with
the game."
"Oh, but you shouldn't," said Mrs. Lorrimer with energy. "You must play the
game properly."
"Take risks, you mean?"
"There is no risk if the bidding is correct. It should be a mathematical
certainty. Unfortunately, few people really bid well. They know the opening bids but later they lose their heads. They cannot distinguish between a hand with


Cards on the Table 425

winning cards in it and a hand without losing cards
but I mustn't give you a
lecture on bridge, or on the losing count, M. Poirot."

"It would improve my play, I am sure, Madame."

Mrs. Lorrimer resumed her study of the score.
"After that excitement the next hands were rather tame. Have you the fourth
score there? Ah, yes. A ding-dong barrio neither side able to score below."
"It is often like that as the evening wears on."
"Yes, one starts tamely and then the cards get worked up."
Poirot collected the scores and made a little bow.
"Madame, I congratulate you. Your card memory is magnificent--but
You remember, one might say, every card that was//15Iayed!"

magnificent!
"I believe I do."

/
"Memory is a wonderful gift. With it the past is never the past--I should
imagine, Madame, that to you the past unrolls itself, every incident clear as
yesterday. Is that so?"
She looked at him quickly. Her eyes were wide and dark.
It was only for a moment, then she had resumed her woman-ofthe-world
manner, but Hercule Poirot did not doubt. That shot had gone home.
Mrs. Lorrimer rose.
"I'm afraid I shall have to leave now. I am so sorry--but I really mustn't be
late."
"Of course not---of course not. I apologise for trespassing on your time."

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to help you more."

"But you have helped me," said Hercule Poirot.

"I hardly think so."
She spoke with decision.
"But yes. You have told me something I wanted to know."
She asked no question as to what that something was.
He held out his hand,
"Thank you, Madame, for your forbearance."
As she shook hands with him she said:
"You are an extraordinary man, M. Poirot." "I am as the good God made me, Madame." "We are all that, I suppose."
"Not all, Madame. Some of us have tried to improve on His pattern. Mr.
Shaitana, for instance."
"In what way do you mean?"
"He had a very pretty taste in objets de virtu and bric-a-brac--he should have
been ******* with that. Instead, he collected other things."
"What sort of things?"
"Well--shall we say--sensations?"
"And don't you think that was clans son caractre?"
Poirot shook his head gravely.
"He played the part of the devil too successfully. But he was not the devil. Au
fond, he was a stupid man. And so--he died."
"Because he was stupid?"
"It is the sin that is never forgiven and always punished, Madame."
There was a silence. Then Poirot said:
"I take my departure. A thousand thanks for your amiability, Madame. I will
not come again unless you send for me."
Her eyebrows rose.


426
Agatha Christie


"Dear me, M. Poirot, why should I send for you?"

"You might. It is just an idea. If so, I will come. Remember that."
He bowed once more and left the room.

In the street he said to himself.

"I am right .... I am sure I am right .... It must be that!"


CHAPTER 12
Anne Meredith


Mrs. Oliver extricated herself from the driving-seat of her little two-seater with
some difficulty. To begin with, the makers of modem motor-cars assume that only
a pair of sylph-like knees will ever be under the steering-wheel. It is also the
fashion to sit low. That being so, for a middle-aged woman of generous proportions
it requires a good deal of superhuman wriggling to get out from under the steering-wheel.
In the second place, the seat next to the driving-seat was encumbered by
several maps, a hangbag, three novels and a large bag of apples. Mrs. Oliver was
partial to apples and had indeed been known to eat as many as five pounds straight
offwhilst composing the complicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipe--coming to herself with a start and an incipient stomach-ache an hour and ten minutes after
she was due at an important luncheon party given in her honour.

With a final determined heave and a sharp shove with the knee against a
recalcitrant door, Mrs. Oliver arrived a little too suddenly on the sidewalk outside
the gate of Wendon Cottage, showering apple cores freely round her as she did so.

She gave a deep sigh, pushed back her country hat to an unfashionable angle,
looked down with approval at the tweeds she had remembered to put on, frowned
a little when she saw that she had absent-mindedly retained her London high-heeled
patent leather shoes, and pushing open the gate of Wendon Cottage walked
up the flagged path to the front door. She raag the bell and executed-a cheerful

little rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker--a quaint coaceit in the form of a toad's head.
As nothing happened she repeated the performance.

After a further pause of a minute and a half, Mrs. Oliver stepped briskly round
the side of the house on a voyage of exploration.

There was a small old-fashioned garden with Michaelmas daisies and
straggling chrysanthemums behind the cottage, and beyond it a field. Beyond the
field was the river. For an October day the sua was warm.

Two girls were just crossing the field in the direction of the cottage. As they

came through the gate into the garden, the foremost of the two stopped dead.
Mrs. Oliver came forward.

"How do you do, Miss Meredith? You remember me, don't you?"

"Oh--oh, of course.' Anne Meredith extended her hand hurriedly. Her eyes
looked wide and startled. Then she pulled herself together.

"This is my friend who lives with me--Miss Dawes. Rhoda, this is Mrs.
Oliver."

The other girl was tall, dark, and vigorous-looking. She said excitedly:

"Oh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?"



Cards on the Table
427

"I am," said Mrs. Oliver, and she added to Anne, "Now let us sit down
somewhere, my dear, because I've got a lot to say to you."
"Of course. And we'll have tea- "
'"Tea can wait," said Mrs. Oliver.
Anne led the way to a little group of deck and basket chairs, all rather
dilapidated. Mrs. Oliver chose the strongest-looking with some care, having had
various unfortunate experiences with flimsy summer furniture.
"Now, my dear," she said briskly. "Don't let's beat about the bush. About this
murder the other evening. We've got to get busy and do something."
"Do something?" queried Anne.
"Naturally," said Mrs. Oliver. "I don't know what you think, but I haven't the
least doubt who did it. That doctor. What was his name? Roberts. That's it!
Roberts. A Welsh name! I never trust the Welsh! I had a Welsh nurse and she took
me to Harrogate one day and went home having forgotten all bume. Very
unstable. But never mind about her. Roberts did it--that's the point and we must
put our heads together and prove he did."
Rhoda Dawes laughed suddenly--then she blushed.
"I beg your pardon. But you're--you're so different from what I would have
imagined."
"A disappointment, I expect," said Mrs. Oliver serenely. "I'm used to that.
Never mind. What we must do is prove that Roberts did it!"
"How can we?" said Anne.
"Oh, don't be so defeatist, Anne," cried Rhoda Dawes. "I think Mrs. Oliver's
splendid. Of course, she knows all about these things. She'll do just as Sven
Hjerson does."
Blushing slightly at the name of her celebrated Finnish detective, Mrs. Oliver
said:
"It's got to be done, and I'll tell you why, child. You don't want people
thinking you did it?"
"Why should they?" asked Anne, her colour rising.
"You know what people are!" said Mrs. Oliver. "The three who didn't do it
will come in for just as much suspicion as the one who did."
Anne Meredith said slowly:
"I still don't quite see why you came to me, Mrs. Oliver?"
"Because in my opinion the other two don't matter! Mrs. Lorrimer is one of
those women who play bridge at bridge clubs all day. Women like that must be
made of armour-plating--they can look after themselves all right! And anyway she's
old. It wouldn't matter ffany one thought she'd done it. A girl's different. She's got
her life in front of her."
"And Major Despard?" asked Anne.
"Pah!" said Mrs. Oliver. "He's a man. I never worry about men. Men can look
after themselves. Do it remarkably well, if you ask me. Besides, Major Despard
enjoys a dangerous life. He's getting his fun at home instead of on the Irrawaddy--or
do I mean the Limpopo? You know what I mean--that yellow African river that
men like so much. No, I'm not worrying my head about either of those two."
"It's very kind of you," said Anne slowly.
"It was a beastly thing to happen," said Rhoda. "It's broken Anne up, Mrs.
Oliver. She's awfully sensitive. And I think you're quite right. It would be ever so
much better to do something than just to sit here thinking about it all."
"Of course it would," said Mrs. Oliver. "To tell you the truth, a real murder
has never come my way before. And, to continue telling the truth, I don't believe


428
Agatha Christie

real murder is very much in my line. I'm so used to loading the dice--ff you
understand what I mean. But I wasn't going to be out of it and let those three men
have all the fun to themselves. I've always said that if a woman were the head of
Scotland Yard "
"Yes?" said Rhoda, leaning forward with parted lips. "If you were head of
Scotland Yard, what would you do?"
"I should arrest Dr. Roberts straight away--"
"Yes?"
"However, I'm not the head of Scotland Yard," said Mrs. Oliver, retreating
from dangerous ground. "I'm a private individual "
"Oh, you're not that," said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary.
"Here we are," continued Mrs. Oliver, "three private individuals--all
women. Let us see what we can do by putting our heads together."
Anne Meredith nodded thoughtfully. Then she said: "Why do you think Dr, Roberts did it?"
"He's that sort of man," replied Mrs. Oliver promptly.
"Don't you think, though ' Anne hesitated. "Wouldn't a doctor ? I
mean, something like poison would be so much easier for him."
"Not at all. Poison--drugs of any kind would point straight to a doctor. Look
how they are always leaving cases of dangerous drugs in cars all over London and
getting them stolen. No, just because he was a doctor he'd take special care not to
use anything of a medical kind."
"I see," said Anne doubtfully.
Then she said:
"But why do you think he wanted to kill Mr. Shaitana? Have you any idea?"
"Idea? I've got any amount of ideas. In fact, that's just the difficulty. It always
is my difficulty. I can never think of even one plot at a time. I always think of at
least five, and then it's agony to decide between them. I can think of six beautiful
reasons for the murder. The trouble is I've no earthly means of knowing which is
right. To begin with, perhaps Shaitana was a moneylender. He had a very oily
look. Roberts was in his clutches, and killed him because he couldn't get the
money to repay the loan. Or perhaps Shaitana ruined his daughter or his sister. Or
perhaps Roberts is a bigamist, and Shaitana knew it. Or possibly Roberts married
Shaitana's second cousin, and will inherit all Shaitana's money through her. Or '
How many have I got to?"
"Four," said Rhoda.
"Or--and this is a really good one--suppose Shaitana knew some secret in
Roberts' past. Perhaps you didn't notice, my dear, but Shaitana said something
rather peculiar at dinner--just before a rather queer pause."
Anne stooped to tickle a caterpillar. She said, "I don't think I remember."
"What did he say?" asked Rhoda.
"Something about--what was it? an accident and poison. Don't you remember?''
Anne's left hand tightened on the basketwork of her chair.
"I do remember something of the kind," she said composedly.
Rhoda said suddenly, "Darling, you ought ,to have a coat. It's not summer,
remember. Go and get one,"
Anne shook her head. "I'm quite warm."
But she gave a queer little shiver as she spoke.
"You see my theory," went on Mrs. Oliver. "I dare say one of the doctor's


Cards o the Table
429


patients poisoned himself by accident; but, of course, really, it was the doctor's
own doing. I dare say he's murdered lots of people that way."

A sudden colour came into Anne's cheeks. She said, "Do doctors usually want
to murder their patients wholesale? Wouldn't it have rather a regrettable effect on
their practice?"

"There would be a reason, of course," said Mrs. Oliver vaguely:

"I think the idea is absurd," said Anne crisply. "Absolutely absurdly
melodramatic."

"Oh, Anne!" cried Rhoda in an agony of apology. She looked at Mrs. Oliver.
Her eyes, rather like those of an intelligent spaniel, seemed to be trying to say
something. "Try and understand. Try and understand," those eyes said.

"I think it's a splendid idea, Mrs. Oliver," Rhoda said earnestly. "And a doctor

could get hold of somethitig quite untraceable, couldn't he?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Anne.

The other two turned to look at her.

"I remember something else," she said. "Mr. Shaitana said something about a
doctor's opportunities in a laboratory. He must have meant something by that."

"It wasn't Mr. Shaitana who said that." Mrs. Oliver shook her head. "It was
Major Despard."

A footfall on the garden walk made her turn her head.

"Well!" she exclaimed. "Talk of the devil!"

Major Despard had just come round the corner of the house.


CHAPTER 13
Second Visitor


At the sight of Mrs. Oliver, Major Despard looked slightly taken aback. Under his
tan his face flushed a rich brick-red, Embarrassment made him jerky. He made for
Anne.

"I apologise, Miss Meredith," he said. "Been ringing your bell. Nothing
happened. Was passing this way. Thought I might just look you up,"

"I'm so sorry you've been ringing," said Anne. "We haven't got a maid---only a

woman who comes in the mornings."
She introduced him to Rhoda.
Rhoda said briskly:

"Let's have some tea. It's getting chilly. We'd better go in."

They all went into the house. Rhoda disappeared into the kitchen. Mrs. Oliver

said:

"This is quite a coincidence--our all meeting here."

Despard said slowly, "Yes."

His eyes rested on her thoughtfully--appraising eyes.

"I've been telling Miss Meredith," said Mrs. Oliver, who was thoroughly
enjoying herself, "that we ought to have a Plan of campaign. About the murder, I

mean. Of course, that doctor did it. Don't you agree with me?"

"Couldn't say. Very little to go on."

Mrs. Oliver put on her "How like a man!" expression.



430
Agatha Christie

A certain air of constraint had settled over the three. Mrs. Oliver sensed it
quickly enough. When Rhoda brought in tea she rose and said she must be getting
back to town. No, it was ever so kind of them, but she wouldn't have any tea.
"I'm going to leave you my card," she said. "Here it is, with my address on it.
Come and see me when you come up to town, and we'll talk everything over and
see if we can't think of something ingenious to get to the bottom of things."
"I'll come out to the gate with you," said Rhoda.
Just as they were walking down the path to the front gate, Anne Meredith ran
out of the house and overtook them.
"I've been thinking things over," she said.
Her pale face looked unusually resolute.
"Yes, my dear?"
"It's extraordinarily kind of you, Mrs. Oliver, to have taken all this trouble.
But I'd really rather not do anything at all. I mean--it was all so horrible. I just
want to forget about it."
"My dear child, the question is, will you be allowed to forget about it?"
"Oh, I quite understand that the police won't let it drop. They'll probably
come here and ask me a lot more questions. I'm prepared for that. But privately, I
mean, I don't want to think about it--or be reminded of it in any way. I dare say
I'm a coward, but that's how I feel about it."
"Oh, Anne!" cried Rhoda Dawes.
"I can understand your feeling, but I'm not at all sure that you're wise," said
Mrs. Oliver. "Left to themselves, the police will probably never find out the
truth."
Anne Meredith shrugged her shoulders.
"Does that really matter?"
"Matter?" cried Rhoda. "Of course it matters. It does matter, doesn't it, Mrs.
Oliver?"
"I should certainly say so," said Mrs. Oliver dryly.
"I don't agree," said Anne obstinately. "Nobody who knows me would ever
think I'd done it. I don't see any reason for interfering. It's the business of the
police to get at the truth."
"Oh, Anne, you are spiritless," said Rhoda.
"That's how I feel, anyway," said Anne. She held out her hand. "Thank you
very much, Mrs. Oliver. It's very good of you to have bothered."
"Of course, if you feel that way, there's nothing more to be said," said Mrs.
Oliver cheerfully. "I, at any rate, shall not let the grass grow under my feet. Goodbye,
my dear. Look me up in London if you change your mind."
She climbed into the car, started it, and drove off, waving a cheerful hand at
the two girls.
Rhoda suddenly made a dash after the car and leapt on the running-board.
"What you said about looking you up in London," she said breathlessly.
"Did you only mean Anne, or did you mean me, too?"
Mrs. Oliver applied the brake. "I meant both of you, of course."
"Oh, thank you. Don't stop. I--perhaPs I might come one day. There's
something--- No, don't stop. I can jump off."
She did so and, waving a hand, ran back to the gate, where Anne was
standing.
"What on earth ?" began Anne.
"Isn't she a duck?" asked Rhoda enthusiastically. "I do like her. She had on


Cards on the Table
431

odd stockings, did you notice? I'm sure she's frightfully clever. She must be--to
write all those books. What fun if she found out the truth when the police and
every one were baffled."
"Why did she come here?" asked Anne.
Rhoda's eyes opened wide.
"Darling--she told you--Anne
made an impatient gesture.
"We must go in. I forgot. I've left him all alone."
Major Despard was standing by the mantelpiece, teacup in hand.
He cut short Anne's apologies for leaving him.
"Miss Meredith, I want to explain why I've butted in like this."
"Oh--but "
"I said that I happened to be passing--that wasn't strictly true. I came here on
purpose."
"How did you know my address?" asked Anne slowly. "I got it from Superintendent Battle."
He saw her shrink slightly at the name.
He went on quickly:
"Battle's on his way here now. I happened to see him at Paddington. I got my
car out and came down here. I knew I could beat the train easily."
"But why?"
Despard hesitated just for a minute.
"I may have been presumptuous--but I had the impression that you were,
perhaps, what is called 'alone in the world.'"
"She's got me," said Rhoda.
Despard shot a quick glance at her, rather liking the gallant boyish figure that
leant against the mantelpiece and was following his words so intensely. They were
an attractive pair, these two.
"I'm sure she couldn't have a more devoted friend than you, Miss Dawes," he
said courteously; "but it occurred to me that, in the peculiar circumstances, the
advice of some one with a good dash of worldly wisdom might not be amiss.
Frankly, the situation is this: Miss Meredith is under suspicion of having
committed murder. The same applies to me and to the two other people who were
in the room last night. Such a situation is not agreeableand it has its own peculiar
difficulties and dangers which some one as young and inexperienced as you are,
Miss Meredith, might not recognise. In my opinion, you ought to put yourself in
the hands of a thoroughly good solicitor. Perhaps you have already done so?"
Anne Meredith shook her head. "I never thought of it."
"Exactly as I suspected. Have you got a good man--a London man, for
choice?"
Again Anne shook her head.
"I've hardly ever needed a solicitor."
"There's Mr. Bury," said Rhoda. "But he's about a hundred-and-two, and
quite gaga."
"If you'll allow me to advise you, Miss Meredith, I recommend your going to
Mr. Myherne, my own solicitor. Jacobs, Peel & Jacobs is the actual name of the
firm. They're first-class people, and they know all the ropes."
Anne had got paler. She sat down.
"Is it really necessary?" she asked in a low voice.
"I should say emphatically so. There are all sorts of legal pitfalls."


432
Agatha Christie

"Are these people very--expensive?-
"That doesn't matter a bit," said Rhoda. "That will be quite all right, Major
Despard. I think everything you say is quite true. Anne ought to be protected."
"Their charges will, I think, be quite reasonable," said Despard. He added
seriously: "I really do think it's a wise course, Miss Meredith." "Very well," said Anne slowly. "I'll do it if you think so."
"Good."
Rhoda said warmly:
"I think it's awfully nice of you, Major Despard. Really frightfully nice."
Anne said, "Thank you."
She hesitated, and then said:
"Did you say Superintendent Battle was coming here?"
"Yes. You mustn't be alarmed by that. It's inevitable."
"Oh, I know. As a matter of fact, I've been expecting him."
Rhoda said impulsively:
"Poor darling--it's nearly killing her, this business. It's such a shamso
frightfully unfair."
Despard said:
"I agree--it's a pretty beastly businessdragging a young girl into an affair of
this kind. If any one wanted to stick a knife into Shaitana, they ought to have
chosen some other place or time."
Rhoda asked squarely:
"Who do you think did it? Dr. Roberts or that Mrs. Lorrimer?"
A very faint smile stirred Despard's moustache.
"May have done it myself, for all you know."
"Oh, no," cried Rhoda. "Anne and I know you didn't do it."
He looked at them both with kindly eyes.
A nice pair of kids. Touchingly full of faith and trust. A timid little creature,
the Meredith girl. Never mind, Myherne would see her through. The other was a
fighter. He doubted if she would have crumpled up in the same way if she'd been
in her friend's place. Nice girls. He'd like to know more about them.
These thoughts passed through his mind. Aloud he said:
"Never take anything for granted, Miss Dawes. I don't set as much value on
human life as most people do. All this hysterical fuss about road deaths for
instance. Man is always in danger from traffic, from germs, from a hundred-and-one
things. As well be killed one way as another. The moment you begin being
careful of yourself adopting as your motto 'Safety First'-you might as well be
dead, in my opinion."
"Oh, I do agree with you," cried Rhoda. "I think one ought to live frightfully
dangerously--if one gets the chance, that is. But life, on the whole, is terribly
tame."
"It has its moments."
"Yes, for you. You go to out-of-the-way places and get mauled by tigers and
shoot things and jiggers bury themselves in your toes and insects sting you, and
everything's terribly uncomfortable but frightfully thrilling."
"Well, Miss Meredith has had her thrill, too. I don't suppose it often happens
that you've actually been in the room while a murder was committed--"
"Oh, don't!" cried Anne.
He said quickly: "I'm sorry."
But Rhoda said with a sigh:
"Of course it was awful but it was exciting, too! I don't think Anne


Cards on the Table
433

appreciates that side of it. You know, I think that Mrs. Oliver is thrilled to the core
to have been there that night."
"Mrs ? Oh, your fat friend who writes the books about the unpronounceable
Finn. Is she trying her hand at detection in real life?"
"She wants to."
"Well, let's wish her luck. It would be amusing if she put one over on Battle
and Co."
"What is Superintendent Battle like?" asked Rhoda curiously.
Major Despard said gravely:
"He's an extraordinarily astute man. A man of remarkable ability."
"Oh!" said Rhoda. "Anne said he looked rather stupid."
"That, I should imagine, is part of Battle's stock-in-trade. But we mustn't
make any mistakes. Battle's no fool."
He rose.
"Well, I must be off. There's just one other thing I'd like to say."
Anne had risen also.
"Yes?" she said as she held out her hand.
Despard paused a minute, picking his words carefully. He took her hand and
retained it in his. He looked straight into the wide, beautiful grey eyes.
"Don't be offended with me," he said. "I just want to say this: It's humanly
possible that there may be some feature of your acquaintanceship with Shaitana
that you don't want to come out. If so--don't be angry, please" (he felt the
instinctive pull of her hand)"you are perfectly within your rights in refusing to
answer any questions Battle may ask unless your solicitor is present."
Anne tore her hand away. Her eyes opened, their grey darkening with anger.
"There's nothing--nothing .... I hardly knew the beastly man." "Sorry," said Major Despard. "Thought I ought to mention it."
"It's quite true," said Rhoda. "Anne barely knew him. She didn't like him
much, but he gave frightfully good parties."
"That," said Major Despard grimly, "seems to have been the only justification
for the late Mr. Shaitana's existence."
Anne said in a cold voice:
"Superintendent Battle can ask me anything he likes. I've nothing to hide nothing."
Despard said very gently, "Please forgive me."
She looked at him. Her anger dwindled. She smiled it was a very sweet
smile.
"It's all right," she said. "You meant it kindly, I know."
She held out her hand again. He took it and said:
"We're in the same boat, you know. We ought to be pals .... "
It was Anne who went with him to the gate. When she came back Rhoda was
staring out of the window and whistling. She turned as her friend entered the
room.
"He's frightfully attractive, Anne."
"He's nice, isn't he?"
"A great deal more than nice .... I've got an absolute passion for him. Why
wasn't I at that damned dinner instead of you? I'd have enjoyed the excitement--
the net closing round me--the shadow of the scaffold-- "No, you wouldn't. You're talking nonsense, Bhoda.'
Anne's voice was sharp. Then it softened as she said:
"It was nice of him to come all this way--for a stranger--a girl he's only met
once."


434
Agatha Christie


"Oh, he fell for you. Obviously. Men don't do purely disinterested kindnesses.
He wouldn't have come toddling down if you'd been cross-eyed and
covered with pimples!"

"Don't you think so?"

"I do not, my good idiot. Mrs. Oliver's a much more disinterested party."

"I don't like her," said Anne abruptly. "I had a sort of feeling about her I

wonder
what she really came for?"
"The
usual suspicions of your own sex. I dare say Major Despard had an axe to grind,
if it comes to that."
"I'm
sure he hadn't," cried Anne hotly.
Then
she blushed as Rhoda Dawes laughed.

CHAPTER
14 Third
Visitor

Superintendent
Battle arrived at Wallingford about six o'clock. It was his intention to
learn as much as he could from innocent local gossip before interviewing Miss Anne
Meredith.
It
was not difficult to glean such information as there was. Without committing himself
definitely to any statement, the superintendent nevertheless gave several different
impressions of his rank and calling in life.
At
least two people would have said confidently that he was a London builder come
down to see about a new wing to be added to the cottage, from another you would have
learned that he was one of these weekenders wanting to take a furnished cottage,"
and two more would have said they knew positively, and for a fact, that he
was the representative of a hardcourt tennis firm.
The information that
the superintendent gathered was entirely favourable. "Wendon Cottage? Yes,
that's right--on the Marlbury Road. You can't miss it. Yes, two young
ladies. Miss Dawes and Miss Meredith. Very nice young ladies,. too. The quiet
kind.
"Here for years?
Oh, no, not that long. Just over two years. September quarter they came
in. Mr. Pickersgill they bought it from. Never used it much, he didn't, after his
wife died."
Superintendent Battle's informant
had never heard they came from Northumberland. London, he thought they came from. Popular in the neighbourhood, though some people
were old-fashioned and didn't think two young ladies ought to be living alone.
But very quiet, they were. None of this cocktail-drinking week-end lot. Miss Rhoda,
she was the dashing one. Miss Meredith was the quiet one. Yes, it was Miss Dawes
what paid the bills. She was the one had got the money.
The superintendent's researches
at last led him inevitably to Mrs. Astwell---
who "did" for
the ladies at Wendon Cottage.
Mrs. Astwell was
a loquacious lady.
"Well, no, sir.
I hardly think they'd want to sell. Not so soon. They only got in two years ago.
I've done for them from the beginning, yes, sir. Eight o'clock till twelve, those are
my hours. Very nice, lively young ladies, always ready for a joke or a bit of
fun. Not stuck-up at all."


Cards on the Table
435


"Well, of course, I couldn't say ffit's the same Miss Dawes you knew, sir--the
same family, I mean. It's my fancy her home's in Devonshire. She gets the cream
sent her now and again, and says it reminds her of home; so I think it must be.

"As you say, sir, it's sad for so many young ladies having to earn their livings
nowadays. These young ladies aren't what you'd call rich, but they have a very
pleasant life. It's Miss Dawes has got the money, of course. Miss Anne's her
companion, in a manner of speaking, I suppose you might say. The cottage belongs
to Miss Dawes.

"I couldn't really say what part Miss Anne comes from. I've heard her mention
the Isle of Wight, and I know she doesn't like the North of England; and she and
Miss Rhoda were together in Devonshire, because I've heard them joke about the
hills and talk about the pretty coves and beaches."

The flow went on. Every now and then Superintendent Battle made a mental
note. Later, a cryptic word or two was jotted down in his little book.

At half-past eight that evening he walked up the path to the door of Wendon
Cottage.

It was opened to him by a tall, dark girl wearing a frock of orange cretonne.
"Miss Meredith live here?" inquired Superintendent Battle.
He looked very wooden and soldierly.
"Yes, she does."

"I'd like to speak to her, please. Superintendent Battle."

He was immediately favoured with a piercing stare.

"Come in," said Rhoda Dawes, drawing back from the doorway.

Anne Meredith was sitting in a cosy chair by the fire, sipping coffee. She was
wearing embroidered crape-de-chine pyjamas.

"It's Superintendent Battle," said Rhoda, ushering in the guest.

Anne rose and came forward with outstretched hand.

"A bit late for a call," said Battle. "But I wanted to find you in, and it's been a
fine day."

Anne smiled.

"Will you have some coffee, superintendent? Rhoda, fetch another cup."
"Well, it's very kind of you, Miss Meredith."

"We think we make rather good coffee," said Anne.

She indicated a chair, and Superintendent Battle sat down. Rhoda brought a
cup, and Anne poured out his coffee. The fire crackled and the flowers in the vases
made an agreeable impression upon the superintendent.

It was a pleasant homey atmosphere. Anne seemed self-possessed and at her

ease, and the other girl continued to stare at him with devouring interest.
"We've been expecting you," said Anne.

Her tone was almost reproachful. "Why have you neglected me?" it seemed to

say.

"Sorry, Miss Meredith. I've had a lot of routine work to do."

"Satisfactory?"

"Not particularly. But it all has to be done. I've turned Dr. Roberts inside out,
so to speak. And the same for Mrs. Lorrimer. And now I've come to do the same

for you, Miss Meredith."
Anne smiled.
"I'm ready."

"What about Major Despard?" asked Rhoda.

"Oh, he won't be overlooked. I can promise you that," said Battle.

He set down his coffee-cup and looked towards Anne. She sat up a little
straighter in her chair.



436
Agatha Christie


"I'm quite ready, superintendent. What do you want to know?"

"Well, roughly, all about yourself, Miss Meredith."

"I'm quite a respectable person," said Anne, smiling.

"She's led a blameless life, too," said Rhoda. "I can answer for that."

"Well, that's very nice," said Superintendent Battle cheerfully. "You've

known Miss Meredith a long time, then?"

"We were at school together," said Rhoda. "What ages ago it seems, doesn't

it, Anne?"

"So long ago, you can hardly remember it, I suppose," said Battle with a

chuckle. "Now, then, Miss Meredith, I'm afraid I'm going to be rather like those

forms you fill up for passports."

"I was born
"began Anne.

"Of poor but honest parents," Rhoda put in.


Superintendent Battle held up a slightly reproving hand.

"Now, now, young lady," he said.

"Rhoda, darling," said Anne gravely. "It's serious, this."

"Sorry," said Rhoda.

"Now, Miss Meredith, you were born--where?"

"At Quetta, in India."

"Ah, yes. Your people were Army folk?"

"Yes--my father was Major John Meredith. My mother died when I was
eleven. Father retired when I was fifteen and went to live in Cheltenham. He died

when I was eighteen and left practically no money."
Battle nodded his head sympathetically.
"Bit of a shock to you, I expect."

"It was, rather. I always knew that we weren't well off, but to find there was

practically nothing--well, that's different."

"What did you do, Miss Meredith?"

"I had to take a job. I hadn't been particularly well educated and I wasn't
clever. I didn't know typing or shorthand, or anything. A friend in Cheltenham
found me a job with friends of hers--two small boys home in the holidays, and

general help in the house."

"Name, please?"

"That was Mrs. Eldon, The Larches, Ventnor. I stayed there for two years,

and then the Eldons went abroad. Then I went to a Mrs. Deering."

"My aunt," put in Rhoda.

"Yes, Rhoda got me the job. I was very happy. Rhoda used to come and stay
sometimes, and we had great fun."

"What were you there companion?"

"Yes--it amounted to that.".

"More like under-gardener," said Rhoda.

She explained:

"My Aunt Emily is just mad on gardening. Anne spent most of her time
weeding or putting in bulbs."

"And you left Mrs. Deering?"

"Her health got worse, and she had to have a regular nurse."

"She's got cancer," said Rhoda. "Poor darling, she has to have morphia and
things like that."

"She had been very kind to me. I was very sorry to go," went on Anne.

"I was looking about for a cottage," said Rhoda, "and wanting some one to
share it with me. Daddy's married again--not my sort at all. I asked Anne to come
here with me, and she's been here ever since."



Cards on the Table
43 7

"Well, that certainly seems a most blameless life," said Battle. "Let's just get
the dates clear. You were with Mrs. Eldon two years, you say. By the way, what is
her address now?"
"She's in Palestine. Her husband has some Government appointment out
there---I'm not sure what."
"Ah, well, I can soon find out. And after that you went to Mrs. Deering?"
"I was with her three years," said Anne quickly. "Her address is Marsh Dene,
Little Hembury, Devon."
"I see," said Battle. "So you are now twenty-five, Miss Meredith. Now,
there's just one thing morthe name and address of a couple of people in
Cheltenham who knew you and your father."
Anne supplied him with these.
"Now, about this irip to Switzerland where you met Mr. Shaitana. Did you
go alone there--or was Miss Dawes here with you?"
"We went out together. We joined some other people. There was a. party of
eight."
"Tell me about your meeting with Mr. Shaitana."
Anne crinkled her brows.
"There's really nothing to tell. He was just there. We knew him in the way
you do know people in a hotel. He got first prize at the Fancy Dress Ball. He went
as Mephistopheles."
Superintendent Battle sighed.
"Yes, that always was his favourite effect."
"He really was marvellous," said Rhoda. "He hardly had to make-up at all."
The superintendent looked from one girl to the other.
"Which of you two young ladies knew him best?"
Anne hesitated. It was Rhoda who answered.
"Both the same to begin with. Awfully little, that is. You see, our crowd was the skiing lot, and we were off doing runs most days and dancing together in the
evenings. But then Shaitana seemed to take rather a fancy to Anne. You know,
went out of his way to pay her compliments, and all that. We ragged her about it,
rather."
"I just think he did it to annoy me," said Anne. "Because I didn't like him. I
think it amused him to make me feel embarrassed."
Rhoda said, laughing:
"We told Anne it would be a nice rich marriage for her. She got simply wild
with us."
"Perhaps," said Battle, "you'd give me the names of the other people in your
party?"
"You aren't what I'd call a trustful man," said Rhoda. "Do you think that every
word we're telling you is downright lies?"
Superintendent Battle twinkled.
"I'm going to make quite sure it isn't, anyway," he said.
"You are suspicious," said Rhoda.
She scribbled some names on a piece of paper and gave it to him.
Battle rose.
"Well, thank you very much, Miss Meredith," he said. "As Miss Dawes says,
you seem to have led a particularly blameless life. I don't think you need worry
much. It's odd the way Mr. Shaitana's manner changed to you. You'll excuse my
asking, but he didn't ask you to marry him--or-er--pester you with attentions of
another kind?"
"He didn't try to seduce her," said Rhoda helpfully. "If that's what you mean."


438
Agatha Christie

Anne was blushing.
"Nothing of the kind," she said. "He was always most polite and and--
formal. It was just his elaborate manners that made me uncomfortable."
"And little things he said or hinted?"
"Yes-at least--no. He never hinted things."
"Sorry. These lady-killers do sometimes. Well, good-night, Miss Meredith.
Thank you very much. Excellent coffee. Good-night, Miss Dawes."
"There," said Rhoda as Anne came back into the room after shutting the front
door after Battle. "That's over, and not so very terrible. He's a nice fatherly man,
and he evidently doesn't suspect you in the least. It was all ever so much better
than I expected."
Anne sank down with a sigh.
"It was really quite easy," she said. "It was silly of me to work myself up so. I
thought he'd try to browbeat me--like K.C. s on the stage."
"He looks sensible," said Rhoda. "He'd know well enough you're not a
murdering kind of female."
She hesitated and then said:
"I say, Anne, you didn't mention being at Croftways. Did you forget?"
Anne said slowly:

"I didn't think it counted. I was only there a few months. And there's no one
to ask about me there. I can write and tell him if you think it matters; but I'm sure
it doesn't. Let's leave it."
"Right, if you say so."
Rhoda rose and turned on the wireless.
A raucous voice said:
"You have just heard the Black Nubians play 'Why do you tell me lies, Baby?'"

CHAPTER 15
Major Despard

Major Despard came out of the Albany, turned sharply into Regent Street and
jumped on a bus.
It was the quiet time of day--the top of the bus had very few seats occupied.
Despard made his way forward and sat down on the front seat.
He had jumped on the bus while it was going. Now it came to a halt, took up
passengers and made its way once more up Regent Street.
A second traveller climbed the steps, made his way forward and sat down in
the front seat on the other side.
Despard did not notice the new-comer, but after a few minutes a tentative
voice murmured:
"It is a good view of London, is it not, that one gets from the top of a bus?"
Despard turned his head. He looked puzzled for a moment, then his face
cleared.
"I beg your pardon, M. Poirot. I didn't see it was you. Yes, as you say, one has
a good bird's-eye view of the world from here. It was better, though, in the old
days, when there wasn't all this caged-in glass business."


Cards on the Table
439


Poirot sighed.

"Tout de rru2me, it was not always agreeable in the wet weather when the

inside was full. And there is much wet weather in this country."

"Rain? Rain never did any harm to any one."

"You are in error," said Poirot. "It leads often to afluxion de poitrine.' Despard smiled.

"I see you belong to the well-wrapped-up school, M. Poirot."

Poirot was indeed well equipped against any treachery of an autumn day. He
wore a greatcoat and a muffler.

"Rather odd, running into you like this," said Despard.

He did not see the smile that the muffler concealed. There was nothing odd in
this encounter. Having ascertained a likely hour for Despard to leave his rooms,
Poirot had been waiting for him. He had prudently not risked leaping on the bus,
but he had trotted after it to its next stopping-place and boarded it there.

"True. We have not seen each other since the evening at Mr. Shaitana's," he
replied.

"Aren't you taking a hand in that business?" asked Despard.

Poirot scratched his ear delicately.

"I reflect," he said. "I reflect a good deal. To run to and fro, to make the

investigations, that, no. It does not suit my age, my temperament, or my figure."
Despard said unexpectedly:

"Reflect, eh? Well, you might do worse. There's too much rushing about
nowadays. If people sat tight and thought about a thing before they tackled it,
there'd be less mess-ups than there are."

"Is that your procedure in life, Major Despard?"

"Usually," said the other simply. "Get your bearings, figure out your route,

weigh up the pros and cons, make your decision--and stick to it."

His mouth set grimly.

"And, after that, nothing will turn you from your path, eh?" asked Poirot.

"Oh, I don't say that. No use in being pig-headed over things. If you've made
a mistake, admit it."

"But I imagine that you do not often make a mistake, Major Despard." "We all make mistakes, M. Poirot."

"Some of us," said Poirot with a certain coldness, possibly due to the pronoun
the other had used, "make less than others."

Despard looked at him, smiled slightly and said:

"Don't you ever have a failure, M. Poirot?"

"The last time was twenty-eight years ago," said Poirot with dignity. "And

even then, there were circumstancesbut no matter."

"That seems a pretty good reord," said Despard.

He added: "What about Shaitana's death? That doesn't count, I suppose, since
it isn't officially your business."

"It is not my business--no. But, all the same, it offends my amour propre. I consider it an impertinence, you comprehend, for a murder to be committed under
my very nose by some one who mocks himself at my ability to solve it!"

"Not under your nose only," said Despard dryly. "Under the nose of the
Criminal Investigation Department also."

"That was probably a bad mistake," said Poirot gravely. "The good square
Superintendent Battle, he may look wooden, but he is not wooden in the head--not
at all."

"I agree," said Despard. "That stolidity is a pose. He's a very clever and able
officer."



440
Agatha Christie

"And I think he is very active in the case."
"Oh, he's active enough. See a nice quiet soldierly-looking fellow on one of
the back seats?"
Poirot looked over his shoulder.
"There is no one here now but ourselves."
"Oh, well, he's inside, then. He never loses me. Very efficient fellow. Varies
his appearance, too, from time to time. Quite artistic about it."
"Ah, but that would not deceive you. You have the very quick and accurate
eye."
"I never forget a face even a black one--and that's a lot more than most
people can say.'
"You are just the person I need," said Poirot. "What a chance, meeting you
today! I need some one with a good eye and a good memory. Malheureusement the
two seldom go together. I have asked the Dr. Roberts a question, without result,
and the same with Madame Lorrimer. Now, I will try you and see if I get what I
want. Cast your mind back to the room in which you played cards at Mr.
Shaitana's, and tell me what you remember of it."
Despard looked puzzled. "I don't quite understand."
"Give me a description of the room--the furnishings--the objects in it."
"I don't know that I'm much of a hand at that sort of thing," said Despard
slowly. "It was a rotten sort of room--to my mind. Not a man's room at all. A lot of
brocade and silk and stuff. Sort of room a fellow like Shaitana would have."
"But to particularise
"
Despard shook his head.

"Afraid I didn't notice He'd
got some good rugs. Two Bokharas and three
or
four really good Persian ones, including a Hamadan and a Tabriz. Rather a good eland head--no,
that was in the hall. From Rowland Ward's, I expect."
"You do
not think that the late Mr. Shaitana was one to go out and shoot wild beasts?"
"Not
he.
Never potted anything but sitting game, I'll bet. What else was there? I'm
sorry to fail you, but I really can't help much. Any amount of knickknacks lying
about. Tables were thick with them. Only thing I noticed was a rather jolly idol.
Easter Island, I should say. Highly polished wood. You don't see many of
them. There
was some Malay stuff, too. No, I'm afraid I can't help you." "No matter," said
Poirot, looking slightly crestfallen. He went on:
"Do you know,
Mrs. Lorrimer, she has the most amazing card memory! She
could tell me
the bidding and play of nearly every hand. It was astonishing." Despard shrugged his
shoulders.
"Some women are
like that. Because they play pretty well all day long, I suppose."
"You could
not
do it, eh?"
The other shook
his head.
"I just remember
a couple of hands. One where I could have got game in diamonds--and Roberts bluffed
me out of it. Went down himself, but we didn't double him, worse
luck. I remember a no trumper, too. Tricky business every
card wrong. We
went down a couplelucky not to have gone down more."
"Do you play much bridge, Major Despard?"
"No, I'm not a regular player. It's a good game, though."
"You
prefer it to poker?"


Cards on the Table
441

"I do personally. Poker's too much of a gamble."

Poirot said thoughtfully:

"I do not think Mr. Shaitana played any game any card game, that is."

"There's only one game that Shaitana played consistently," said Despard

grimly.

"And that?"

"A lowdown game."

Poirot was silent for a minute, then he said:

"Is it that you know that? Or do you just think it?"

Despard went brick red.

"Meaning one oughtn't to say things without giving chapter and verse? I

suppose that's true. Well, it's accurate enough. I happen to know. On the other

hand, I'm not prepared to give chapter and verse. Such information as I've got

came to me privately."

"Meaning a woman or women are concerned?"

"Yes. Shaitana, like the dirty dog he was, preferred to deal with women."

"You think he was a blackmailer? That is interesting."

Despard shook his head.

"No, no, you've misunderstood me. In a way, Shaitana was a blackmailer, but

not the common or garden sort. He wasn't after money. He was a spiritual

blackmailer, if there can be such a thing."

"And he got out of it--what?"

"He got a kick out of it. That's the only way I can put it. He got a thrill out of

seeing people quail and flinch. I suppose it made him feel less of a louse and more

of a man. And it's a very effective pose with women. He'd only got to hint that he

knew everything--and they'd start telling him a lot of things that perhaps he didn't

know. That would tickle his sense of humour. Then he'd strut about in his

Mephistophelian attitude of 'I know everything! I am the great Shaitana!' The man

was an ape!"

"So you think that he frightened Miss Meredith that way," said Poirot slowly.

"Miss Meredith?" Despard stared. "I wasn't thinking of her. She isn't the kind

to be afraid of a man like Shaitana."

"Pardon. You meant Mrs. Lorrimer."

"No, no, no. You misunderstand me. I was speaking generally. It wouldn't be

easy to frighten Mrs. Lorrimer. And she's not the kind of woman who you can

imagine having a guilty secret. No, I was not thinking of any one in particular."

"It was the general method to which you referred?"

".Exactly."

"There is no doubt," said Poirot slowly, "that what you call a Dago often has a

very clever understanding of women. He knows how to approach them. He worms
secrets out of {hem
"
He paused.
Despard broke in impatiently:
"It's absurd. The man was a mountebank--nothing, really dangerous about
him. And yet women were afraid of him. Ridiculously so.
He started up suddenly.
"Hallo, I've overshot the mark. Got too interested in what we were
discussing. Good-bye, M. Poirot. Look down and you'll see my faithful shadow
leave the bus when I do."
He hurried to the back and down the steps. The conductor's bell jangled. But
a double pull sounded before it had time to stop.


442
Agatha Christie

Looking down to the street below, Poirot noticed Despard striding back along
the pavement. He did not trouble to pick out the following figure. Something else
was interesting him.
"No one in particular," he murmured to himself. "Now, I wonder."

CHAPTER 16
The EvidenCe of Elsie Batt

Sergeant O'Connor was unkindly nicknamed by his colleagues at the Yard: "The
Maidservant's Prayer."
There was no doubt that he was an extremely handsome man. Tall, erect,
broad-shouldered, it was less the regularity of his features than the roguish and
daredevil spark in his eye which made him so irresistible to the fair sex. It was
indubitable that Sergeant O'Connor got results, and got them quickly.
So rapid was he, that only four days after the murder of Mr. Shaitana,
Sergeant O'Connor was sitting in the three-and-sixpenny seats at the Willy Nilly
Revue side by side with Miss Elsie Batt, late parlourmaid to Mrs. Craddock of 117
North Audley Street.
Having laid his line of approach carefully, Sergeant O'Connor was just
launching the great offensive.
" .Reminds me," he was saying, "of the way one of my old governors used
to carry on. Name of Craddock. He was an odd cuss, if you like."
"Craddock," said Elsie. "I was with some Craddocks once."
"Well, that's funny. Wonder whether they were the same?"
"Lived in North Audley Street, they did," said Elsie.
"My lot were going to London when I left them," said O'Connor promptly.
"Yes, I believe it was North Audley Street. Mrs. Craddock was rather a one for the
gents."
Elsie tossed her head.
"I'd no patience with her. Always finding fault and grumbling. Nothing you
did right."
"Her husband got some of it, too, didn't he?"
"She was always complaining he neglected her--that he didn't understand
her. And she was always saying how bad her health was and gasping and groaning.
Not ill at all, if you ask me."
O'Connor slapped his knee.
"Got it. Wasn't there something about her and some doctor? A bit too thick or
something?"
"You mean Dr. Roberts? He was a nice gentleman, he was."
"You girls, you're all alike," said Sergeant O'Connor. "The moment a man's a
bad lot, all the girls stick up for him. I know his kind."
"No, you' don't, and you're all wrong about him. There wasn't anything of that
kind about him. Wasn't his fault, was it, if Mrs. Craddock was always sending for
him? What's a doctor to do? If you ask me, he didn't think nothing of her at all,
except as a patient. It was all her doing. Wouldn't leave him alone, she wouldn't."


Cards on the Table
443

"That's all very well, Elsie. Don't mind me calling you Elsie, do you? Feel as
though I'd known you all my life."
"Well, you haven't! Elsie, indeed."
She tossed her head.
"Oh, very well, Miss Batt." He gave her a glance. "As I was saying, that's all
very well, but the husband, he cut up rough, all the same, didn't he?"
"He was a bit ratty one day," admitted Elsie. "But, ffyou ask me, he was ill at
the time. He died just after you know."
"I remember--died of something queer, didn't he?"
"Something Japanese, it was all from a new shaving brush he'd got. Seems
awful, doesn't it, that they're not more careful? I've not fancied anything Japanese
since."
"Buy British, that's my motto," said Sergeant O'Connor sententiously. "And
you were saying he and the doctor had a row?"
Elsie nodded, enjoying herself as -she re-lived past scandals.
"Hammer and tongs, they went at it," she said. "At least, the master did. Dr.
Roberts was ever so quiet. Just said, 'Nonsense.' And, 'What have you got into
your head?'"
"This was at the house, I suppose?"
"Yes. She'd sent for him. And then she and the master had words, and in the
middle of it Dr. Roberts arrived, and the master went for him."
"What did he say exactly?"
"Well, of course, I wasn't supposed to hear. It was all in the Missus's
bedroom. I thought something was up, so I got the dustpan and did the stairs. I
wasn't going to miss anything."
Sergeant O'Connor heartily concurred in this sentiment, reflecting how
fortunate it was that Elsie was being approached unofficially. On interrogation by
Sergeant O'Connor of the Police, she would have virtuously protested that she had
not overheard anything at all.
"As I say," went on Elsie, "Dr. Roberts, he was very quiet--the master was
doing all the shouting."
"What was he saying?" asked O'Connor, for the second time approaching the
vital point.
"Abusing of him proper," said Elsie with relish.
"How do you mean?"
Would the girl never come to actual words and phrases?
"Well, I didn't understand a lot of it," admitted Elsie. "There were a lot of
long words, 'unprofessional conduct,' and 'taking advantage,' and things like that--and
I heard him say he'd get Dr. Roberts struck off the Medical Register, would
it be? Something like that."
"That's right," said O'Connor. "Complain to the Medical Council."
"Yes, he said something like that. And the Missus was going on in sort of
hysterics, saying, 'You never cared for me. You neglected me. You left me alone.'
And
I heard her say that Dr. Roberts had been an angel of goodness to her. "And then the doctor, he came through into the dressing-room with the
master and shut the door of the bedroom--I heard it--and he said quite plain:
"'My good man, don't you realise your wife's hysterical? She doesn't know
what she's saying. To tell you the truth, it's been a very difficult and trying case,
and I'd have thrown it up long ago if I'd thought it was con--con--some long word;
oh, yes, consistent--that was it--consistent with my duty.' That's what he said. He


444
Agatha Christie


said something about not overstepping a boundary, too--something between
doctor and patient. He got the master quietened a bit, and then he said:

"'You'll be late at your off]ce, you know. You'd better be off. Just think things
over quietly. I think you'll realise that the whole business is a mare's nest. I'll just
wash my hands here before I go on to my next case. Now, you think it over, my
dear fellow. I can assure you that the whole thing arises out of your wife's
disordered imagination.'

"And the master, he said, 'I don't know what to think.'

"And he come out--and, of course, I was brushing hard--but he never even
noticed me. I thought afterwards he looked ill. The doctor, he was whistling quite
cheerily and washing his hands in the dressing-room, where there was hot and cold
laid on. And presently he came out, too, with his bag, and he spoke to me very
nicely and cheerily, as he always did, and he went down the stairs, quite cheerful
and gay and his usual self. So, you see, I'm quite sure as he hadn't done anything
wrong. It was all her."

"And then Craddock got this anthrax?"

"Yes, I think he'd got it already. The mistress, she nursed him very devoted,
but he died. Lovely wreaths there was at the funeral."

"And afterwards? Did Dr. Roberts come to the house again?"

"No, he didn't, Nosey! You've got some grudge against him. I tell you there
was nothing in it. If there were he'd have married her when the master was dead,
wouldn't he? And 'he never did. No such fool. He'd taken her measure all right.
She used to ring him up, though, but somehow he was never in. And then she sold

the house, and we all got our notices, and she went abroad to Egypt."

"And you didn't see Dr. Roberts in all that time?"

"No. She did, because she went to him to have this what do you call it?-
'noculation against the typhoid fever. She came back with her arm ever so sore
with it. If you ask me, he made it clear to her then that there was nothing doing.
She didn't ring him up no more, and she went off very cheerful with a lovely lot of
new clothes--all light colours, although it was the middle of winter, but she said it
would be all sunshine and hot out there."

"That's right," said Sergeant O'Connor. "It's too hot sometimes, I've heard.
She died out there. You know that, I suppose?"

"No, indeed I didn't. Well, fancy that! She may have been worse than I
thought, poor soul."

She added with a sigh:

"I wonder what they did with all that lovely lot of clothes. They're blacks out
there, so they couldn't wear them."

"You'd have looked a treat in them, I expect," said Sergeant O'Connor.
"Impudence," said Elsie.

"Well, you won't have my impudence much longer," said Sergeant O'Connor.

"I've got to go away on business for my firm."

"You going for long?"

"May be going abroad," said the Sergeant.

Elsie's face fell.

Though unacquainted with Lord Byron's famous poem, "I never loved a dear
gazelle," etc., its sentiments were at that moment hers. She thought to herself:

"Funny how all the really attractive ones never come to anything. Oh, well,
there's always Fred."

Which is gratifying, since it shows that the sudden incursion of Sergeant
O'Connor into Elsie's life did not affect it permanently. "Fred" may even have
been the gainer!



Cards on the Table
445

CHAPTER 17
The Evidence of Rhoda Dawes

Rhoda Dawes came out of Debenham's and stood meditatively upon the pavement.

Indecision was written all over her face. It was an expressive face; each fleeting

emotion showed itself in a quickly varying expression.

Quite plainly at this moment Rhod,,a's face said, "Shall I or shan't I? I'd like
to But
perhaps I'd better not ....
The
commissionaire said, "Taxi, Miss?" to her, hopefully.
Rhoda
shook her head.
A
stout woman carrying parcels with an eager "shopping early for Christmas"
expression
on her face, cannoned into her severly, but still Rhoda stood stockstill,
trying
to make up her mind.
Chaotic
odds and ends of thought flashed through her mind.
"After all, why shouldn't I? She asked me to--but perhaps it's just a thing she
says
to every one She doesn't
mean it to be taken seriously Well, after
all,
Anne didn't
want me. She made it quite clear she'd rather go with Major Despard to the
solicitor man alone .... And why shouldn't she? I mean, three is a crowd .... And
it isn't really any business of mine .... It isn't as though I particularly wanted to
see Major Despard .... He is nice, though .... I think he must have fallen
for Anne. Men don't take a lot of trouble unless they have .... I mean, it's never
just kindness .... "
A messenger boy
bumped into Rhoda and said, "Beg pardon, Miss," in a
reproachful tone.
"Oh,
dear," thought
Rhode. "I can't go on standing here all day. Just because
I'm such an
idiot that I can't make up my mind I think that coat
and skirt's
going to be awfully
nice. I wonder if brown would have been more useful than green? No, I don't
think so. Well, come on, shall I go, or shan't I? Half-past three--it's quite a
good timeI mean, it doesn't look as though I'm cadging a meal or
anything. I might just go and look, anyway."
She
plunged across the road, turned to the right, and then to the left, up Harley
Street, finally pausing by the block of flats always airily described by Mrs. Oliver
as "all among the nursing homes."
"Well,
she can't eat me," thought Rhoda, and plunged boldly into the building.
Mrs.
Oliver's flat was on the top floor. A uniformed attendant whisked her up in
a lift and decanted her on a smart new mat outside a bright green door.
"This
is awful," thought Rhoda. "Worse than dentists. I must go through with it
now, though."
Pink
with embarrassment, she pushed the bell.
The
door was opened by an elderly maid.
"Is
ould I--is Mrs. Oliver at home?" asked
Rhoda.
The maid drew back, Rhoda entered, she was shown into a very
untidy drawing-room. The maid
said:
"What name shall I say,
please?"
"Oh--er--Miss Dawes--Miss Rhoda
Dawes."


446
Agatha Christie


The maid withdrew. After what seemed to Rhoda about a hundred years, but

was really exactly a minute and forty-five seconds, the maid returned.

"Will you step this way, miss?"

Pinker than ever, Rhoda followed her. Along a passage, round a corner, a door
was opened. Nervously she entered into what seemed at first to her startled eyes to
be an African forest!

Birds-masses of birds, parrots, macaws, birds unknown to ornithology,
twined themselves in and out of what seemed to be a primeval forest. In the
middle of this riot of bird and vegetable life, Rhoda perceived a battered kitchen-table
with a typewriter on it, masses of typescript littered all over the floor and
Mrs. Oliver, her hair in wild confusion, rising from a somewhat rickety-looking
chair.

"My dear, how nice to see you," said Mrs. Oliver, holding out a carbon-stained
hand and trying with her other hand to smooth her hair, a quite impossible
proceeding.

A paper bag, touched by her elbow, fell from the desk, and apples rolled
energetically all over the floor.

"Never mind, my dear, don't bother, some one will pick them up some tifne."

Rather breathless, Rhoda rose from a stooping position with five apples in her
grasp.

"Oh, thank you--no, I shouldn't put them back in the bag. I think it's got a
hole in it. Put them on the mantelpiece. That's right. Now, then, sit down and let's
talk."

Rhoda accepted a second battered chair and focused her eyes on her hostess.

"I say, I'm terribly sorry. Am I interrupting, or anything?" she asked
breathlessly.

"Well, you are and you aren!t," said Mrs. Oliver. "I am working, as you see.
But that dreadful Finn of mine has got himself terribly tangled up. He did some
awfully clever deduction with a dish of French beans, and now he's just detected
deadly poison in the sage-and-onion stuffing of the Michaelmas goose, and I've just
remembered that French beans are over by Michaelmas."

Thrilled by this peep into the inner world of creative detective fiction, Rhoda
said breathlessly, "They might be tinned."

"They might, of course," said Mrs. Oliver doubtfully. "But it would rather
spoil the point. I'm always getting tangled up in horticulture and things like that.
People write to me and say I've got the wrong flowers all out together. As though it
mattered--and, anyway, they are all out together in a London shop."

"Of course it doesn't matter," said Rhoda loyally. "Oh, Mrs. Oliver, it must be
marvellous to write."

Mrs. Oliver rubbed her forehead with a carbonny finger and said:

"Why?"

"Oh," said Rhoda, a little taken aback. "Because it must. It must be wonderful
just to sit down and write off a whole book."

"It doesn't happen exactly like that," said Mrs. Oliver. "One actually has to think, you know. And thinking is always a bore. And you have to plan things. And
then one gets stuck every now and then, and you feel you'll never get out of the
mess but you do! Writing's not particularly enjoyable. It's hard work, like
everything else."

"It doesn't seem like work," said Rhoda.

"Not to you," said Mrs. Oliver, "because you don't have to do it! It feels very
like work to me. Some days I can only keep going by repeating over and over to



Cards on the Table
447

myself the amount of money I might get for my next serial rights. That spurs you
on, you know. So does your bank-book when you see how much overdrawn you
"I never imagined you actually typed your books yourself," said Rhoda. "I thought you'd have a secretary."
"I did have a secretary, and I used to try and dictate to her, but she was so
competent that it used to depress me. I felt she knew so much more about English
and grammar and full stops and semi-colons than I did, that it gave me a kind of
inferiority complex. Then I tried having a thoroughly incompetent secretary, but,
of course, that didn't answer very well, either."
"It must be so wonderful to be able to think of things," said Rhoda.
"I can always think of things," said Mrs. Oliver happily. "What is so tiring is
writing them down. I always think I've finished, and then when I count up I find
I've only written thirty thousand words instead of sixty thousand, and so then I
have to throw in another murder and get the heroine kidnapped again. It's all very
boring."
Rhoda did not answer. She was staring at Mrs. Oliver with the reverence felt
by youth for celebrity--slightly tinged by disappointment.
"Do you like the wall-paper?" asked Mrs. Oliver, waving an airy hand. "I'm
frightfully fond of birds. The foliage is supposed to be tropical. It makes me feel it's
a hot day, even when it's freezing. I can't do anything unless I feel very, very
warm. But Sven Hjerson breaks the ice on his bath every morning!"
"I think it's all marvellous,." said Rhoda. "And it's awfully nice of you to say I'm
not interrupting you.
"We'll have some coffee and toast," said Mrs. Oliver. "Very black coffee and
very hot toast. I can always eat that any time."
She went to the door, opened it and shouted. Then she returned and said:
"What brings you to town--shopping?"
"Yes, I've been doing some shopping." "Is Miss Meredith up, too?"
"Yes, she's gone with Major Despard to a solicitor."
"Solicitor, eh?"
Mrs. Oliver's brows rose inquiringly.
"Yes. You see, Major Despard told her she ought to have one. He's been
awfully kind--he really has."
"I was kind, too," said Mrs. Oliver, "but it didn't seem to go down very well,
did it? In fact, I think your friend rather resented my coming."
"Oh, she lidn't--really she didn't." Rhoda wriggled on her chair in a
paroxysm of embarrassment. "That's really one reason why I wanted to come to-day-to
explain, You see, I saw you had got it all wrong. She did seem very
ungracious, but it wasn't that, really. I mean, it wasn't your coming. It was
something you said."
"Something I said?"
"Yes. You couldn't tell, of course. It was just unfortunate."
"What did I say?"
"I don't expect you remember, even. It was just the way you put it. You said
something about an accident and poison."
"Did I?"
"I knew you'd probably not remember. Yes. You see, Anne, had a ghastly
experience once. She was in a house w]aere a woman took some poison--hat paint, I think i.t wasby mistake for something else. And she died. And, of course, it was


448
Agatha Christie


an awful shock to Anne. She can't bear thinking of it or speaking of it. And your
saying that reminded her, of course, and she dried up and got all stiff and queer
like she does. And I saw you noticed it. And I couldn't say anything in front of her.
But I did want you to know that it wasn't what you thought. She wasn't
ungrateful."

Mrs. Oliver looked at Rhoda's flushed eager face. She said slowly:

"I see."

"Anne's awfully sensitive," said Rhoda. "And she's bad about--well, facing
things. If anything's upset her, she'd just rather not talk about it, although that isn't
any good, really--at least, I don't think so. Things are there just the same
whether you talk about them or not. It's only running away from them to pretend
they don't exist. I'd rather have it all out, however painful it would be."

"Ah," said Mrs. Oliver quietly. "But you, my dear, are a soldier. Your Anne
isn't."

Rhoda flushed.
Mrs. Oliver smiled.
"Anne's a darling."

She said, "I didn't say she wasn't. I only said she hadn't got your particular
brand of courage."

She sighed, then said rather unexpectedly to the girl:

"Do you believe in the value of truth, my dear, or don't you?"

"Of course I believe in the truth," said Rhoda, staring.

"Yes, you say that but perhaps you haven't thought about it. The truth hurts
sometimes--and destroys one's illusions."

"I'd rather have it, all the same," said Rhoda. "So would I. But I don't know that we're wise."
Rhoda said earnestly:

"Don't tell Anne, will you, what I've told you? She wouldn't like it."

"I certainly shouldn't dream of doing any such thing. Was this long ago?"
"About four years ago. It's odd, isn't it, how the same things happen again and
again to people. I had an aunt who was always in shipwrecks. And here's A.nne
mixed up in two sudden deaths--only, of course, this one's much worse. Murder's

rather awful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

The black coffee and the hot buttered toast appeared at this minute.

Rhoda ate and drank with childish gusto. It was very exciting to her thus to be
sharing an intimate meal with a celebrity.

When they had finished she rose and said:

"I do hope I haven't interrupted you too terribly. Would you mind--I mean,
would it bother you awfully--if I sent one of your books to you, would you sign it
for me?"

Mrs. Oliver laughed.

"Oh, I can do better than that for you." She opened a cupboard at the far end
of the room. "Which would you like? I rather fancy The Affair of the Second
Goldfish myself. It's not quite such frightful tripe as the rest."

A little shocked at hearing an authoress thus describe the children of her pen,
Rhoda accepted eagerly. Mrs. Oliver took the book, opened it, inscribed her name

with a superlative flourish and handed it to Rhoda.

"There you are."

"Thank you very much. I have enjoyed myself. Sure you didn't mind mY
coming?"



Cards on the Table
449

"I wanted you to," said Mrs. Oliver.
She added after a moment's pause:
"You're a nice child. Good-bye. Take care of yourself, my dear."
"Now, why did I say that?" she murmured to herself as the door closed behind
her guest.
She shook her head, ruffled her hair, and returned to the masterly dealings of
Sven Hjerson with the sage-and-onion stuffing.

CHAPTER 18
Tea Interlude

Mrs. Lorrimer came out of a certain door in Harley Street.
She stood for a minute at the top of the steps, and then she descended them
slowly.
There was a curious expression on her facea mingling of grim determination
and of strange indecision. She bent her brows a little, as though to concentrate on
some all-absorbing problem.
It was just then that she caught sight of Anne Meredith on the opposite
pavement.
Anne was standing staring up at a big block of flats just on the corner.
Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a moment, then she crossed the road.
"How do you do, Miss Meredith?"
Anne started and turned. "Oh, how do you do?"
"Still in London?" said Mrs. Lorrimer.
"No. I've only come up for the day. To do some legal business."
Her eyes were still straying back to the big block of flats.
Mrs. Lorrimer said:
"Is anything the matter?"
Anne started guiltily.
"The matter? Oh, no, what should be the matter?"
"You were looking as though you had something on your mind."
"I haven't--well, at least I have, but it's nothing important, something quite
silly." She laughed a little.
She went on:
"It's only that I thought I saw my friend--the girl I live with--go in there, and
I wondered if she'd gone to see Mrs. Oliver."
"Is that where Mrs. Oliver lives? I didn't know."
"Yes. She came to see us the other day and she gave us her address and asked
us to come and see her. I wondered if it was Rhoda I saw or not." "Do you want to go up and see?" "No, I'd rather not do that." '
"Come and have tea with me," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "There is a shop quite
near here that I know."
"It's very kind of you," said Anne, hesitating.


452
Agatha Christie

"Oh, Anne, you want your tea."
"No, I don't. I've had it. With Mrs. Lorrimer."
"Mrs. Lorrimer? Isn't that the one the one who was there?"
Anne nodded.
"Where did you come across her? Did you go and see her?" "No. I ran across her in Harley Street."
"What was she like?"
Anne said slowly:
"I don't know. She was--rather queer. Not at all like the other night."
"Do you still think she did it?" asked Rhoda.
Anne was silent for a minute or two. Then she said:
"I don't know. Don't let's talk of it, Rhoda! You know how I hate talking of things."
"All right, darling. What was the solicitor like? Very dry and legal?"
"Rather alert and Jewish."
"Sounds all right." She waited a little and then said:
"How was Major Despard?" "Very kind."
"He's fallen for you, Anne. I'm sure he has."
"Rhoda, don't talk nonsense."
"Well, you'll see."
Rhoda began humming to herself. She thought:
"Of course he's fallen for her. Anne's awfully pretty. But a bit wishy washy
She'll
never go on treks with him. Why, she'd scream if she saw a
snake
Men always
do take fancies to unsuitable women."
Then she
said aloud.
"That bus
will take us to Paddington. We'll just catch the 4:48."

CHAPTER 19
Consultation

The
telephone
rang in Poirot's room and a respectful voice spoke.
"Sergeant O'Connor.
Superintendent Battle's compliments and would it be
convenient for
Mr. Hercule Poirot to come to Scotland Yard at 11:307"
Poirot replied
in the affirmative and Sergeant O'Connor rang off.
It was
11:30 to the minute when Poirot descended from his taxi at the door of New Scotland
Yard---to be at once seized upon by Mrs. Oliver.
"M. Poirot.
How splendid! Will you come to my rescue?"
"EnchantS, madame.
What can I do?"
"Pay my
taxi for me. I don't know how it happened but I brought out the bag I keep my
going-abroad money in and the man simply won't take francs or liras or marks!"
Poirot
gallantly
produced some loose change, and he and Mrs. Oliver went inside the
building together.
They were
taken to Superintendent Batfie's own room. The superintendent


Cards on the Table
453


was sitting behind a table and looking more wooden than ever. "Just like a piece of
modern sculpture," whispered Mrs. Oliver to Poirot.

Battle rose and shook hands with them both and they sat down.

"I thought it was about time for a little meeting," said Battle. "You'd like to
hear how I've got on, and I'd like to hear how you've got on. We're just waiting for
Colonel Race and then- "

But at that moment the door opened and the colonel appeared.

"Sorry I'm late, Battle. How do you do, Mrs. Oliver. Hallo, M. Poirot. Very
sorry if I've kept you waiting. But I'm off to-morrow and had a lot of things to see to."

"Where are you going to?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "A little shooting tripBaluchistan way."
Poirot said, smiling ironically:

"A little trouble, is there not, in that part of the world? You will have to be
careful."

"I mean to be," said Race gravely--but his eyes twinkled.

"Got anything for us, sir?" asked Battle.

"I've got you your information re Despard. Here it is--

He pushed over a sheaf of papers.

"There's a mass of dates and places there. Most of it quite irrelevant, I should
imagine. Nothing agains, t him. He's a stout fellow. Record quite unblemished.
Strict disciplinarian. Liked and trusted by the natives everywhere. One of their
cumbrous names for him in Africa, where they go in for such things, is 'The man
who keeps his mouth shut and judges fairly.' General opinion of the white races
that Despard is a Pukka Sahib. Fine shot. Cool head. Generally long-sighted and
dependable."

Unmoved by this eulogy, Battle asked:

"Any sudden deaths connected with him?"

"I laid special stress on that point. There's one fine rescue to his credit. Pal of

his was being mauled by a lion."

Battle sighed.

"It's not rescues I want."

"You're a persistent fellow, Battle. There's only one incident I've been able to
rake up that might suit your book. Trip into the interior in South America.
Despard accompanied Professor Luxmore, the celebrated botanist, and his wife.

The professor died of fever and was buried somewhere up the Amazon."
"Fever-eh?"

"Fever. But I'll play fair with you. One of the native bearers (who was sacked
for stealing, incidentally) had a story that the professor didn't die of fever, but was

shot. The rumour was never taken seriously."
"About time it was, perhaps."
Race shook his head.

"I've given you the facts. You asked for them and you're entitled to them, but
I'd lay long odds against its being Despard who did the dirty work the other
evening. He's a white man, Battle."

"Incapable of murder, you mean?"

Colonel Race hesitated.

"Incapable of what I'd call murder--yes," he said.

"But not incapable of killing a man for what would seem to him good and
sufficient reasons, is that it?"



454
Agatha Christie

"If so, they would be good and sufficient reasons!"

Battle shook his head.

"You can't have human beings judging other human beings and taking the law

into their own hands."

"It happens, Battle it happens."

"It shouldn't happen--that's my point. What do you say, M. Poirot?"

"I agree with you, Battle. I have always disapproved of murder.''

"What a delightfully droll way of putting it," said Mrs. Oliver. "Rather as

though it were fox-hunting or killing ospreys for hats. Don't you think there are

people who ought to be murdered?"

"That, very possibly."

"Well, then!"

"You do not comprehend. It is not the victim who concerns me so much. It is

the effect on the character of the slayer."

"What about war?"

"In war you do not exercise the right of private judgment. That is what is so

dangerous. Once a man is imbued with the idea that he knows who ought to be

allowed to live and who ought not--then he is half-way to becoming the most
dangerous killer there is--the arrogant criminal who kills not for profit
but for an
idea. He has usurped the functions of le bon Dieu."

Colonel Race rose:
"I'm sorry I can't stop with you. Too much to do. I'd like to see the end of this
business. Shouldn't be surprised if there never was an end. Even if you find out
who did it, it's going to be next to impossible to prove. I've given you the facts you
wanted, but in my opinion Despard's not the man. I don't believe he's ever
committed murder. Shaitana may have heard some garbled rumour of Professor
Luxmore's death, but I don't believe there's more to it than that. Despard's a white
man, and I don't believe he's ever been a murderer. That's my opinion. And I know something of men."
"What's Mrs. Luxmore like?" asked Battle.
"She lives in London, so you can see for yourself. You'll find the address
among those papers. Somewhere in South Kensington. But I repeat, Despard isn't
the man."
Colonel Race left the room, stepping with the springy noiseless tread of a
hunter.
Battle nodded his head thoughtfully as the door closed behind him.
"He's probably right," he said. "He knows men. Colonel Race does. But all
the same, one can't take anything for granted."
He looked through the mass of documents Race had deposited on the table,
occasionally making a pencil note on the pad beside him.
"Well, Superintendent Battle," said Mrs. Oliver. "Aren't you going to tell us
what you have been doing?"
He looked up and smiled, a slow smile that creased his wooden face from side
to side.
"This is all very irregular, Mrs. Oliver. I hope you realise that."
"Nonsense," said Mrs. Oliver. "I don't suppose for a moment you'll tell us
anything you don't want to."
Battle shook his head.
"No," he said decidedly. "Cards on the table. That's the motto for this
business. I mean to play fair."
Mrs. Oliver hitched her chair nearer.


Cards on the Table
455
"Tell us," she begged.
Superintendent Battle said slowly:
"First of all, I'll say this. As far as the actual murder of Mr. Shaitana goes, I'm
not a penny the wiser. There's no hint nor clue of any kind to be found in his
papers. As for the four others, I've had them shadowed, naturally, but without any

tangible result. That was only to be expected. No, as M. Poirot said, there's only
one hopethe past. Find out what crime exactly (if any, that is to say--after all,
Shaitana may have been talking through his hat to make an impression on M.
Poirot) these people have committedand it may tell you who committed this
crime."
"Well, have you found out anything?"
"I've got a line on one of them."
"Which?" "Dr. Roberts."
Mrs. Oliver looked at him with thrilled expectation.
"As M. Poirot here knows, I tried out all kinds of theories. I established the
fact pretty clearly that none of his immediate family had met with a sudden death.
I've explored every alley as well as I could, and the whole thing boils down to one possibility--and rather an outside possibility at that. A {ew years ago Roberts must
have been guilty of indiscretion, at least, with one of his lady patients. There may
have been nothing in it--probably wasn't. But the woman was the hysterical,
emotional kind who likes to make a scene, and either the husband got wind of what
was going on, or his wife 'confessed.' Anyway, the fat was in the fire as far as the
doctor was concerned. Enraged husband threatening to report him to the General
Medical Council which would probably have meant the ruin of his professional
career."
"What happened?" demanded Mrs. Oliver breathlessly.
"Apparently Roberts managed to calm down the irate gentleman term-
porarily-and he died of anthrax almost immediately afterwards."
"Anthrax? But that's a cattle disease?"
The superintendent grinned.
"Quite right, Mrs. Oliver. It isn't the untraceable arrow poison of the South
American Indian! You may remember that there was rather a scare about infected
shaving brushes of cheap make about that time. Craddock's shaving brush was
proved to have been the cause of infection."
"Did Dr. Roberts attend him?"
"Oh, no. Too canny for that. Dare say Craddock wouldn't have wanted him in
any case. The only evidence I've got--and that's precious littleis that among the
doctor's patients there was a case of anthrax at the time."
"You mean the doctor infected the shaving brush?"
"That's the big idea. And mind you, it's only an idea. Nothing whatever to go
on. Pure conjecture. But it could be."
"He didn't marry Mrs. Craddock afterwards?"
"Oh, dear me, no, I imagine the affection was always on the lady's side. She
tended to cut up rough, I hear, but suddenly went off to Egypt quite happily for
the winter. She died there. A case of some obscure blood-poisoning. It's got a long
name, but I don't expect it would convey much to you. Most uncommon in this
country, fairly common amongst the natives in Egypt."
"So the doctor couldn't have poisoned her?"
"I don't know," said Battle slowly. "I've been chatting to a bacteriologist
friend of mine---awfully difficult to get straight answers out of these people. They


456
Agatha Christie

never can say yes or no. It's always 'that might be possible under certain
conditions'--'it would depend on the pathological condition of the recipient'- 'such cases have been known'---'a lot depends on individual idiosyncrasy' all that
sort of stuff. But as far as I could pin my friend down I got at this--the germ, or
germs, I suppose, might have been introduced into the blood before leaving
England. The symptoms would not make their appearance for some time to come."
Poirot asked:
"Was Mrs. Craddock inoculated for typhoid before going to Egypt? Most
people are, I fancy." '
"Good for you, M. Poirot.'
"And Dr. Roberts did the inoculation?"
"That's right. There you are again--we can't prove anything. She had the
usual two inoculations--and they may have been typhoid inoculations for all we
know. Or one of them may have been typhoid inoculation and the other--something
else. We don't know. We never shall know. The whole thing is pure
hypothesis. All we can say is: it might be."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"It agrees very well with some remarks made to me by Mr. Shaitana. He was
exalting the successful murderer--the man against whom his crime could never be
brought home."
"How did Mr. Shaitana know about it, then?" asked Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"That we shall never learn. He himself was in Egypt at one time. We know
that, because he met Mrs. Lorrimer there. He may have heard some local doctor
comment on curious features of Mrs. Craddock's casea wonder as to how the
infection arose. At some other time he may have heard gossip about Roberts and
Mrs. Craddock. He might have amused himself by making some cryptic remark to
the doctor and noted the startled awareness in his eye--all that one can never
know. Some people have an uncanny gift of divining secrets. Mr. Shaitana was one
of those people. All that does not concern us. We have only to say--he guessed.
Did he guess right?"
"Well, I think he did," said Battle. "I've a feeling that our cheerful, genial
doctor wouldn't be too scrupulous. I've known one or two like him--wonderful
how certain types resemble each other. In my opinion he's a killer all right. He
killed Craddock. He may have killed Mrs. Craddock if she was beginning to be a
nuisance and cause a scandal. But did he kill Shaitana? That's the real question.
And comparing the crimes, I rather doubt it. In the case of the Craddocks he used
medical methods each time. The deaths appeared to be due to natural causes. In
my opinion ffhe had killed Shaitana, he would have done so in a medical way. He'd have used the germ and not the knife."
"I never thought it was him," said Mrs. Oliver. "Not for a minute. He's too
obvious, somehow."
"Exit Roberts," murmured Poirot. "And the others?"
Battle made a gesture of impatience.
"I've pretty well drawn a blank. Mrs. Lorrimer's been a widow for twenty
years now. She's lived in London most of the time, occasionally going abroad in the
winter. Civilised placesthe Riviera, Egypt, that sort of thing. Can't find any
mysterious deaths associated with her. She seems to have led a perfectly normal,
respectable life---the life of a woman of the world. Every one seems to respect her
and to have the highest opinion of her character. The worst that they can say about
her is that she doesn't suffer fools gladly! I don't mind admitting I've been beaten


Cards on the Table
457

all along the line there. And yet there must be something! Shaitana thought there
was.
He sighed in a dispirited manner.
"Then there's Miss Meredith. I've got her history taped out quite clearly.
Usual sort of story. Army officer's daughter. Left with very little 'money. Had to
earn her living. Not properly trained for anything. I've checked up on her early
days at Cheltenham. All quite straightforward. Every one very sorry for the poor
little thing. She went first to some people in the Isle of Wight kind of nursery-governess
and mother's help. The woman she was with is out in Palestine but I've
talked with her sister and she says Mrs. Eldon liked the girl very much. Certainly
no mysterious deaths nor anything of that kind.
"When Mrs. Eldon went abroad, Miss Meredith went to Devonshire and took
a post as companion to an aunt of a school friend. The school friend is the girl she is
living with now--Miss Rhoda Dawes. She was there over two years until Miss
Dawes got too ill and had to have a regular trained nurse. Cancer, I gather. She's
alive still, but very vague. Kept under morphia a good deal, I imagine. I had an
interview with her. She remembered 'Anne,' said she was a nice child. I also talked
to a neighbour of hers who would be better able to remember the happenings of
the last few years. No deaths in the parish except one or two of the older villagers,
with whom, as far as I can make out, Anne Meredith never came into contact.
"Since then there's been Switzerland. Thought I might get on the track of
some fatal accident there, but nothing doing. And there's nothing in Wallingford
either."
"So Anne Meredith is acquitted?" asked Poirot.
Battle hesitated.
"I wouldn't say that. There's something .... There's a scared look about her
that can't quite be accounted for by panic over Shaitana. She's too watchful. Too
much on the alert. I'd swear there was something. But there it is--she's led a
perfectly blameless life."
Mrs. Oliver took a deep breath--a breath of pure enjoyment.
"And yet," she said, "Anne Meredith was in the house when a woman took
poison by mistake and died."
She had nothing to complain of in the effect her words produced.
Superintendent Battle spun round in his chair and stared at her in amazement.
"Is this true, Mrs. Oliver? How do you know?"
"I've been sleuthing," said Mrs. Oliver. "I get on with girls. I went down to
see those two and told them a cock-and-bull story about suspecting Dr. Roberts.
The Rhoda girl was friendly---oh, and rather impressed by thinking I was a
celebrity. The little Meredith hated my coming and showed it quite plainly. She
was suspicious. Why should she be if she hadn't got anything to hide? I asked
either of them to come and see me in London. The Rhoda girl did. And she blurted
the whole thing out. How Anne had been rude to me the other day because
something I'd said had reminded her of a painful incident, and then she went on to
describe the incident."
"Did she say when and where it happened?"
"Three years ago in Devonshire."
The superintendent muttered something under his breath and scribbled on
his pad. His wooden calm was shaken.
Mrs. Oliver sat enjoying her triumph. It was a moment of great sweetness to
her.


458
Agatha Christie

Battle recovered his temper.
"I take off my hat to you, Mrs. Oliver," he said. "You've put one over on us
this time. That is very valuable information. And it just shows how easily you can
miss a thing."
He frowned a little.
"She can't have been therewherever it was--long. A couple of months at
most. It must have been between the Isle of Wight and going to Miss Dawes. Yes,
that could be it right enough. Naturally Mrs. Eldon's sister only remembers she
went off to a place in Devonshirc she doesn't remember exactly who or where."
"Tell me," said Poirot, "was this Mrs. Eldon an untidy woman?"
Battle bent a curious gaze upon him.
"It's odd your saying that, M. Poirot. I don't see how you could have known.
The sister was rather a precise party. In talking I remember her saying 'My sister is
so dreadfully untidy and slapdash.' But how did you know?"
"Because she needed a mother's-help," said Mrs. Oliver.
Poirot shook his head.
"No, no, it was not that. It is of no moment. I was only curious. Continue,
Superintendent Battle."
"In the same way," went on Battle, "I took it for granted that she went to Miss
Dawes straight from the Isle of Wight. She's sly, that girl. She deceived me all
right. Lying the whole time."
"Lying is not always a sign of guilt," said Poirot.
"I know that, M. Poirot. There's the natural liar. I should say she was one, as a
matter of fact. Always says the thing that sounds best. But all the same it's a pretty
grave risk to take, suppressing facts like that."
"She wouldn't know you had any idea of past crimes," said Mrs. Oliver.
"That's all the more reason for not suppressing that little piece of information.
It must have been accepted as a bona ride case of accidental death, so she'd nothing
to fear-unless she were guilty."
"Unless she were guilty of the Devonshire death, yes," said Poirot.
Battle turned to him.
"Oh, I know. Even if that accidental death turns out to be not so accidental, it
doesn't follow that she killed Shaitana. But these other murders are murders too. I
want to be able to bring home a crime to the person responsible for it."
"According to Mr. Shaitana, that is impossible," remarked Poirot.
"It is in Roberts' case. It remains to be seen if it is in Miss Meredith's. I shall
go down to Devon tomorrow."
"Will you know where to go?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "I didn't like to ask Rhoda
for more details."
"No, that was wise of you. I shan't have much difficulty. There must have
been an inquest. I shall find it in the coroner's records. That's routine police work.
They'll have it all taped out for me by to-morrow morning."
"What about Major Despard?" asked Mrs. Oliver. "Have you found out
anything about him?"
'"I've been waiting for Colonel Race's report. I've had him shadowed, of
course. One rather interesting thing, he went down to see Miss Meredith at
Wallingford. You remember he said he'd never met her until the other night."
"But she is a very pretty girl," murmured Poirot.
Battle laughed.
"Yes, I expect that's all there is to it. By the way, Despard's taking no chances.
He's already consulted a solicitor. That looks as though he's expecting trouble."


Cards on the Table
459

"He is a man who looks ahead," said Poirot. "He is a man who prepared for
every contingency."
"And therefore not the kind of man to stick a knife into a man in a hurry," said
Battle with a sigh.
"Not unless it was the only way," said Poirot. "He can act quickly,
remember."
Battle looked across the table at him.
"Now, M. Poirot, what about your cards? Haven't seen your hand down on the
table yet."
Poirot smiled.
"There is so little in it. You think I conceal facts from you? It is not so. I have
not learned many facts. I have talked with Dr. Roberts, with Mrs. Lorrimer, with
Major Despard (I have still to talk to Miss Meredith) and what have I learnt? Thisl
That Dr. Roberts is a keen observer, that Mrs. Lorrimer on the other hand has a
most remarkable power of concentration but is, in consequence, almost blind to
her surroundings. But she is fond of flowers. Despard notices only those things
which appeal to him--rugs, trophies of sport. He has neither what I call the
outward vision (seeing details all around you what is called an observant person)
nor the inner vision--concentration, the focusing of the mind on one object. He
has a purposefully limited vision. He sees only what blends and harmonises with
the bent of his mind."
"So those are what you call facts---eh?" said Battle curiously.
"They are facts. Very small fry--perhaps."
"What about Miss Meredith?"
"I have left her to the end. But I shall question her too as to What she
remembers in that room."
"It's an odd method of approach," said Battle thoughtfully. "Purely psychological.
Suppose they're leading you up the garden path?"
Poirot shook his head with a smile.
"No, that would be impossible. Whether they try to hinder or to help, they
necessarily reveal their type of mind."
"There's something in it, no doubt," said Battle thoughtfully. "I couldn't work
that way myself, though."
Poirot said, still smiling:
"I feel I have done very little in comparison with you and with Mrs. Oliver--
and with Colonel Race. My cards, that I place on the table, are very low ones."
Battle twinkled at him.
"As to that, M. Poirot, the two of trumps is a low card, but it can take any one
of three aces. All the same, I'm going to ask you to do a practical job of work." "And that is?"
"I want you to interview Professor Luxmore's widow."
"And why do you not do that yourself?."
"Because, as I said just now, I'm off to Devonshire."
"Why do you not do that yourself?." repeated Poirot.
"Won't be put off, will you? Well, I'll speak the truth. I think you'll get more
out of her than I shall."
"My methods being less straightforward?"
"You can put it that way if you like," said Battle, grinning. "I've heard
Inspector Japp say that you've got a tortuous mind."
"Like the late Mr. Shaitana?"
"You think he would have been able to get things out of her?"


460
Agatha Christie

Poirot said slowly:
"I rather think he did get things out of her!" "What makes you think so?" asked Battle sharply. "A chance remark of Major Despard's."
"Gave himself away, did he? That sounds unlike him.'
"Oh, my dear friend, it is impossible not to give oneself away--unless one
never opens one's mouth! Speech is the deadliest of revealers."
"Even if people tell lies?" asked Mrs. Oliver.
"Yes, madame, because it can be seen at once that you tell a certain kind of
"You make me feel quite uncomfortable,'' said Mrs. Oliver, getting up.
Superintendent Battle accompanied her to the door and shook her warmly by
the hand.
"You've been the goods, Mrs. Oliver," he said. "You're a much better
detective than that long lanky Laplander of yours."
"Finn," corrected Mrs. Oliver. "Of course he's idiotic. But people like him.
Goodbye."
"I, too, must depart," said Poirot.
Battle scribbled an address on a piece of paper and shoved it into Poirot's
hand.
"There you are. Go and tackle her."
Poirot smiled.
"And what do you want me to find out?"
"The truth about Professor Luxmore's death."
"Mon chef Battle! Does anybody know the truth about anything?"
"I'm going to about this business in Devonshire," said the superintendent
with decision.
Poirot murmured:
"I wonder."

CHAPTER 20
The Evidence of Mrs. Luxmore

The maid who opened the door at Mrs. Luxmore's South Kensington address
looked at Hercule Poirot with deep disapproval. She showed no disposition to
admit him into the house.
Unperturbed, Poirot gave her a card.
"Give that to your mistress. I think she will see me."
It was one of his more ostentatious cards. The words "Private Detective" were
printed in one corner. He had had them specially engraved for the purpose of
obtaining interviews with the so-called fair sex. Nearly every woman, whether
conscious of innocence or not, was anxious to have a look at a private detective and
find out what he wanted.
Left ignominiously on the mat, Poirot studied the door-knocker with intense
disgust at its unpolished condition.
"Ah! for some Brasso and a rag," he murmured to himself.


Cards on the Table
461


Breathing excitedly the maid returned and Poirot was bidden to enter.

He was shown into a room on the first floor--a rather dark room smelling of
stale flowers and unemptied ashtrays. There were large quantities of silk cushions
of exotic colours all in need of cleaning. The walls were emerald green and the
ceiling was of pseudo copper.

A tall, rather handsome woman was standing by the mantelpiece. She came

forward and spoke in a deep husky voice.

"M. Hercule Poirot?"

Poirot bowed. His manner was not quite his own. He was not only foreign but-ornately
foreign. His gestures were positively baroque. Faintly, very faintly, it was
the manner of the late Mr. Shaitana.

"What did you want to see me about?"

Again Poirot bowed.

"If I might be seated? It will take a little time "

She waved him impatiently to a chair and sat down herself on the edge of a

sofa.

"Yes? Well?"

"It is, madame, that I make the inquiriesthe private inquiries, you
understand?"

The more deliberate his approach, the greater her eagerness.

"Yes--yes?"

"I make inquiries into the death of the late Professor Luxmore."

She gave a gasp. Her dismay was evident.

"But why? What do you mean? What has it got to do with you?"

Poirot watched her carefully before proceeding.

"There is, you comprehend, a book being written. A life of your eminent
husband. The writer, naturally, is anxious to get all his facts exact. As to your

husband's death, for instance
"

She broke in at once:

"My husband died of fevern the Amazon."

Poirot leaned back in his chair. Slowly, very, very slowly, he shook his head to

and froa maddening, monotonous motion.
"Madame, madame "he protested.
"But I know! I was there at the time."

"Ah, yes, certainly. You were there. Yes, my information says so."

She cried out:

"What information?"

Eyeing her closely Poirot said:

"Information supplied to me by the late Mr. Shaitana."

She shrank back as though flicked with a whip.

"Shaitana?" she muttered.

"A man," said Poirot, "possessed of vast stores of knowledge. A remarkable
man. That man knew many secrets."

"I suppose he did," she murmured, passing a tongue over her dry lips.

Poirot leaned forward. He achieved a little tap on her knee.

"He knew, for instance, that your husband did not die of fever."

She stared at him. Her eyes looked wild and desperate.

He leaned back and watched the effect of his words.

She pulled herself together with an effort.

"I don't--I don't know what you mean."

It was very unconvincingly said.



462
Agatha Christie


"Madame," said Poirot, "I will come out into the open. I will," he smiled,

"place my cards upon the table. Your husband did not die of a fever. He died of a
bullet!"

'"Oh!" she cried.

She covered her face with her hands. She rocked herself to and fro. She was in
terrible distress. But somewhere, in some remote fibre of her being, she was
enjoying her own emotions. Poirot was quite sure of that.

"And therefore," said Poirot in a matter-of-fact tone, "you might just as well
tell me the whole story."

She uncovered her face and said:

"It wasn't in the least the way you think."

Again Poirot leaned forward again he tapped her knee.

"You misunderstand me--you misunderstand me utterly," he said. "I know
very well that it was not you who shot him. It was Major Despard. But you were
the cause."

"I don't know. I don't know. I suppose I was. It was all too terrible. There is a
sort of fatality that pursues me."

"Ah, how true that is," cried Poirot. "How often have I not seen it? There are
some women like that. Wherever they go, tragedies follow in their wake. It is not

their fault. These things happen in spite of themselves."

Mrs. Luxmore drew a deep breath.

"You understand. I see you understand. It all happened so naturally."

"You travelled together into the interior, did you not?"

"Yes. My husband was writing a book on various rare plants. Major Despard
was introduced to us as a man who knew the conditions and would arrange the
necessary expedition. My husband liked him very much. We started."

There was a pause. Poirot allowed it to continue for about a minute and a half
and then murmured as though to himself.

"Yes, one can picture it. The winding river--the tropical night--the hum of

the insects--the strong soldierly man--the beautiful woman "

Mrs.
Luxmore sighed.
"My husband was, of course, years older than I was. I married as a mere child
before I
knew what I was doing "
Poirot shook
his
head sadly.
"I know. I
know. How often does that not occur?"
"Neither of us
would admit what was happening," went on Mrs. Luxmore.
"John Despard never
said anything. He was the soul of honour."
"But a woman
always knows," prompted Poirot.
"How right you
are .... Yes, a woman knows .... But I never showed him that I knew. We
were Major Despard and Mrs. Luxmore to each other right up to the end .... We
were both determined to play the game."
She was silent, lost
in admiration of that noble attitude.
"True," murmured Poirot. "One
must play the cricket. As one of your poets so
finely says, 'I could
not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not cricket more.'" "Honour," corrected Mrs. Luxmore
with a slight frown.
"Of course--of course--honour. 'Loved
I not honour more."
"Those words might have
been written for us," murmured Mrs. Luxmore. "No matter what it
cost us, we were both determined never to say the fatal word. And then- "

"And then "prompted Poirot.

"That ghastly night." Mrs.
Luxmore shuddered.


Cards on the Table
463


"Yes?"

"I suppose they must have quarrelled--John and Timothy, I mean. I came out

of my tent .... I came out of my tent..."

"Yes--yes?"

Mrs. Luxmore's eyes were wide and dark. She was seeing the scene as though
it were being repeated in front of her.

"I came out of my tent," she repeated. "John and Timothy were
Oh!" she

shuddered. "I can't remember it all clearly. I came between them I
said
'No--no,
it isn't true? Timothy wouldn't listen. He was threatening John. John had to fire
in self-defence. Ah!" She gave a cry and covered her face with her hands.
"He
was dead stone dead--shot through the heart."
"A terrible moment for you, madame."
"I shall never forget it. John was noble. He was all for giving himself up. I refused
to hear of it. We argued all night. 'For my sake,' I kept saying. He saw that in
the end. Naturally he couldn't let me suffer. The awful publicity. Think of the headlines. Two Men and a Woman in the Jungle. Primeval Passions.
"I put
it all to John. In the end he gave in. The boys had seen and heard nothing. Timothy
had been having a bout of fever. We said he had died of it. We buried him
there beside the Amazon."
A deep, tortured
sigh shook her form.
"And then--back to
civilisation--and to part for ever."
"Was it necessary,
madame?"
"Yes, yes. Timothy
dead stoodbetween us just as Timothy alive had don more so. We
said good-bye to each other--for ever. I meet John Despard sometimes---out in the
world. We smile, we speak politely--no one would ever guess that there
was anything between us. But I see in his eyes--and he in mine that we will
never forget .... "
There was a
long pause. Poirot paid tribute to the curtain by not breaking the silence.
Mrs. Luxmore
took
out a vanity case and powdered her nose the spell
was
broken.
"What
a
tragedy," said Poirot, but in a more everyday tone.
"You can
see, M. Poirot," said Mrs. Luxmore earnestly, "that the truth must never be
told."
"It would
be painful. "
"It would
be impossible. This friend, this writer--surely he would not wish to blight the
life of a perfectly innocent woman?"
"Or even
to hang a perfectly innocent man?" murmured Poirot.
"You see
it like that? I am so glad. He was innocent. A crime passionnel is not really a
crime. And in any case it was in self-defence. He had to shoot. So you do understand, M.
Poirot, that the world must continue to think Timothy died of fever?"
Poirot
murmured.

"Writers are
sometimes curiously callous."
"Your friend
is a woman-hater? He wants to make us suffer? But you must not allow that.
I shall not allow it. If necessary I shall take the blame on myself. I shall say I shot
Timothy."
She had risen
to her feet. Her head was thrown back.
Poirot also rose.

"Madame," he said
as he took her hand, "such splendid self-sacrifice is unnecessary. I will
do my best so that the true facts shall never be known."


464
Agatha Christie


A sweet womanly smile stole over Mrs. Luxmore's face. She raised her hand

slightly, so that Poirot, whether he had meant to do so or not, was forced to kiss it. "An unhappy woman thanks you, M. Poirot," she said.

It was the last word of a persecuted queen to a favoured courtier--clearly an
exit line. Poirot duly made his exit.

Once out in the street, he drew a long breath of fresh air.


CHAPTER 21

Major Despard


"Quelle femme," murmured Hercule Poirot. "Ce pauvre Despard! Ce qu'il a du

souffrir! Quel voyage pouvantable!"

Suddenly he began to laugh.

He was now walking along the Brompton Road. He paused, took out his
watch, and made a calculation.

"But yes, I have the time. In any case to wait will do him no harm. I can now
attend to the other little matter. What was it that my friend in the English police
force used to sing--how many yearsforty years ago? 'A little piece of sugar for the
bird.'"

Humming a long-forgotten tune, Hercule Poirot entered a sumptuous-looking
shop mainly devoted to the clothing and general embellishment of women and
made his way to the stocking counter.

Selecting a sympathetic-looking and not too haughty damsel he made known
his requirements.

"Silk stockings? Oh, yes, we have a very nice line here. Guaranteed pure
silk."

Poirot waved them away. He waxed eloquent once more.

"French silk stockings? With the duty, you know, they are very expensive."
A fresh lot of boxes was produced.

"Very nice, mademoiselle, but I had something of a finer texture still in
mind."

"These are a hundred gauge. Of course, we have some extra fine, but I'm
afraid they come out at about thirty-five shillings a pair. And no durability, of
course. Just like cobwebs."

"C'est fa, exactement."

A prolonged absence of the young lady this time.

She returned at last.

"I'm afraid they are actually thirty-seven and sixpence a pair. But beautiful,
aren't they?"

She slid them tenderly from a gauzy envelopethe finest, gauziest wisps of
stockings.

"Enfin--that is it exactly!"

"Lovely, aren't they? How many pairs, sir?"

"I want let me see, nineteen pairs."

The young lady very nearly fell down behind the counter, but long training in
scornfulness just kept her erect.



Cards on the Table
465

"There would be a reduction on two dozen," she said faintly.
"No, I want nineteen pairs. Of slightly different colours, please."
The girl sorted them out obediently, packed them up and made out the bill.
As Poirot departed with his purchase, the next girl at the counter said:
"Wonder who the lucky girl is? Must be a nasty old man. Oh, well, she seems
to be stringing him along good and proper. Stockings at thirty-seven and sixpence
indeed!"
Unaware of the low estimate formed by the young ladies of Messrs. Harvey
Robinson's upon his character, Poirot was trotting homewards.
He had been in for about half an hour when he heard the door-bell ring. A few
minutes later Major Despard entered the room.
He was obviously keeping his temper with difficulty.
"What the devil did you want to go and see Mrs. Luxmore for?" he asked.
Poirot smiled.
"I wished, you see, for the true story of Professor Luxmore's death."
"True story? Do you think that woman's capable of telling the truth about
anything?" demanded Despard wrathfully,
"Eh bien, I did wonder now and then," admitted Poirot.
"I should think you did. That woman's crazy.'
Poirot demurred.
"Not at all. She is a romantic woman, that is all."
"Romantic be damned. She's an out-and-out liar. I sometimes think she even
believes her own lies."
"It is quite possible."
"She's an appalling woman. I had the hell of a time with her out there."
"That also I can well believe."
Despard sat down abruptly.
"Look here, M. Poirot, I'm going to tell you the truth."
"You mean you are going to give me your version of the story?" "My version will be the true version."
Poirot did not reply.
Despard went on dryly:
"I quite realise that I can't claim any merit in coming out with this now. I'm
telling the truth because it's the only thing to be done at this stage. Whether you
believe me or not is up to you. I've no kind of proof that my story is the correct
one."
He paused for a minute and then began.
"I arranged the trip for the Luxmores. He was a nice old boy quite batty about
mosses and plants and things. She was a well, she was what you've no doubt
observed her to be! That trip was a nightmare. I didn't care a damn for the
woman--rather disliked her, as a matter of fact. She was the intense, soulful kind
that always makes me feel pfiekly with embarrassment. Everything went all fight
for the first fortnight. Then we all had a go of fever. She and I had it slightly. Old
Luxmore was pretty bad. One night--now you've got to listen to this carefully--I
was sitting outside my tent. Suddenly I saw Luxmore in the distance staggering off
into the bush by the river. He was absolutely delirious and quite unconscious of
what he was doing. In another minute he would be in the river--and at that
particular spot it would have been the end of him. No chance of a rescue. There
wasn't time to rush after him--only one thing to be done. My rifle was beside me
as usual. I snatched it up. I'm a pretty accurate shot. I was quite sure I could bring
the old boy down--get him in the leg. And then, just as I fired, that idiotic fool of a


466
Agatha Christie

woman flung herself from somewhere upon me, yelping out, 'Don't shoot. For
God's sake, don't shoot.' She caught my arm and jerked it ever so slightly just as
the rifle went off with the result that the bullet got him in the back and killed him
dead!
"I can tell you that was a pretty ghastly moment. And that damned fool of a
woman still didn't understand what she'd done. Instead ofrealising that she'd been
responsible for her husband's death, she firmly believed that I'd been trying to
shoot the old boy in cold blood--for love of her, ffyou please! We had the devil ora
sceneshe insisting that we should say he'd died of fever. I was sorry fo, r her--especially
as I saw she didn't realise what she'd done. But she'd have to realise it if
the truth came out! And then her complete certainty that I was head over heels in
love with her gave me a bit of a jar. It was going to be a pretty kettle of fish if she
went 'about giving that out. In the end I agreed to do what she wanted--partly for
the sake of peace, I'll admit. After all, it didn't seem to matter much. Fever or
accident. And I didn't want to drag a woman through a lot of unpleasantness--even if she was a damnedfool. I gave it out next day that the professor was dead of fever
and we buried him. The bearers knew the truth, of course, but they were all
devoted to me and I knew that what I said they'd swear to if need be. We buried
poor old Luxmore and got back to civilisation. Since then I've spent a good deal of
time dodging the woman."
He paused, then said quietly:
"That's my story, M. Poirot."
Poirot said slowly:
"It was to that incident that Mr. Shaitana referred, or so you thought, at
dinner that night?"
Despard nodded.
"He must have heard it from Mrs. Luxmore. Easy enough to get the story out
of her. That sort of thing would have amused him."
"It might have been a dangerous story--to you--in the hands of a man like
Shaitana."
Despard shrugged his shoulders. "I wasn't afraid of Shaitana."
Poirot didn't answer.
Despard said quietly:
"That again you have to take my word for. It's true enough, I suppose, that I
had a kind of motive for Shaitana's death. Well, the truth's out now--take it or
leave it."
Poirot held out a hand.
"I will take it, Major Despard. I have no doubt at all that things in South
America happened exactly as you have described."
Despard's face lit up.
"Thanks," he said laconically.
And he clasped Poirot's hand warmly.


Cards on the Table
467

CHAPTER 22
Evidence from Combeacre

Superintendent Battle was in the police station of Combeacre.
Inspector Harper, rather red in the face, talked in a slow, pleasing Devonshire
voice.
"That's how it was, sir. Seemed all as right as rain. The docto was satisfied.
Every one was satisfied. Why not?"
"Just give me the facts about the two bottles again. I want to get it quite
clear.'
"Syrup of Figs-that's what the bottle was. She took it regular, it seems. Then
there was this hat paint she'd been usingr rather the young lady, her
companion, had been using for her. Brightening up a garden hat. There was a good
deal left over, and the bottle broke, and Mrs. Benson herself said, 'Put it in that old
bottle- the Syrup of Figs bottle.' That's all right. The servants heard her. The
young lady, Miss Meredith, and the housemaid and the parlourmaid---they all
agree on that. The paint was put into the old Syrup of Figs bottle and it was put up
on the top shelf in the bathroom with other odds and ends."
"Not relabelled?"
"No. Careless, of course; the coroner commented on that."
"Go oil."
"On this particular night the deceased went into the bathroom, took down a
Syrup of Figs bottle, poured herself out a good dose and drank it. Realised what
she'd done and they sent offat once for the doctor. He was out on a case and it was
some time before they could get at him. They did all they could, but she died."
"She herself believed it to be an accident?"
"Oh, yes---every one thought so. It seems clear the bottles must have got
mixed up somehow. It was suggested the housemaid did it when she dusted, but
she swears she didn't."
Superintendent Battle was silent--thinking. Such an easy business. A bottle
taken down from an upper shelf, put in place of the other. So difficult to trace a
mistake like that to its source. Handled it with gloves, possibly, and anyway, the
last prints would be those of Mrs. Benson herself. Yes, so easy--so simple. But, all
the same, murder! The perfect crime.
But why? That still puzzled him--why?
"This young lady-companion, this Miss Meredith, she didn't come into money
at Mrs. Benson's death?" he asked.
Inspector Harper shook his head.
"No. She'd only been there about six weeks. Difficult place, I should imagine.
Young ladies didn't stay long as a rule."
Battle was still puzzled. Young ladies didn't stay long. A difficult woman,
evidently. But if Anne Meredith had been unhappy, she could have left as her
predecessors had done. No need to kfil unless it were sheer unreasoniilg
vindictiveness. He shook his head. That suggestion did not ring true.
"Who did get Mrs. Benson's money?"


468
Agatha Christie


"I couldn't say, sir, nephews and nieces, I believe. But it wouldn't be very
much-not when it was divided up, and I heard as how most of her income was one
of these annuities."

Nothing there then. But Mrs. Benson had died. And Anne Meredith had not

told him that she had been at Combeacre.

It was all profoundly unsatisfactory.

He made diligent and painstaking inquiries. The doctor was quite clear and
emphatic. No reason to believe it was anything but an accident. Miss-couldn't
remember her namenice girl but rather helpless--had been very upset and
distressed. There was the vicar. He remembered Mrs. Benson's last companion--a
modest-looking girl. Always came to church with Mrs. Benson. Mrs. Benson had
been--not diffficult--but a trifle severe toward young people. She was the rigid
type of Christian.

Battle tried one or two other people but learned nothing of value. Anne
Meredith was hardly remembered. She had lived among them a few monthsthat
was all-and her personality was not sufficiently vivid to make a lasting impression.
A nice little thing seemed to be the accepted description.

Mrs. Benson loomed out a little more clearly. A self-righteous grenadier of a
woman, working her companions hard and changing her servants often. A
disagreeable woman--but that was all.

Nevertheless Superintendent Battle left Devonshire under the firm impression
that, for some reason unknown, Anne Meredith had deliberately murdered
her employer.


CHAPTER 23

The Evidence of a Pair of Silk Stockings


As Superintendent Battle's train rushed eastwards through England, Anne
Meredith and Rhoda Dawes were in Hercule Poirot's sitting-room.

Anne had been unwilling to accept the invitation that had reached her by the
morning's post, but Rhoda's counsel had prevailed.

"Anneyou're a cowardyes, a coward. It's no good going on being an
ostrich, burying your head in the sand. There's been a murder and you're one of
the suspects--the least likely one perhaps--

"That would be the worst," said Anne with a touch ofhumour. "It's always the
least likely person who did it.'

"But you are one," continued Rhoda, undisturbed by the interruption. "And
so it's no use putting your nose in the air as though murder was a nasty smell and
nothing to do with you."

"It is nothing to do with me," Anne persisted. "I mean, I'm quite willing to
answer any questions the police want to ask me, but this man, this Hercule Poirot,
he's an outsider."

"And what will he think if you hedge and try to get out of it? He'll think you're
bursting with guilt."

"I'm certainly not bursting with guilt,' said Anne coldly.

"Darling, I know that. You couldn't murder anybody ffyou tried. But horrible



Cards on the Table 469


suspicious foreigners don't know that. I think we ought to go nicely to his house.

Otherwise he'll come down here and try to worm things out of the servants." "We haven't got any servants."

"We've got Mother Astwell. She can wag a tongue with anybody! Come on,
Anne, let's go. It will be rather fun really."

"I don't see why he wants to see me." Anne was obstinate.

"To put one over on the official police, of course," said Rhoda impatiently.
"They always do---the amateurs, I mean. They make out that Scotland Yard are all
boots and brainlessness."

"Do you think this man Poirot is clever?"

"He doesn't look a Sherlock," said Rhoda. "I expect he has been quite good in
his day. He's gaga now, of course. He must be at least sixty. Oh, come on, Anne,

let's go and see the old boy. He may tell us dreadful things about the others."
"All right," said Anne, and added, "You do enjoy all this so, Rhoda."

"I suppose because it isn't my funeral," said Rhoda. "You were a noodle,
Anne, not just to have looked up at the right minute. If only you had, you could
live like a duchess for the rest of your life on blackmail."

So it came about that at three o'clock of that same afternoon, Rhoda Dawes
and Anne Meredith sat primly on their chairs in Poirot's neat room and sipped
blackberry sirop (which they disliked very much but were too polite to refuse) from
old-fashioned glasses.

"It was most amiable of you to accede to my request, mademoiselle," Poirot
was saying.

"I'm sure I shall be glad to help you in any way I can," murmured Anne
vaguely.

"It is a little mater of memory."

"Memory?"

"Yes, I have already put these questions to Mrs. Lorrimer, to Dr. Roberts and
to Major Despard. None of them, alas, have given me the response that I hoped

for."

Anne continued to look at him inquiringly.

"I want you, mademoiselle, to cast your mind back to that evening in the
drawing-room of Mr. Shaitana."

A weary shadow passed over Anne's face. Was she never to be free of that
nightmare?

Poirot noticed the expression.

"I know, mademoiselle, I know," he said kindly. "C'est pnible, n'est ce pas? That is very natural. You, so young as you are, to be brought in contact with horror

for the first time. Probably you have never known or seen a violent death."
Rhoda's feet shifted a little uncomfortably on the floor.
"Well?" said Anne.

"Cast your mind back. I want you to tell me what you remember of that
room?"

Anne stared at him suspiciously.

"I don't understand?"

"But, yes. The chairs, the tables, the ornaments, the wallpaper, the curtains,
the fire-irons. You saw them all. Can you not then describe them?"

"Oh, I see." Anne hesitated, frowning. "It's difficult. I don't really think I
remember. I couldn't say what the wallpaper was like. I think the walls were
painted--some inconspicuous colour. There were rugs on the floor. There was a
piano." She shook her head. "I really couldn't tell you any more."



470
Agatha Christie

"But you are not trying, mademoiselle. You must remember some object,
some ornament, some piece of bricabrac?"
"There was a case of Egyptian jewellery, I remember," said Anne slowly.
"Over by the window."
"Oh, yes, at the extreme other end of the room from the table on which lay
the little dagger."
Anne looked at him.
"I never heard which table that was on."
"Pas si bte," commented Poirot to himself. "But then, no more is Hercule
Poirot! If she knew me better she would realise I would never lay a piege as gross as
that!"
Aloud he said:
"A case of Egyptian jewellery, you say?"
Anne answered with some enthusiasm.
"Yes--some of it was lovely. Blues and red. Enamel. One or two lovely rings.
And scarabsbut I don't like them so much."
"He was a great collector, Mr. Shaitana," murmured Poirot.
"Yes, he must have been," Anne agreed. "The room was full of stuff. One
couldn't begin to look at it all."
"So that you cannot mention anything else that particularly struck your
notice?"
Anne smiled a little as she said:
"Only a vase of chrysanthemums that badly wanted their water changed."

"Ah, yes, servants are not always too particular about that."

Poirot was silent for a moment or two.

Anne asked timidly.
"I'm afraid I didn't notice--whatever it is you wanted me to notice."
Poirot smiled kindly.
"It does not matter, mon enfant. It was, indeed, an outside chance. Tell me,
have you seen the good Major Despard lately?"
He saw the delicate pink colour come up in the girl's face. She replied:

"He said he would come and see us again quite soon."

Rhoda said impetuously:
"He didn't do it, anyway! Anne and I are quite sure of that."
Poirot twinkled at them.
"How fortunates-to have convinced two such charming young ladies of one's
innocence."
"Oh, dear," thought Rhoda. "He's going to be French, and it does embarrass
me so.
She got up and began examining some etchings on the wall.
"These are awfully good," she said.
"They are not bad," said Poirot.
He hesitated, looking at Anne.
"Mademoiselle," he said at last. "I wonder if I might ask you to do me a great
favour--oh, nothing to do with the murder. This is an entirely private and personal
matter."
Anne looked a little surprised. Poirot went on speaking in a slightly
embarrassed manner.
"It is, you understand, that Christmas is coming on. I have to buy presents for
many nieces and grand-nieces. And it is a little difficult to choose what young ladies
like in this present time. My tastes, alas, are rather old-fashioned."
"Yes?" said Anne kindly.


Cards on the Table
471


"Silk stockings, now--are silk stockings a welcome present to receive?"
"Yes, indeed. It's always nice to be given stockings."

"You relieve my mind. I will ask my favour. I have obtained some different
colours. There are, I think, about fifteen or sixteen pairs. Would you be so amiable
as to look through them and set aside half a dozen pairs that seem to you the most
desirable?"

"Certainly I will," said Anne, rising, with a laugh.

Poirot directed her towards a table in an alcove--a table whose *******s were
strangely at variance, had she but known it, with the well-known order and
neatness of Hercule Poirot. There were stockings piled up in untidy heaps--some
fur-lined gloves---calendars and boxes of bonbons.

"I send off my parcels very much l'avance," Poirot explained. "See,

mademoiselle, here are the stockings. Select me, I pray of you, six pairs."

He turned, intercepting Rhoda, who was following him.

"As for mademoiselle here, I have a little treat for her--a treat that would be

no treat to you, I fancy, Mademoiselle Meredith."
"What is it?" cried Rhoda.
He lowered his voice.'

"A knife, mademoiselle, with which twelve people once stabbed a man. It was

given me as a souvenir by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits."
"Horrible," cried Anne.

"Ooh! Let me see," said Rhoda.

Poirot led her through into the other room, talking as he went.

"It was given me by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits because

They passed out of the room.

They returned three minutes later. Anne came towards them.

"I think these six are the nicest, M. Poirot. Both these are very good evening
shades, and this lighter colour would be nice when summer comes and it's daylight
in the evening."

"Mille remerciments, mademoiselle."

He offered them more sirop, which they refused, and finally accompanied
them to the door, still talking genially.

When they had finally departed he returned to the room and went straight to
the littered table. The pile of stockings still lay in a confused heap. Poirot counted
the six selected pairs and then went on to count the others.

He had bought nineteen pairs. There were now only seventeen.

He nodded his head slowly.


CHAPTER 24

Elimination of Three Murderers?


On arrival in London, Superintendent Battle came straight to Poirot. Anne and
Rhoda had then been gone an hour or more.

Without more ado, the superintendent recounted the result of his researches
in Devonshire.

"We're on to it--not a doubt of it," he finished. "That's what Shaitana was



472 Agatha Christie

o


aiming at--with his 'domestic accident' business. But what gets me is the motive.
Why did she want to kill the woman?"

"I think I can help you there, my friend."

"Go ahead, M. Poirot."

"This afternoon I conducted a little experiment. I induced mademoiselle and
her friend to come here. I put to them my usual questions as to what there was in
the room that night."

Battle looked at him curiously.

"You're very keen on that question."

"Yes, it's useful. It tells me a good deal. Mademoiselle Meredith was
suspicious--very suspicious. She takes nothing for granted, that young lady. So
that good dog, Hercule Poirot, he does one of his best tricks. He lays a clumsy
amateurish trap. Mademoiselle mentions a case of jewellery. I say was not that at
the opposite end of the room from the table with the dagger. Mademoiselle does
not fall into the trap. She avoids it cleverly. And after that she is pleased with
herself, and her vigilance relaxes. So that is the object of this visit--to get her to
admit that she knew where the dagger was, and that she noticed it! Her spirits rise
when she has, as she thinks, defeated me. She talked quite freely about the
jewellery. She has noticed many details of it. There is nothing else in the room that
she remembers--except that a vase of chrysanthemums needed its water changing."

"Well?" said Battle.

"Well, it is significant, that. Suppose we knew nothing about this girl. Her
words would give us a clue to her character. She notices flowers. She is, then, fond
of flowers? No, since she does not mention a very big bowl of early tulips which
would at once have attracted the attention of a flower lover. No, it is the paid
companion who speaks--the girl whose duty it has been to put fresh water in the
vases--and, allied to that, there is a girl who loves and notices jewellery. Is not
that, at least, suggestive?"

"Ah," said Battle. "I'm beginning to see what you're driving at."

"Precisely. As I told you the other day, I place my cards on the table. When
you recounted her history the other day, and Mrs. Oliver made her startling
announcement, my mind went at once to an important point. The murder could
not have been committed for gain, since Miss Meredith had still to earn her living
after it happened. Why, then? I considered Miss Meredith's temperament as it
appeared superficially. A rather timid young girl, poor, but well-dressed, fond of
pretty things .... The temperament, is it not, of a thief, rather than a murderer.
And I asked immediately if Mrs. Eldon had been a tidy woman. You replied that
no, she had not been tidy. I formed a hypothesis. Supposing that Anne Meredith
was a girl with a weak streak in her character--the kind of girl who takes little
things from the big shops. Supposing that, poor, and yet loving pretty things, she
helped herself once or twice to things from her employer. A brooch, perhaps, an
odd half-crown or two, a string of beads. Mrs. Eldon, careless, untidy, would put
down these disappearances to her own carelessness. She would not suspect her
gentle little mother's-help. But, now, suppose a different type of employer--an
employer who did noticeaccused Anne Meredith of theft. That would be a
possible motive for murder. As I said the other evening, Miss Meredith would only
commit a murder through fear. She knows that her employer will be able to prove
the theft. There is only one thing that can save her: her employer must die. And so
she changes the bottles, and Mrs. Benson dies--ironically enough convinced that
the mistake is her own, and not suspecting for a minute that the cowed, frightened
girl has had a hand in it."



Cards on the Table
473


"It's possible," said Superintendent Battle. "It's only a hypothesis, but it's

possible."

"It is a little more than possible, my friend it is also probable. For this

afternoon I laid a little trap nicely baited--the real trap--after the sham one had

been circumvented. If what I suspect is true, Anne Meredith will never, never be

able to resist a really expensive pair of stockings! I ask her to aid me. I let her know

carefully that I am not sure exactly how many stockings there are, I go out of the

room, leaving her alone---and the result, my friend, is that I have now seventeen

pairs of stockings, instead of nineteen, and that two pairs have gone away in Anne

Meredith's handbag."

"Whew!" Superintendent Battle whistled. "What a risk to take, though."

"Pas du tout. What does she think I suspect her of? Murder. What is the risk,

then, in stealing a pair, or two pairs, of silk stockings? I am not looking for a thief.

And, besides, the thief, or the kleptomaniac, is always the same
convinced that

she can get away with it."

Battle nodded his head.

"That's true enough. Incredibly stupid. The pitcher goes to the well time after
time. Well, I think between us we've arrived fairly clearly at the truth. Anne
Meredith was caught stealing. Anne Meredith changed a bottle from one shelf to
another. We know that was murder but I'm damned if we could ever prove it.
Successful crime No. 2. Roberts gets away with it. Anne Meredith gets away with
it. But what about Shaitana? Did Anne Meredith kill Shaitana?"

He remained silent for a moment or two, then he shook his head.

"It doesn't work out right," he said reluctantly. "She's not one to take a risk.
Change a couple of bottles, yes. She knew no one could fasten that on her. It was
absolutely safe---because any one might have done it! Of course, it mightn't have
worked. Mrs. Benson might have noticed before she drank the stuff, or she
mightn't have died from it. It was what I call a hopeful kind of murder. It might
work or it mightn't. Actually, it did. But Shaitana was a very different pair of shoes.

That was deliberate, audacious, purposeful murder."

Poirot nodded his head.

"I agree with you. The two types of crime are not the same."

Battle rubbed his nose.

"So that seems to wipe her out as far as he's concerned. Roberts and the girl,
both crossed off our list. What about Despard? Any luck with the Luxmore
woman?"

Poirot narrated his adventures of the preceding afternoon.

Battle grinned.

"I know that type. You can't disentangle what they remember from what they
invent."

Poirot went on. He described Despard's visit, and the story the latte{ had

told.

"Believe him?" Battle asked abruptly.

"Yes, I do."

Battle sighed.

"So do I. Not the type to shoot a man because he wanted the man's wife.
Anyway, what's wrong with the divorce court? Every one flocks there. And he's not
a professional man; it wouldn't ruin him, or anything like that. No, I'm of the
opinion that our late lamented Mr. Shaitana struck a snag there. Murderer No. 3

wasn't a murderer, after all."
He looked at Poirot.
"That leaves--?"



474
Agatha Christie

"Mrs. Lorrimer," said Poirot.
The telephone rang. Poirot got up and answered it. He spoke a few words,
waited, spoke again. Then he hung up the receiver and returned to Battle.
His face was very grave.
"That was Mrs. Lorrimer speaking," he said. "She wants me to come round
and see her--now."
He and Battle looked at each other. The latter shook his head slowly. "Am I wrong?" he said. "Or were you expecting something of the kind?" "I wondered," said Hercule Poirot. "That was all. I wondered."
"You'd better get along," said Battle. "Perhaps you'll manage to get at the
truth at last."

CHAPTER 25
Mrs. Lorrimer Speaks

The day was not a bright one, and Mrs. Lorrimer's room seemed rather dark and
cheerless. She herself had a grey look, and seemed much older than she had done
on the occasion of Poirot's last visit.
She greeted him with her usual smiling assurance.
"It is very nice of you to come so promptly, M. Poirot. You are a busy man, I know."
"At your service, madame," said Poirot with a little bow.
Mrs. Lorrimer pressed the bell by the fireplace.
"We will have tea brought in. I don't know what you feel about it, but I always
think it's a mistake to rush straight into confidences without any decent paving of
the way."
"There are to be confidences, then, madame?"
Mrs. Lorrimer did not answer, for at that moment her maid answered the
bell. When she had received the order and gone again, Mrs. Lorrimer said dryly:
"You said, if you remember, when you were last here, that you would come if
I sent for you. You had an idea, I think, of the reason that should prompt me to
send."
There was no more just then. Tea was brought. Mrs. Lorrimer dispensed it,
talking intelligently on various topics of the day.
Taking advantage of a pause, Poirot remarked:
"I hear you and little Mademoiselle Meredith had tea together the other day."
"We did. You have seen her lately?"
"This very afternoon."
"She is in London, then, or have you been down to Wallingford?"
"No. She and her friend were so amiable as to pay me a visit."
"Ah, the friend. I have not met her."
Poirot said, smiling /little:
"This murder--it has made for a rapprochement. You and Mademoiselle
Meredith have tea together. Major Despard, he, too, cultivates Miss Meredith's
acquaintance. The Dr. Roberts, he is perhaps the only one out of it."


Cards on the Table
475

"I saw him out at bridge the other day;" said Mrs. Lorrimer. "He seemed
quite his usual cheerful self."
"As fond of bridge as ever?"
"Yes--still making the most outrageous bids--and very often getting away
with it."
She was silent for a moment or two, then said:
"Have you seen Superintendent Battle lately?"
"Also this afternoon. He was with me when you telephoned."
Shading her face from the fire with one hand, Mrs. Lorrimer asked:
"How is he getting on?"
Poirot said gravely:
"He is not very rapid, the good Battle. He gets there slowly, but he does get
there in the end, madame."
"I wonder." Her lips curved in a faintly ironical smile.
She went on:
"He has paid me quite a lot of attention. He has delved, I think, into my past
history right back to my girlhood. He has interviewed my friends, and chatted to
my servants---the ones I have now and the ones who have been with me in former
years. What he hoped to find I do not know, but he certainly did not find it. He
might as well have accepted what I told him. It was the truth. I knew Mr. Shaitana
very slightly. I met him at Luxor, as I said, and our acquaintanceship was never
more than an acquaintanceship. Superintendent Battle will not be able to get away
from these facts."
"Perhaps not," said Poirot.
"And you, M. Poirot? Have not you made any inquiries?"
"About you, madame?" "That is what I meant."
Slowly the little man shook his head.
"It would have been of no avail."
"Just exactly what do you mean by that, M. Poirot?"
"I will be quite frank, madame, I have realised from the beginning that, of the
four persons in Mr. Shaitana's room that night, the one with the best brains, with
the coolest, most logical head, was you, madame. If I had to lay money on the
chance of one of those four planning a murder and getting away with it successfully,
it is on you that I should place my money."
Mrs. Lorrimer's brows rose.
"Am I expected to feel flattered?" she asked dryly.
Poirot went on, without paying any attention to her interrupt£on.
"For a crime to be successful, it is usually necessary to think every detail of it
out beforehand. All possible contingencies must be taken into account. The timing must be accurate. The placing must be scrupulously correct. Dr. Roberts might
bungle a crime through haste and over-confidence; Major Despard would probably
be too prudent to commit one; Miss Meredith might lose her head and give herself
away. You, madame, would do none of these things. You would be clearheaded and cool, you are sufficiently resolute of character, and could be sufficiently
obsessed with an idea to the extent of overruling prudence, you are not the kind of
woman to lose her head."
Mrs. Lorrimer sat silent for a minute or two, a curious smile playing round her
lips. At last she said:
"So that is what you think of me, M. Poirot. That I am the kind of woman to
commit an ideal murder."


476
Agatha Christie


"At least you have the amiability not to resent the idea."

"I find it very interesting. So it is your idea that I am the only person who

could successfully have murdered Shaitana?"

Poirot said slowly:

"There is a difficulty there, madame."

"Really? Do tell me?"

"You may have noticed that I said just now a phrase something like this: 'For'a
crime to be successful it is usually necessary to plan every detail of it carefully
beforehand.' 'Usually' is the word to which I want to draw your attention. For
there/s another type of successful crime. Have you ever said suddenly to any one,
'Throw a stone and see if you can hit that tree,' and the person obeys quickly,
without thinking--and surprisingly often he does hit the tree? But when he comes
to repeat the throw it is not so easy--for he has begun to think. 'So hard--no
harder--a little more to the right--to the left.' The first was an almost unconscious
action, the body obeying the mind as the body of an animal does. Eh bien, madame, there is a type of crime like that--a crime committed on the spur of the
moment--an inspiration--a flash of genius--without time to pause or think. And that, madame, was the kind of crime that killed Mr. Shaitana. A sudden dire

necessity, a flash of inspiration, rapid execution."

He shook his head.

"And that, madame, is not your type of crime at all. If you killed Mr. Shaitana,
it should have been a premeditated crime.';

"I see." Her hand waved softly to and fro, keeping the heat of the fire from her
face. "And, of course, it wasn't a premeditated crime, so I couldn't have killed

him---eh, M. Poirot?"

Poirot bowed.

"That is right, madame."

"And yet "She leaned forward, her waving hand stopped. "I did kill
Shaitana, M. Poirot .... "


CHAPTER 26
The Truth


There was a pausea very long pause.

The room was growing dark. The firelight leaped and flickered.

Mrs. Lorrimer and Hercule Poirot looked not at each other, but at the fire. It

was as though time was momentarily in abeyance.

Then Hercule Poirot sighed and stirred.

"So it was that--all the time .... Why did you kill him, madame?"

"I think you know why, M. Poirot."

"Because he knew something about you--something that had happened long
ago?"

"Yes."

"And that something wasanother death, madame?"
She bowed her head.
Poirot said gently:



Cards on the Table
477

"Why did you tell me? What made you send for me today?"
"You told me once that I should do so some day."
"Yes--that is, I hoped .... I knew, madame, that there was only one way of
learning the truth as far as you were concerned and that was by your own free
will. If you did not choose to speak, you would not do so, and you would never give
yourself away. But there was a chance that you yourself might w/sh to speak."
Mrs. Lorrimer nodded.
"It was clever of you to foresee that--the weariness--the loneliness
"
Her voice died away.

Poirot looked at her curiously.
"So it has been like that? Yes, I can understand it might be .... "
"Alonequite alone," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "No one knows what that means
unless they have lived, as I have lived, with the knowledge of what one has done."
Poirot said gently:
"Is it an impertinence, madame, or may I be permitted to offer my
sympathy?'
She bent her head a little.
"Thank you, M. Poirot."
There was another pause, then Poirot said, speaking in a slightly brisker tone:
"Am I to understand, madame, that you took the words Mr. Shaitana spoke at
dinner as a direct menace aimed at you?"
She nodded.
"I realised at once that he was speaking so that one person should understand
him. That person was myself. The reference to a woman's weapon being poison was
meant for me. He knew. I had suspected it once before. He had brought the
conversation round to a certain famous trial, and I saw his eyes watching me. There
was a kind of uncanny knowledge in them. But, of course, that night I was quite
sure."
"And you were sure, too, of his future intentions?"
Mrs. Lorrimer said dryly:
"It was hardly likely that the presence of Superintendent Battle and yourself
was an accident. I took it that Shaitana was going to advertise his own cleverness by
pointing out to you both that he had discovered something that no one else had
suspected."
"How soon did you make up your mind to act, madame?"
Mrs. Lorrimer hesitated a little.
"It is difficult to remember exactly when the idea came into my mind," she
said. "I had noticed the dagger before going in to dinner. When we returned to the
drawing-room I picked it up and slipped it into my sleeve. No one saw me do it. I
made sure of that."
"It would be dexterously done, I have no doubt, madame."
"I made up my mind then exactly what I was going to do. I had only to carry it
out. It was risky, perhaps, but I considered that it was worth trying.'
"That is your coolness, your successful weighing of chances, coming into play.
Yes, I see that."
"We started to play bridge," continued Mrs. Lorrimer. Her voice was cool and
unemotional. "At last an opportunity arose. I was dummy. I strolled across the
room to the fireplace. Shaitana had dozed off to sleep. I looked over at the others.
They were all intent on the game. I leant over and--and did it "
Her voice shook just a little, but instantly it regained its cool aloofness.
"I spoke to him. It came into my head that that would make a kind of alibi for


480
Agatha Christie

"I really believe you are mad, M. Poirot. If I am willing to admit I committed
the crime, I should not be likely to lie about the way I did it. What would be the
point of such a thing?"
Poirot got up again and took one turn round the room. When he came back to
his seat his manner had changed. He was gentle and kindly.
"You did not kill Shaitana," he said softly. "I see that now. I see everything.
Harley Street. And little Anne Meredith standing forlorn on the pavement. I see,
too, another girl--a very long time ago, a girl who has gone through life always
alone--terribly alone. Yes, I see all that. But one thing I do not see--why are you
so certain that Anne Meredith did it?"
"Really, M. Poirot "
"Absolutely useless to protest--to lie further to me, madame. I tell you, I
know the truth. I know the very emotions that swept over you that day in Harley
Street. You would not have done it for Major Despard, non plus. You would not
have done it for Dr. Roberts--oh, no! But Anne Meredith is different. You have
compassion for her, because she has done what you once did. You do not know
even--or so I imaginewhat reason she had for the crime. But you are quite sure
she did it. You were sure that first evening--the evening it happened--when
Superintendent Battle invited you to give your views on the case. Yes, I know it
all, you see. It is quite useless to lie further to me. You see that, do you not?"
He paused for an answer, but none came. He nodded his head in satisfaction.
"Yes, you are sensible. That is good. It is a very noble action that you perform
there, madame, to take the blame on yourself and to let this child escape."
"You forget," said Mrs. Lorrimer in a dry voice, "I am not an innocent woman.
Years ago, M. Poirot, I killed my husband "
There
was a moment's silence.
"I see," said Poirot. "It is justice. After all, only justice. You have the logical mind.
You are willing to suffer for the act you committed. Murder is murder--it does
not matter who the victim is. Madame, you have courage, and you have clearsightedness.
But I ask of you once more: How can you be so sure? How do you know that it was Anne Meredith who killed Mr. Shaitana?'
A
deep sigh broke from Mrs. Lorrimer. Her last resistance had gone down before
Poirot's insistence. She answered his question quite simply like a child.
"Because,"
she said, "I saw her."

CHAPTER
27 The
EyeWitness

Suddenly
Poirot laughed. He could not help it. His head went back, and his high Gallic
laugh filled the room.
"Pardon,
madame," he said, wiping his eyes. "I could not help it. Here we argue
and we reason! We ask questions! We invoke the psychology--and all the time there was an eye-witness of the crime. Tell me, I pray of you."
"It was fairly late in the evening. Anne Meredith was dummy. She got up anQ looked
over her partner's hand, and then she moved about the room. The hand wasn't
very interesting--the conclusion was inevitable. I didn't need to concen-


Cards on the Table
481


trate on the cards. Just as we got to the last three tricks I looked over towards the
fireplace. Anne Meredith was bent over Mr. Shaitana. As I watched, she
straightened herself her hand had been actually on his breast--a gesture which
awakened my surprise. She straightened herself, and I saw her face and her quick
look over towards us. Guilt and fear--that is what I saw on her face. Of course, I
didn't know what had happened then. I only wondered what on earth the girl could

have been doing. Later--I knew."

Poirot nodded.

"But she did not know that you knew. She did not know that you had seen
her?"

"Poor child," said Mrs. Lorrimer. "Young, frightened--her way to make in

the world. Do you wonder that I--well, held my tongue?"

"No, no, I do not wonder."

"Especially knowing that I--that I myself "She finished the sentence with

a shrug. "It was certainly not my place to stand accuser. It was up to the police."
"Quite so--but to-day you have gone further than that."
Mrs. Lorrimer said grimly:

"I've never been a very soft-hearted or compassionate woman, but I suppose
these qualities grow upon one in one's old age. I assure you, I'm not often actuated
by pity."

"It is not always a very safe guide, madame. Mademoiselle Anne is young, she
is fragile, she looks timid and frightened--oh, yes, she seems a very worthy subject
for compassion. But I, I do not agree. Shall I tell you, madame, why Miss Anne
Meredith killed Mr. Shaitana? It was because he knew that she had previously

killed an elderly lady to whom she was companion
because that lady had found

her out in a petty theft."

Mrs. Lorrimer looked a little startled.

"Is that true, M. Poirot?"

"I have no doubt of it, whatsoever. She is so so-so gentlc one would say.
Pah! She is dangerous, madame, that little Mademoiselle Anne! Where her own
safety, her own comfort, is concerned, she will strike wildly--treacherously. With
Mademoiselle Anne those two crimes will not be the end. She will gain confidence
from them .... "

Mrs. Lorrimer said sharply:

"What you say is horrible, M. Poirot. Horrible!"

Poirot rose.

"Madame, I will now take my leave. Reflect on what I have said."

Mrs. Lorrimer was looking a little uncertain of herself. She said with an
attempt at her old manner:

"If it suits me, M. Poirot, I shall deny this whole conversation. You have no
witnesses, remember. What I have just told you that I saw on that fatal evening

is--well, private between ourselves."

Poirot said gravely.

"Nothing shall be done without your consent, madame. And be at peace; I

have my own methods. Now that I know what I am driving at
"

He took her hand and raised it to his lips.

"Permit me to tell you, madame, that you are a most remarkable woman. All
my homage and respects. Yes, indeed, a woman in a thousand. Why, you have not
even done what nine hundred and ninety-nine women out of a thousand could not
have resisted doing."

"What is that?"



482
Agatha Christie


"Told me just why you killed your husband
and how entirely justified such a

proceeding really was."

Mrs. Lorrimer drew herself up.

"Really, M. Poirot," she said stiffly. "My reasons were entirely my own
business."

"Magnifique!" said Poirot, and, once more raising her hand to his lips, he left
the room.

It was cold outside the house, and he looked up and down for a taxi, but there
was none in sight.

He began to walk in the direction of King's Road.

As he walked he was thinking hard. Occasionally he nodded his head; once he
shook it.

He looked back over his shoulder. Some one was going up the steps of Mrs.
Lorrimer's house. In figure it looked very like Anne Meredith. He hesitated for a
minute, wondering whether to turn back or not, but in the end he went on.

On arrival at home, he found that Battle had gone without leaving any
message.

He proceeded to ring the superintendent up.

"Hallo." Battle's voice can through. "Got anything?"

"Je crois bien. Mon ami, we must get after the Meredith girl---and quickly." "I'm getting after her but why quickly?"
"Because, my friend, she may be dangerous."
Battle was silent for a minute or two. Then he said:

"I know what you mean. But there's no one .... Oh, well, we mustn't take
chances. As a matter of fact, I've written her. Official note, saying I'm calling to see

her to-morrow. I thought it might be a good thing to get her rattled." "It is a possibility, at least. I may accompany you?" '
"Naturally. Honoured to have your company, M. Poirot."
Poirot hung up the receiver with a thoughtful face.

His mind was not quite at rest. He sat for a long time in front of his fire,

frowning to himself. At last, putting his fears and doubts aside, he went to bed. "We will see in the morning," he murmured.

But of what the morning would bring he had no idea.


CHAPTER 28
Suicide


The summons came by telephone at the moment when Poirot was sitting down to
his morning coffee and rolls.

He lifted the telephone receiver, and Battle's voice spoke:

"That M. Poirot?"

"Yes, it is I. Qu'est ce qu'il y a?"

The mere inflection of the superintendent's voice had told him that something

had happened. His own vague misgivings came back to him.
"But quickly, my friend, tell me."
"It's Mrs. Lorrimer."



Cards on the Table
483


"Lorrimer--yes?"

"What the devil did you say to her-or did she say to you--yesterday? You
never told me anything; in fact, you let me think that the Meredith girl was the one
we were after."

Poirot said quietly:

"What has happened?"

"Suicide."

"Mrs. Lorrimer has committed suicide?"

"That's right. It seems she has been very depressed and unlike herself lately.

Her doctor had ordered her some sleeping stuff. Last night she took an overdose.'
Poirot drew a deep breath.

"There is no question of accident?"

"Not the least. It's all cut and dried. She wrote to the three of them.'

"Which three?"

"The other three. Roberts, Despard and Miss Meredith. All fair and square--no
beating about the bush. Just wrote that she would like them to know that she
was taking a short-cut out of all the mess--that it was she who had killed Shaitana
and that she apologised---apologised!--to all three of them for the inconvenience
and annoyance they had suffered. Perfectly calm, business-like letter, Absolutely

typical of the woman. She was a cool customer all right."

For a minute or two Poirot did not answer.

So this was Mrs. Lorrimer's final word. She had determined, after all, to
shield Anne Meredith. A quick painless death instead of a protracted painful one,
and her last action an altruistic one the saving of the girl with whom she felt a
secret bond of sympathy. The whole thing planned and carried out with quite
ruthless eiciency--a suicide carefully announced to the three interested parties.
What a woman! His admiration quickened. It was like her like her clear-cut
determination, her insistence on what she had decided being carried out.

He had thought to have convinced her but evidently she had preferred her

own judgment. A woman of very strong will.

Battle's voice cut into his meditations. ·

"What the devil did you say to her yesterday? You must have put the wind up
her, and this is the result. But you implied that the result of your interview was
definite suspicion of the Meredith girl."

Poirot was silent a minute or two. He felt that, dead, Mrs. Lorrimer

constrained him to her will, as she could not have done if she were living.
He said at last slowly: "I was in error .... "

There were unaccustomed words on his tongue, and he did not like them.
"You made a mistake, eh?" said Battle. "All the same, she must have thought
you were on to her. It's a bad business letting her slip through our fingers like
this.'

"You could not have proved anything against her," said Poirot.

"No--I suppose that's true Perhaps
it's all for the best. You---er
idn't
mean this to happen, M.
Poirot?"
Poirot's disclaimer was indignant. Then he
said:
"Tell me exactly what has
occurred.'
"Roberts opened his letters just before eight o'clock. He lost no time,
dashed off at once in his car, leaving his parlourmaid to communicate with us, which
she did. He got to the house to find that Mrs. Lorrimer hadn't been called yet,
rushed up to her bedroom but it was too late. He tried artificial respiration, but
there




484
Agatha Christie


was nothing doing. Our divisional surgeon arrived soon after and confirmed his
treatment."

"What was the sleeping stuff?."
"Veronal, I think. One of the Barbituric group, at any rate. There was a bottle
of tablets by her bed."

"What about the other two? Did they not try to communicate with you?"
"Despard is out of town. He hasn't had this morning's post."
"And-Miss Meredith?"
"I've just rung her up." "Eh bien?"

"She had just opened the letter a few moments before my call came through.
Post is later there."

"What was her reaction?"

"A perfectly proper attitude. Intense relief decently veiled. Shocked and
grieved--that sort of thing."

Poirot paused a moment, then he said:
"Where are you now, my friend?" "At Cheyne Lane."

"Bien. I will come round immediately."

In the hall at Cheyne Lane he found Dr. Roberts on the point of departure.
The doctor's usual florid manner was rather in abeyance this morning. He looked
pale and shaken.

"Nasty business this, M. Poirot. I can't say I'm not relieved from my own
point of view--but, to tell you the truth, it's a bit of a shock. I never really thought
for a minute that it was Mrs. Lorrimer who stabbed Shaitana. It's been the greatest
surprise to me." .

"I, too, am surprised."

"Quiet, well-bred, self-contained woman. Can't imagine her doing a violent
thing like that. What was the motive, I wonder? Oh, well, we shall never know
now. I confess I'm curious, though.'

"It must take a load off your mind--this occurrence."

"Oh, it does, undoubtedly. It would be hypocrisy not to admit it. It's not very
pleasant to have a suspicion of murder hanging over you. As for the poor woman

herself well, it was undoubtedly the best way out.'
"So she thought herself.'
Roberts nodded.

"Conscience, I suppose," he said as he let himself out of the house.

Poirot shook his head thoughtfully. The doctor had misread the situation. It
was not remorse that had made Mrs. Lorrimer take her life.

On his way upstairs he paused to say a few words of comfort to the elderly
parlourmaid, who was weeping quietly.

"It's so dreadful, sir. So very dreadful. We were all so fond of her. And you
having tea with her yesterday so nice and quiet. And now to-day she's gone. I shall
never forget this morning--never as long as I live. The gentleman pealing at the
bell. Rang three times, he did, before I could get to it. And, 'Where's your
mistress?' he shot out at me. I was so flustered, I couldn't hardly answer. You see,
we never went in to the mistress till she rang--that was her orders. And I just
couldn't get out anything. And the doctor, he says, 'Where's her room?' and ran up
the stairs, and me behind him, and I showed him the door, and he rushes in, not so
much as knocking, and takes one look at her lying there, and, 'Too late,' he says.
She was dead, sir. But he sent me for brandy and hot water, and he tried desperate



Cards on the Table
485

to bring her back, but it couldn't be done. And then the police coming and all--it
isn't--it isn't--decent, sir. Mrs. Lorrimer wouldn't have liked it. And why the
police? It's none of their business, surely, even if an accident has occurred and the
poor mistress did take an overdose by mistake."
Poirot did not reply to her question.
He said:
"Last night, was your mistress quite as usual? Did she seem upset or worried
at all?"
"No, I don't think so, sir. She was tired--and I think she was in pain. She
hasn't been well lately, sir."
"No, I know."
The sympathy in his tone made the woman go on.
"She was never one for complaining, sir, but both cook and I had been
worried about her for some time. She couldn't do as much as she used to do, and
things tired her. I think, perhaps, the young lady coming after you left was a bit too
much for her."
With his foot on the stairs, Poirot turned back.
"The young lady? Did a young lady come here yesterday evening?"
"Yes, sir. Just after you left, it was. Miss Meredith, her name was."
"Did she stay long?"
"About an hour, sir."
Poirot was silent for a minute or two, then he said:
"And afterwards?"
"The mistress went to bed. She had dinner in bed. She said she was tired."
Again Poirot was silent; then he said:
"Do you know if your mistress wrote any letters yesterday evening?" "Do you mean after she went to bed? I don't think so, sir."
"But you are not sure?"
"There were some letters on the hall table ready to be posted, sir. We always
took them last thing before shutting up. But I think they had been lying there since
earlier in the day."
"How many were there?"
"Two or three---I'm not quite sure, sir. Three, I think."
"You--or cook whoever posted them--did not happen to notice to whom
they were addressed? Do not be offended at my question. It is of the utmost
importance."
"I went to the post myself with them, sir. I noticed the top one---it was to
Fortnum and Mason's. I couldn't say as to the others."
The woman's tone was earnest and sincere.
"Are you sure there were not more than three letters?"
"Yes, sir, I'm quite certain of that."
Poirot nodded his head gravely. Once more he started up the staircase. Then
he sai&.
"You knew, I take it, that your mistress took medicine to make her sleep?" "Oh, yes, sir, it was the doctor's orders. Dr. Lang."
"Where was this sleeping medicine kept?"
"In the little cupboard in the mistress's room."
Poirot did not ask any further questions. He went upstairs. His face was very
grave.
On the upper landing Battle greeted him. The superintendent looked worried
and harassed.


486
Agatha Chrtie


"I'm glad you've come, M. Poirot. Let me introduce you to Dr. Davidson."

The divisional surgeon shook hands. He was a tall, melancholy man.

"The luck was against us,' he said. "An hour or two earlier, and we might have

saved her."

"H'm," said Battle. "I mustn't say so officially, but I'm not sorry. She was a--well,
she was a lady. I don't know what her reasons were for killing Shaitana, but
she may just conceivably have been justified."

"In any case," said Poirot, "it is doubtful if she would have lived to stand her
trial. She was a very ill woman."

The surgeon nodded in agreement.

"I should say you were quite right. Well, perhaps it is all for the best."

He started down the stairs.

Battle moved after him.

"One minute, doctor."

Poirot, his hand on the bedroom door, murmured, "I may enter--yes?"

Battle nodded over his shoulder. "Quite all right. We're through." Poirot
passed into the room, closing the door behind him ....

He went over to the bed and stood looking down at the quiet, dead face.

He was very disturbed.

Had the dead woman gone to the grave in a last determined effort to save a
young girl from death and disgrace---or was there a different, a more sinister
explanation?

There were certain facts ....

Suddenly he bent down, examining a dark, diseoloured bruise on the dead
woman's arm.

He straightened himself up again. There was a strange, cat-like gleam in his
eyes that certain close associates of his would have recognised.

He left the room quickly and went downstairs. Battle and a subordinate were

at the telephone. The latter laid down the receiver and said: "He hasn't come back, sir."
Battle said:

"Despard. I've been trying to get him. There's a letter for him with the
Chelsea postmark all right."

Poirot asked an irrelevant question.

"Had Dr. Roberts had his breakfast when he came here?"

Battle stared. '

"No," he said, "I remember he mentioned that he'd come out without it." "Then he will be at his house now. We can get him."
"But why--?"

But Poirot was already busy at the dial. Then he spoke:

"Dr. Roberts? It is Dr. Roberts speaking? Mais oui, it is Poirot here. Just one
question. Are you well acquainted with the handwriting of Mrs. Lorrimer?"

"Mrs. Lorrimer's handwriting? I--no, I don't know that I'd ever seen it
before."

'Je vous remercie."

Poirot laid down the receiver quickly.

Battle was staring at him.

"What's the big idea, M. Poirot?" he asked quietly.

Poirot took him by the arm.

"Listen, my friend. A few minutes after I left this house yesterday Anne
Meredith arrived. I actually saw her going up the steps, though I was not quite



Cards on the Table
487

sure of her identity at the time. Immediately after Anne Meredith left Mrs.
Lorrimer went to bed. As far as the maid knows, she did not write any letters then. And, for reasons which you will understand when I recount to.you our interview, I do not believe that she wrote those three letters before my visit. When did she
write them, then?"
"After the servants had gone to bed?" suggested Battle. "She got up and
posted them herself."
"That is possible, yes, but there is another possibility--that she did not write
them at all."
Battle whistled.
"My God, you mean.--"
The telephone trilled. The sergeant picked up the receiver. He listened a
minute, then turned to Battle.
"Sergeant O'Connor speaking from Despard's flat, sir. There's reason to
believe that Despard's down at WallingfordonThames."
Poirot caught Battle by the arm.
"Quickly, my friend. We, too, must go to Wallingford. I tell you, I am not
easy in my mind. This may not be the end. I tell you again, my friend, this young
lady, she is dangerous."

CHAPTER 29

Accident

"Arm, imm?,,
l," said Rhoda.
"No, really, Anne, don't answer with half your mind on a crossword puzzlel I
want you to attend to me."
"I am attending."
Anne sat bolt upright and put down the paper.
"That's better. Look here, Anne." Bhoda hesitated. "About this man coming."
"Superintendent Battle?"
"Yes. Anne, I wish you'd tell him--about being at the Bensons'."
Anne's voice grew rather cold.
"Nonsense. Why should I?"
"Becausewell, it might look--as though you'd been keeping something
back. I'm sure it would be better to mention it." "I can't very well now," said Anne coldly. "I wish you had in the first place."
"Well, it's too late to bother about that now."
"Yes." Rhoda did not sound convinced.
Anne said rather irritably:
"In any case, I can't see why. It's got nothing to do with all this."
"No, of course not."
"I was only there about two months. He only wants these things as--well--references.
Two months doesn't count."
"No, I know. I expect I'm being foolish, but it does worry me rather. I feel you


488
Agatha Christie

ought to mention it. You see, if it came out some other way, it might look rather
bad--your keeping dark about it, I mean."
"I don't see how it can come out. Nobody knows but you."
"N-no?"
Anne pounced on the slight hesitation in Rhoda's voice.
"Why, who does know?"
"Well, every one at Combeacre," said Rhoda after a moment's pause.
"Oh, that!" Anne dismissed it with a shrug. "The superintendent isn't likely to
come up against any one from there. It would be an extraordinary coincidence ffhe
did."
"Coincidences happen."
"Rhoda, you're being extraordinary about this. Fuss, fuss, fuss."
"I'm terribly sorry, darling. Only you know what the police might be like if
they thought you werewell hiding things."
"They won't know. Who's to tell them? Nobody knows but you."
It was the second time she had said those words. At this second repetition her
voice changed a little--something queer and speculative came into it.
"Oh, dear, I wish you would," sighed Rhoda unhappily.
She looked guiltily at Anne, but Anne was not looking at her. She was sitting
with a frown on her face, as though working out some calculation.
"Rather fun, Major Despard turning up," said Rhoda. "What? Oh, yes."
"Anne, he/s attractive. If you don't want him, do, do, do hand him over to
me!"
"Don't be absurd, Rhoda. He doesn't care tuppence for me."
"Then why does he keep on turning up? Of course he's keen on you. You're
just the sort of distressed damsel that he'd enjoy rescuing. You look so beautifully
helpless, Anne."
"He's equally pleasant to both of us."
"That's only his niceness. But if you don't want him, I could do the
sympathetic friend act--console his broken heart; etc., etc., and in the end I might
get him. Who knows?" Rhoda concluded inelegantly.
"I'm sure you're quite welcome to him, my dear," said Anne, laughing.
"He's got such a lovely back to his neck," sighed Rhoda. "Very brick red and
muscular."
"Darling, must you be so mawkish?" "Do you like him, Anne?"
"Yes, very much."
"Aren't we prim and sedate? I think he likes me a little---not as much as you,
but a little."
"Oh, but he does like you," said Anne.
Again there was an unusual note in her voice, but Rhoda did not hear it.
"What time is our sleuth coming?" she asked.
"Twelve," said Anne. She was silent for a minute or two, then she said, "It's
only half-past ten now. Let's go out on the river.'
"But isn't--didn't Despard say he'd come round about eleven?"
"Why should we wait in for him? We can leave a message with Mrs. Astwell
which way we've gone, and he can follow us along the towpath."
"In fact, don't make yourself cheap, dear, as mother always said!" laughed
Rhoda. "Come on, then."
She went out of the room and through the garden door. Anne followed her.


Cards on the Table
489


Major Despard called at Wendon Cottage about ten minutes later. He was before
his time, he knew, so he was a little surprised to find both girls had already gone
out.

He went through the garden and across the fields and turned to the right along
the towpath.

Mrs. Astwell remained a minute or two looking after him, instead of getting on
with her morning chores.

"Sweet on one or other of 'em, he is," she observed to herself. "I think it's
Miss Anne, but I'm not certain. He don't give away much by his face. Treats 'em
both alike. I'm not sure they ain't both sweet on him, too. If so, they won't be such
dear friends so much longer..Nothing like a gentleman for coming between two
young ladies."

Pleasurably excited by the prospect of assisting at a budding romance, Mrs.
Astwell turned indoors to her task of washing up the breakfast things, when once
again the door-bell rang.

"Drat that doo," said Mrs. Astwell. "Do it on purpose, they do. Parcel, I
suppose. Or might be a telegram."

She moved slowly to the front door.

Two gentlemen stood there, a small foreign gentleman and an exceedingly

English, big, burly gentleman. The latter she had seen before, she remembered.
"Miss Meredith at home?" asked the big man.
Mrs. Astwell shook her head.
"Just gone out."

"Really? Which way? We didn't meet her."

Mrs. Astwell, secretly studying the amazing moustache of the other gentleman
and deciding that they looked an unlikely pair to be friends, volunteered
further information.

"Gone out on the river," she explained.
The other gentleman broke in:
"And the other lady? Miss Dawes?"
"They've both gone."

"Ah, thank you," said Battle. "Let me see, which way does one get to the
river?"

"First turning to the left, down the lane," Mrs. Astwell replied promptly.
"When you get to the towpath, go right. I heard them say that's the way they were
going," she added helpfully. "Not above a quarter of an hour ago. You'll soon catch
em up.

"And I wonder," she added to herself as she unwillingly closed the front door,
having stared inquisitively at their retreating backs, "who you two may be. Can't
place you, somehow."

Mrs. Astwell returned to the kitchen sink, and Battle and Poirot duly took the
first turning to the left--a straggling lane which soon ended abruptly at the
towpath.

Poirot was hurrying along, and Battle eyed him curiously.
"Anything the matter, M. Poirot? You seem in a mighty hurry." "It is true. I am uneasy, my friend."
"Anything particular?"
Poirot shook his head.

"No. But there are possibilities. You never know .... "

"You've something in your head," said Battle. "You were urgent that we



490
Agatha Christie


should come down here this morning without losing a moment--and, my word,
you made Constable Turner step on the gas! What are you afraid of?. The girl's shot
her bolt."

Poirot was silent.

"What are you afraid of?." Battle repeated.

"What is one always afraid of in these cases?"

Battle nodded.

"You're quite right. I wonder
"

"You wonder what, my friend?"

Battle said slowly:

"I'm wondering if Miss Meredith knows that her friend told Mrs. Oliver a
certain fact."

Poirot nodded his head in vigorous appreciation.

"Hurry, my friend," he said.

They hastened along the river bank. There was no craft visible on the water's
surface, but presently they rounded a bend, and Poirot suddenly stopped dead.
Battle's quick eyes saw also.

"Major Despard," he said.

Despard was about two hundred yards ahead of them, striding along the river
bank.

A little farther on the two girls were in view in a punt on the water, Rhoda
punting--Anne lying and laughing up at her. Neither of them were looking
towards the bank.

And then--it happened. Anne's hand outstretched, Rhoda's stagger, her
plunge overboard her desperate grasp at Anne's sleeve--the rocking boat--then
an overturned punt and two girls struggling in the water.

"See it?" cried Battle as he started to run. "Little Meredith caught her round
the ankle and tipped her in. My God, that's her fourth murder!"

They were both running hard. But some one was ahead of them. It was clear
that neither girl could swim, but Despard had run quickly along the path to the
nearest point, and now he plunged in and swam towards them.

"Mon Dieu, this is interesting," cried Poirot. He caught at Battle's arm.
"Which of them will he go for first?"

The two girls were not together. About twelve yards separated them.

Despard swam powerfully towards them--there was no check in his stroke.
He was making straight for Rhoda.

Battle, in his turn, reached the nearest bank and went in. Despard had just
brought Rhoda successfully to shore. He hauled her up, flung her down and

plunged in again, swimming towards the spot where Anne had just gone under. "Be careful," called Battle. "Weeds."

He and Battle got to the spot at the same time, but Anne had gone under
before they reached her.

They got her at last and between them towed her to the shore.

Rhoda was being ministered to by Poirot. She was sitting up now, her breath
coming unevenly.

Despard and Battle laid Anne Meredith down.

"Artificial respiration," said Battle. "Only thing to do. But I'm afraid she's
gone."

He set to work methodically. Poirot stood by, ready to relieve him.
Despard dropped down by Rhoda. "Are you all right?" he asked hoarsely.



Cards on the Table
491


She said slowly:

"You saved me. You saved me "She
held out her hands to him, and as he
took
them she burst suddenly into tears. He
said, "Rhoda .... " Their
hands clung together ....
He
had a sudden vision---of African scrub, and Rhoda, laughing and adventurous,
by his side ....

CHAPTER
30 Murder


"Do you mean to say," said Rhoda incredulously, "that Anne meant to push me in?
I
know it felt like it. And she knew I can't swim. But but was it deliberate?" "It
was quite deliberate," said Poirot.
They
were driving through the outskirts of London.
"But
but why?"
Poirot
did not reply for a minute or two. He thought he knew one of the motives
that had led Anne to act as she had done, and that motive was sitting next to
Rhoda at the minute.
Superintendent
Battle coughed.
"You'll
have to prepare yourself, Miss Dawes, for a bit of a shock. This Mrs. Benson,
your friend lived with, her death wasn't quite the accident that it
appeared--at
least, so we've reason to suppose."
"What
do you mean?"
"We believe," said Poirot, "that Anne Meredith changed two bottles."
"Oh,
no--no, how horrible! It's impossible. Anne? Why should she?"
"She
had her reasons," said Superintendent Battle. "But the point is, Miss Dawes,
that, as far as Miss Meredith knew, you were the only person who could give
us a clue to that incident. You didn't tell her, I suppose, that you'd mentioned it
to Mrs. Oliver?"
Rhoda
said slowly:
"No. I thought she'd be annoyed with me."
"She
would. Very annoyed," said Battle grimly. "But she thought that the
only
danger could come from you, and that's why she decided to er--eliminate

yOU."

"Eliminate? Me? Oh, how beastly! It can't be all true."
"Well,
she's dead now," said Superintendent Battle, "so we might as well leave
it at that; but she wasn't a nice friend for you to have, Miss Dawes-and that's
a fact."
The
car drew up in front of a door.
"We'll
go in to M. Poirot's," said Superintendent Battle, "and have a bit of a talk
about it all."
In
Poirot's sitting-room they were welcomed by Mrs. Oliver, who was entertaining
Dr. Roberts. They were drinking sherry. Mrs. Oliver was wearing one of
the new horsy hats and a velvet dress with a bow on the chest on which reposed a large
piece of apple core.


492
Agatha Christie

"Come in. Come in," said Mrs. Oliver hospitably and quite as though it were
her house and not Poirot's. "As soon as I got your telephone call I rang up Dr.
Roberts, and we came round here. And all his patients are dying, but he doesn't
care. They're probably getting better, really. We want to hear all about
everything."
"Yes, indeed, I'm thoroughly fogged," said Roberts.
"Eh bien," said Poirot. "The case is ended. The murderer of Mr. Shaitana is
found at last."
"So Mrs. Oliver told me. That pretty little thing, Anne Meredith. I can hardly
believe it. A most unbelievable murderess."
"She was a murderess all right," said Battle. "Three murders to her credit--
and not her fault that she didn't get away with a fourth one."
"Incredible!" murmured Roberts.
"Not at all," said Mrs. Oliver. "Least likely person. It seems to work out in
real life just the same as in books."
"It's been an amazing day," said Roberts. "First Mrs. Lorrimer's letter. I
suppose that was a forgery, eh?"
"Precisely. A forgery written in triplicate."
"She wrote one to herself, too?"
"Naturally. The forgery was quite skilful--it would not deceive an expert, of
course--but, then, it was highly unlikely that an expert would have been called in.
All the evidence pointed to Mrs. Lorrimer's having committed suicide."
"You will excuse my curiosity, M. Poirot, but what made you suspect that she
had not committed suicide?"
"A little conversation that I had with a maidservant at Cheyne Lane."
"She told you of Anne Meredith's visit the former evening?"
"That among other things. And then, you see, I had already come to
conclusion in my own mind as to the identity of the guilty person--that is, the
person who killed Mr. Shaitana. That person was not Mrs. Lorrimer."
"What made you suspect Miss Meredith?"
Poirot raised his hand.
"A little minute. Let me approach this matter in my own way. Let me, that is
to say, eliminate. The murderer of Mr. Shaitana was not Mrs. Lorrimer, nor was it
Major Despard, and, curiously enough, it was not Anne Meredith "
He
leaned forward. His voice purred, soP and catlike.
"You see, Dr. Roberts, you were the person who killed Mr. Shaitana; and you
also killed Mrs. Lorrimer .... "

There was at least three minutes' silence. Then Roberts laughed a rather menacing
laugh.
"Are you quite mad, M. Poirot? I certainly did not murder Mr. Shaitana, and I
could not possibly have murdered Mrs. Lorrimer. My dear Battle" he turned to
the Scotland Yard man "are qou standing for this?"
"I think you'd better listen to what M. Poirot has to say,' said Battle QUIETLY.
Poirot said:
"It is true that though I have known for some time that you--and only you--could
have killed Shaitana, it would not be an easy matter to prove it. But MrS.
Lorrimer's case is quite different." He leaned forward. "It is not a case of my
knowing. It is much simpler than that for we have an eye-witness who saw you do.
it."


Cards on the Table
493

Roberts grew very quiet. His eyes glittered. He said sharply:

"You are talking rubbish!"

"Oh, no, I am not. It was early in the morning. You bluffed your way into Mrs.

Lorrimer's room, where she was still heavily asleep under the influence of the drug

she had taken the night before. You bluff again--pretend to see at a glance that she

is dead! You pack the parlourmaid off for brandy--hot water--all the rest of it. You

are left alone in the room. The maid has only had the barest peep. And then what

happens?

"You may not be aware of the fact, Dr. Roberts, but certain firms of window

cleaners specialise in early morning work. A window cleaner with his ladder

arrived at the same time as you did. He placed his ladder against the side of the

house and began his work. The first window he tackled was that of Mrs. Lorrirner's

room. When, however, he saw what was going on, he quickly retired to another

window, but he had seen sornethingfirst. He shall tell us his own story."

Poirot stepped lightly across the floor, turned a door handle, called:

"Come in, Stephens," and returned.

A big awkward-looking man with red hair entered. In his hand he held a

uniformed hat bearing the legend "Chelsea Window Cleaners' Association" Which

he twirled awkwardly.

Poirot said:

"Is there anybody you reeognise in this room?"

The man looked round, then gave a bashful nod of the head towards Dr.

Roberts.

"Him," he said.

"Tell us when you saw him last and what he was doing."

"This morning it was. Eight o'clock job at a lady's house in Cheyne Lane. I

started on the windows there. Lady was in bed. Looked ill she did. She was just

turning her head round on the pillow. This gent I took to be a doctor. He shoved
her sleeve up and jabbed something into her arm just about here
"he
gestured. "She just dropped back on the pillow again. I thought I'd better hop it to
another window, so I did. Hope I didn't do wrong in any way?"
"You did admirably, my friend," said Poirot.
He said quietly:
"Eh bien, Dr. Roberts?"
"A--a simple restorative---" stammered Roberts. "A last hope of bringing her
round. It's monstrous "
Poirot interrupted him.
"A simple restorative?--N-methyl-cyclo-hexenyl-methyl-malonyl urea," said
Poirot. He rolled out the syllables unctuously. "Known more simply as Evipan.
Used an as anaesthetic for short operations. Injected intravenously in large doses it
produces instant unconsciousness. It is dangerous to use it after veronal or any
barbiturates have been given. I noticed the bruised place on her arm where
something had obviously been injected into a vein. A hint to the police surgeon
and the drug was easily discovered by no less a person than Sir Charles Imphrey,
the Home Office Analyst."
"That about cooks your goose, I think," said Superintendent Battle. "No need
to prove the Shaitana business, though, of course, if necessary we can bring a
further charge as to the murder of Mr. Charles Craddockand possibly his Wife
dso."
The mention of those two names finished Roberts. He leaned back in his chair.


494
Agatha Christie

"I throw in my hand," he said. "You've got me! I suppose that sly devil
Shaitana put you wise before you came that evening. And I thought I'd settled his
hash so nicely."
"It isn't Shaitana you've got to thank," said Battle. "The honours lie with M.
Poirot here."
He went to the door and two men entered.
Superintendent Battle's voice became official as he made the formal arrest.
As the door closed behind the accused man Mrs. Oliver said happily, if not
quite truthfully:
"I always said he did it!"

CHAPTER 31
Cards on the Table

It was Poirot's moment, every face was turned to his in eager anticipation.
"You are very kind," he said, smiling. "You know, I think, that I enjoy my
little lecture. I am a prosy old fellow.
"This case, to my mind, has been one of the most interesting cases I have ever
come across. There was nothing, you see, to go upon. There were four people, one
of whom must have committed the crime but which of the four? Was there
anything to tell one? In the material sense--no. There were no tangible clues---no
fingerprints--no incriminating papers or documents. There were only--the people
themselves.
"And one tangible cluethe bridge scores.
"You may remember that from the beginning I showed a particular interest in
those scores. They told me something about the various people who had kept them
and they did more. They gave me one valuable hint. I noticed at once, in the third
rubber, the figure of 1500 above the line. That figure could only represent one
thing--a call of grand slam. Now if a person were to make up their minds to
commit a crime under these somewhat unusual circumstances (that is, during a
rubber game of bridge) that person was clearly running two serious risks. The first
was that the victim might cry out and the second was that even ffthe victim did not
cry out some one of the other three might chance to look up at the psychological
moment and actually witness the deed.
"Now as to the first risk, nothing could be done about it. It was a matter of a
gambler's luck. But something could be done about the second. It stands to reason.
that during an interesting or an exciting hand the attention of the three players
would be wholly on the game, whereas during a dull hand they were more likely to
be looking about them. Now a bid of grand slam is always exciting. It is very
often (as in this case it was) doubled. Every one of the three players is playing
with close attention--the declarer to get his contract, the adversaries to discard
correctly and to get him down. It was, then, a distinct possibility that the murder
was committed during this particular hand and I determined to find out, if I could,
exactly how the bidding had gone. I soon discovered that dummy during this
particular hand had been Dr. Roberts. I bore that in mind and approached the
matter from my second anglepsychological probability. Of the four suspects Mrs.


Cards on Se Tab
495


Lorrimer struck me as by far the most likely to plan and carry out a successful
murder but I could not see her as committing any crime that had to be
improvised on the spur of the moment. On the other hand her manner that first
evening puzzled me. It suggested either that she had committed the murder
herself or that she knew who had committed it. Miss Meredith, Major Despard
and Dr. Roberts were all psychological possibilities, though, as I have already
mentioned, each of them would have committed the crime from an entirely
different angle.

"I next made a second test. I got every one in turn to tell me just what they
remembered of the room. From that I got some very valuable information. First of
all, by far the most likely person to have noticed the dagger was Dr. Roberts. He
was a natural observer of trifles of all kinds--what is called an observant man. Of
the bridge hands, however, he remembered practically nothing at all. I did not
expect him to remember much, but his complete forgetfulness looked as though he
had had something else on his mind all the evening. Again, you see, Dr. Roberts
was indicated.

"Mrs. Lorrimer I found to have a marvellous card memory, and I could well
imagine that with any one of her powers of concentration a murder could easily be
committed close at hand and she would never notice anything. She gave me a
valuable piece of information. The grand slam was bid by Dr. Roberts (quite
unjustifiably)--and he bid it in her suit, not his own, so that she necessarily played
the hand.

"The third test, the test on which Superintendent Battle and I built a good
deal, was the discovery of the earlier murders so as to establish a similarity of
method. Well, the credit for those discoveries belongs to Superintendent Battle, to
Mrs. Oliver and to Colonel Race. Discussing the matter with my friend Battle, he
confessed himself disappointed because there were no points of similarity between
any of the three earlier crimes and that of the murder of Mr. Shaitana. But actually
that was not true. The two murders attributed to Dr. Roberts, when examined
closely, and from the psychological points of view and not the material one, proved
to be almost exactly the same. They, too, had been what I might describe as public murders. A shaving brush boldly infected in the victim's own dressing-room while
the doctor officially washes his hands after a visit. The murder of Mrs. Craddock
under cover of a typhoid inoculation. Again done quite openly--in the sight of the
world, as you might say. And the reaction of the man is the same. Pushed into a
corner, he seizes a chance and acts at one--sheer bold audacious bluff-exactly
like his play at bridge. As at bridge, so in the murder of Shaitana, he took a long
chance and played his cards well. The blow was perfectly struck and at exactly the
right moment.

"Now just at the moment that I had decided quite definitely that Roberts was
the man, Mrs. Lorrimer asked me to come and see her--and quite convincingly
accused herself of the crime! I nearly believed her! For a minute or two I did believe her--and then my little grey cells reasserted their mastery. It could not
beso it was not!

"But what she told me was more difficult still.

"She assured me that she had actually seen Anne Meredith commit the crime.

"It was not till the following morning--when I stood by a dead woman's bed--that
I saw how I could still be right and Mrs. Lorrimer still have spoken the truth.

"Anne Meredith went over to the fireplace--and saw that Mr. Shaitana was
dead! She stopped over him--perhaps stretched out her hand to the gleaming head
of the jewelled pin.



496
Agatha Christie

"Her lips part to call out, but she does not call out. She remembers Shaitana's

talk at dinner. Perhaps he has left some record. She, Anne Meredith, has a motive

for desiring his death. Every one will say that she has killed him. She dare not call

out. Trembling with fear and apprehension she goes back to her seat.

"So Mrs. Lorrimer is right, since she, as she thought, saw the crime

committed but I am right too, for actually she did not see it.

"If Roberts had held his hand at this point, I doubt if we could have ever

brought his crimes home to him. We might have done so-by a mixture ofbluffand

various ingenious devices. I would at any rate have tried.

"But he lost his nerve and once again overbid his hand. And this time the

cards lay wrong for him and he came down heavily.

"No doubt he was uneasy. He knew that Battle was nosing about. He foresaw

the present situation going on indefinitely, the police still searching--and perhaps,

by some miracle--coming on traces of his former crimes. He hit upon the brilliant

idea of making Mrs. Lorrimer the scapegoat for the party. His practised eye

guessed, no doubt, that she was ill and that her life could not be very much

prolonged. How natural in those circumstances for her to choose a quick way out,

and before taking it, confess to the crime! So he manages to get a sample of her

handwriting--forges three identical letters and arrives at the house hot-foot in the

morning with his story of the letter he has just received. His parlourmaid quite

correctly is instructed to ring up the police. All he needs is a start. And he gets it.

By the time the police surgeon arrives it is all over. Dr. Roberts is ready with his

story of artificial respiration that has failed. It is all perfectly plausibleperfectly/
straightforward.
/
"In all this he has no idea of throwing suspicion on Anne Meredith. He d/ooes

not even know of her visit the night before. It is suicide and security only that he is

aiming at.

"It is in fact an awkward moment for him when I ask if he is acquainted with

Mrs. Lorrimer's handwriting. If the forgery has been detected he must save

himself by saying that he has never seen her handwriting. His mind works quickly,

but not quickly enough.

"From Wallingford I telephone to Mrs. Oliver. She plays her part by lulling

his suspicions and bringing him here. And then when he is congratulating himself

that all is well, though not exactly in the way he has planned, the blow falls.

Hercule Poirot springs! And so--the gambler will gather in no more tricks. He has

thrown his cards upon the table. C'estfini."

There was silence. Rhoda broke it with a sigh.

"What amazing luck that window-cleaner happened to be there," she said.

"Luck? Luck? That was not luck, mademoiselle. That was the grey cells of
Hercule Poirot. And that reminds me
"
He went to the door.
"Come in-come in, my dear fellow. You acted your part i merveille."
He returned accompanied by the window cleaner, who now held his red hair
in his hand and who looked somehow a very different person.
"My friend Mr. Gerald Hemmingway, a very promising young actor."
"Then there was no window-cleaner?" cried Rhoda. "Nobody saw him?"
"I saw," said Poirot. "With the eyes of the mind one can see more than with
the eyes of thebody. One leans back and closes the eyes--
Despard said cheerfully:
"Let's stab him, Rhoda, and see if his ghost can come back and find out Who
did it."

 
 

 

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agatha christie - murder in
Mesopotamia


MURDER IN
MESOPOTAMIA


Foreword
by Giles Reilly, M.D.
the events chronicled in this narrative took
place some four years ago. Circumstances
have rendered it necessary, in my opinion, that a straightforward account of them
should be given to the public. There have
been the wildest and most ridiculous rumours
suggesting that important evidence
was suppressed and other nonsense of that
kind. Those misconstructions have appeared
more especially in the American press.
For obvious reasons it was desirable that
the account should not come from the pen
of one of the expedition staff, who might
reasonably be supposed to be prejudiced.
I therefore suggested to Miss Amy Leatheran
that she should undertake the task. She
is obviously the person to do it. She has a
professional character of the highest, she is
not biased by having any previous connec-
VI

tion with the University of Pittstown Expedition
to Iraq and she was an observant
and intelligent eyewitness.
It was not very easy to persuade Miss
Leatheran to undertake this task--in fact,
persuading her was one of the hardest jobs
of my professional career--and even after it
was completed she displayed a curious reluctance
to let me see the manuscript. I discovered
that this was partly due to some
critical remarks she had made concerning my
daughter Sheila. I soon disposed of that, assuring
her that as children criticize their parents
freely in print nowadays, parents are
only too delighted when their offspring come
in for their share of abuse! Her other objection
was extreme modesty about her literary
style. She hoped I would "put the grammar
right and all that." I have, on the contrary, refused to alter so much as a single word.
Miss Leatheran's style in my opinion is vigorous, individual and entirely apposite. If
she calls Hercule Poirot "Poirot" in one
paragraph and "Mr. Poirot" in the next, such a variation is both interesting and
suggestive. At one moment she is, so to
speak, "remembering her manners" (and
hospital nurses are great sticklers for etiquette)
and at the next her interest in what

she is telling is that of a pure human being
_cap and cuffs forgotten!
The only thing I have done is to take the
liberty of writing a first chapter—aided by
a letter kindly supplied by one of Miss
Leatheran's friends. It is intended to be in
the nature of a frontispiece—that is, it gives
a rough sketch of the narrator.
V111

Chapter 1
Foreword
in the hall of the Tigris Palace Hotel in
Baghdad a hospital nurse was finishing a letter.
Her fountain-pen drove briskly over the
paper.
". . . Well, dear, I think that's really
all my news. I must say it's been nice to
see a bit of the world--though England/or
me every time, thank you! The dirt and the mess in Baghdad you wouldn't believe--
and not romantic at all like you 'd think
from the Arabian Nights! Of course, it's
pretty just on the river, but the town itself
is just awful--and no proper shops at all.
Major Kelsey took me through the bazaars,
and of course there's no denying they're quaint--but just a lot of rubbish and hammering
away at copper pans till they make
your head ache--and not what I'd like to
use myself unless I was sure about the

cleaning. You've got to be so careful of
verdigris with copper pans.
"I'll write and let you know if anything
comes of the job that Dr. Reilly spoke
about. He said this American gentleman
was in Baghdad now and might come and
see me this afternoon. Ifs for his wife--she
has 'fancies,' so Dr. Reilly said. He didn't
say any more than that, and of course,
dear, one knows what that usually means (but I hope not actually D.T.'s!). Of
course. Dr. Reilly didn't say anything--
but he had a look--if you know what I
mean. This Dr. Leidner is an archaeologist
and is digging up a mound out in the desert
somewhere for some American museum.
"Well, dear, I will close now. I thought
what you told me about little Stubbins was
simply killing! Whatever did Matron say?
"No more now.
"Yours ever,
"Amy Leatheran."
Enclosing the letter in an envelope, she
addressed it to Sister Curshaw, St. Christopher's
Hospital, London.
As she put the cap on her fountain-pen, one of the native boys approached her.
»

"A gentleman come see you. Dr. Leidner."
Nurse Leatheran turned. She saw a man
of middle height with slightly stooping
shoulders, a brown beard and gentle tired
eyes.
Dr. Leidner saw a woman of thirty-five
of erect, confident bearing. He saw a goodhumoured
face with slightly prominent blue
eyes and glossy brown hair. She looked, he
thought, just what a hospital nurse for a nervous case ought to look. Cheerful, robust,
shrewd and matter of fact.
Nurse Leatheran, he thought, would do.
i

Chapter 2
Introducing Amy Leatheran
I don't pretend to be an author or to know
anything about writing. I'm doing this simply
because Dr. Reilly asked me to, and
somehow when Dr. Reilly asks you to do a
thing you don't like to refuse.
"Oh, but, doctor," I said, "I'm not
literary--not literary at all."
"Nonsense!" he said. "Treat it as case
notes, if you like."
Well, of course, you can look at it that way.
Dr. Reilly went on. He said that an unvarnished
plain account of the Tell Yarimjah
business was badly needed.
"If one of the interested parties writes it,
it won't carry conviction. They'll say it's
biased one way or another."
And of course that was true, too. I was in
it all and yet an outsider, so to speak.
"Why don't you write it yourself, doctor?"
I asked.

"I wasn't on the spot--you were. Besides,"
he added with a sigh, "my daughter
won't let me."
The way he knuckles under to that chit
of a girl of his is downright disgraceful. I
had half a mind to say so, when I saw that
his eyes were twinkling. That was the worst
of Dr. Reilly. You never knew whether he
was joking or not. He always said things in
the same slow melancholy way--but half the
time there was a twinkle underneath it.
"Well," I said doubtfully. "I suppose I could."
"Of course you could."
"Only I don't quite know how to set about
it."
"There's a good precedent for that. Begin
at the beginning, go on to the end and then
leave off."
"I don't even know quite where and what
the beginning was," I said doubtfully.
| "Believe me, nurse, the difficulty of beginning
will be nothing to the difficulty of
knowing how to stop. At least that's the way
it is with me when I have to make a speech.
Some one's got to catch hold of my coattails
and pull me down by main force."
"Oh, you're joking, doctor."

"It's profoundly serious I am. Now what |
about it?"
Another thing was worrying me. After
hesitating a moment or two I said:
"You know, doctor, I'm afraid I might
tend to be--well, a little personal some- |
times."
"God bless my soul, woman, the more
personal you are the better! This is a story
of human beings--not dummies! Be per- _
sonal--be prejudiced--be catty--be anything
you please! Write the thing your
own way. We can always prune out the bits
that are libellous afterwards! You go ahead.
You're a sensible woman, and you'll give a
sensible common-sense account of the business."
So that was that, and I promised to do my
best.
And here I am beginning, but as I said to
the doctor, it's difficult to know just where
to start.
I suppose I ought to say a word or two
about myself. I'm thirty-two and my name
is Amy Leatheran. I took my training at St.
Christopher's and after that did two years'
maternity. I did a certain amount of private
work and I was for four years at Miss Bendix's
Nursing Home in Devonshire Place. I

came out to Iraq with a Mrs. Kelsey. I'd
attended her when her baby was born. She was coming out to Baghdad with her husband
and had already got a children's nurse
booked who had been for some years with
friends others out there. Their children were
coming home and going to school, and the
nurse had agreed to go to Mrs. Kelsey when
they left. Mrs. Kelsey was delicate and nervous
about the journey out with so young a
child, so Major Kelsey arranged that I
should come out with her and look after her
and the baby. They would pay my passage
home unless we found some one needing a
nurse for the return journey.
Well, there is no need to describe the
Kelseys--the baby was a little love and
Mrs. Kelsey quite nice, though rather the
fretting kind. I enjoyed the voyage very
much. I'd never been a long trip on the sea
before.
Dr. Reilly was on board the boat. He was
a black-haired, long-faced man who said all
sorts of funny things in a low, sad voice. I
think he enjoyed pulling my leg and used to
make the most extraordinary statements to
see if I would swallow them. He was the civil
surgeon at a place called Hassanieh--a day
and a halts journey from Baghdad.

I had been about a week in Baghdad when
I ran across him and he asked when I was
leaving the Kelseys. I said that it was funny
his asking that because as a matter of fact
the Wrights (the other people I mentioned) were
going home earlier than they had meant |
to and their nurse was free to come straightaway.

He said that he had heard about the
Wrights and that that was why he had asked
me.
"As a matter of fact, nurse, I've got a
possible job for you."
"A case?"
He screwed his face up as though considering.

"You could hardly call it a case. It's just
a lady who has--shall we say--fancies?"
"Oh!" I said.
(One usually knows what that means--
drink or drugs!)
Dr. Reilly didn't explain further. He was
very discreet.
"Yes," he said. "A Mrs. Leidner. Husband's
an American--an American Swede
to be exact. He's the head of a large American
dig."
And he explained how this expedition was I
excavating the site of a big Assyrian city

something like Nineveh. The expedition
house was not actually very far from Hassanieh,
but it was a lonely spot and Dr. Leidner
had been worried for some time about
his wife's health.
"He's not been very explicit about it, but
it seems she has these fits of recurring nervous
terrors."
"Is she left alone all day amongst natives?"
I asked.
"Oh, no, there's quite a crowd--seven or
eight. I don't fancy she's ever alone in the
house. But there seems to be no doubt that
she's worked herself up into a queer state.
Leidner has any amount of work on his
shoulders, but he's crazy about his wife and
it worries him to know she's in this state.
He felt he'd be happier if he knew that some
responsible person with expert knowledge
was keeping an eye on her."
"And what does Mrs. Leidner herself
think about it?"
Dr. Reilly answered gravely.
"Mrs. Leidner is a very lovely lady. She's
seldom of the same mind about anything two days on end. But on the whole she favours
the idea." He added, "She's an odd woman.
A mass of affectation and, I should fancy, a
champion liar--but Leidner seems honestly

to believe that she is scared out of her life
by something or other."
"What did she herself say to you, doctor?"
"Oh, she hasn't consulted me! She doesn't
like me anyway--for several reasons. It was
Leidner who came to me and propounded
this plan. Well, nurse, what do you think of
the idea? You'd see something of the country
before you go home--they'll be digging for
another two months. And excavation is quite
interesting work."
After a moment's hesitation while I turned
the matter over in my mind:
"Well," I said. "I really think I might try
it."
"Splendid," said Dr. Reilly, rising. "Leidner's
in Baghdad now. I'll tell him to come
round and see if he can fix things up with
you."
Dr. Leidner came to the hotel that afternoon.
He was a middle-aged man with a
rather nervous, hesitating manner. There
was something gentle and kindly and rather
helpless about him.
He sounded very devoted to his wife, but
he was very vague about what was the matter
with her.
"You see," he said, tugging at his beard
in a rather perplexed manner that I later

came to know to be characteristic of him,
"my wife is really in a very nervous state.
I^-Fin quite worried about her."
"She is in good physical health?" I asked. "Yes--oh, yes, I think so. No, I should
not think there was anything the matter with
her physically. But she--well--imagines
things, you know." "What kind of things?" I asked.
But he shied off from the point, merely
murmuring perplexedly:
"She works herself up over nothing at
all. ... I really can see no foundations for
these fears."
"Fears of what. Dr. Leidner?"
He said vaguely, "Oh, just--nervous terrors, you know."
Ten to one, I thought to myself, it's drugs.
And he doesn't realize it! Lots of men don't.
Just wonder why their wives are so jumpy
and have such extraordinary changes of
mood.
I asked whether Mrs. Leidner herself approved
of the idea of my coming.
His face lighted up.
'Yes. I was surprised. Most pleasurably
surprised. She said it was a very good idea.
| She said she would feel very much safer."
The word struck me oddly. Safer. A very

queer word to use. I began to surmise that
Mrs. Leidner might be a mental case.
He went on with a kind of boyish eagerness.

"I'm sure you'll get on very well with her.
She's really a very charming woman." He
smiled disarmingly. "She feels you'll be the
greatest comfort to her. I felt the same as
soon as I saw you. You look, if you will allow
me to say so, so splendidly healthy and full
of common sense. I'm sure you're just the
person for Louise."
"Well, we can but try. Dr. Leidner," I
said cheerfully. "I'm sure I hope I can be of
use to your wife. Perhaps she's nervous of
natives and coloured people?"
"Oh, dear me, no." He shook his head, amused at the idea. "My wife likes Arabs
very much--she appreciates their simplicity
and their sense of humour. This is only her
second season--we have been married less
than two years--but she already speaks quite
a fair amount of Arabic."
I was silent for a moment or two, then I
had one more try.
"Can't you tell me at all what it is your
wife is afraid of. Dr. Leidner?" I asked.
He hesitated. Then he said slowly, "I

hope—I believe—that she will tell you that
herself."
And that's all I could get out of him.

Chapter 3
Co55/p
it was arranged that I should go to Tell
Yarimjah the following week.
Mrs. Kelsey was settling into her house at
Alwiyah, and I was glad to be able to take a
few things off her shoulders.
During that time I heard one or two allusions
to the Leidner expedition. A friend
of Mrs. Kelsey's, a young squadron-leader, pursed his lips in surprise as he exclaimed:
"Lovely Louise. So that's her latest!" He
turned to me. "That's our nickname for her, nurse. She's always known as Lovely
Louise."
"Is she so very handsome then?" I asked.
"It's taking her at her own valuation. She thinks she is!"
"Now don't be spiteful, John," said Mrs.
Kelsey. "You know it's not only she who
thinks so! Lots of people have have been very
smitten by her."

"Perhaps you're right. She's a bit long in
the tooth, but she has a certain attraction."
"You were completely bowled over yourself," said Mrs. Kelsey, laughing.
The squadron-leader blushed and admitted
rather shamefacedly:
"Well, she has a way with her. As for
Leidner himself, he worships the ground she
walks on--and all the rest of the expedition
has to worship too! It's expected of them!"
"How many are there altogether?" I
asked.
"All sorts and nationalities, nurse," said
the squadron-leader cheerfully. "An English
architect, a French Father from Carthage--
he does the inscriptions--tablets and things, you know. And then there's Miss Johnson.
She's English too--sort of general bottlewasher.
And a little plump man who does
the photography--he's an American. And
the Mercados. Heaven knows what nationality
they are--Dagos of some kind! She's
quite young--a snaky-looking creature-- and oh! doesn't she hate Lovely Louise! And
there are a couple of youngsters, and that's w lot. A few odd fish, but nice on the
whole---don't you agree, Pennyman?"
r1^ was appealing to an elderly man who
1 £

was sitting thoughtfully twirling a pair of
pincenez.
The latter started and looked up.
"Yes--yes--very nice indeed. Taken individually, that is. Of course, Mercado is
rather a queer fish--"
"He has such a very odd beard," put in
Mrs. Kelsey.
"A queer limp kind."
Major Pennyman went on without noticing
her interruption.
"The young 'uns are both nice. The
American's rather silent, and the English
boy talks a bit too much. Funny, it's usually
the other way round. Leidner himself is a
delightful fellow--so modest and unassuming.
Yes, individually they are all pleasant
people. But somehow or other, I may have
been fanciful, but the last time I went to see
them I got a queer impression of something
being wrong. I don't know what it was exactly.
. . . Nobody seemed quite natural.
There was a queer atmosphere of tension. I
can explain best what I mean by saying that
they all passed the butter to each other too
politely."
Blushing a little, because I don't like airing
my own opinions too much, I said:
"If people are too much cooped up to
gether it's got a way of getting on their
nerves. I know that myself from experience
in hospital."
'That's true," said Major Kelsey, "but
it's early in the season, hardly time for that
particular irritation to have set in."
"An expedition is probably like our life
here in miniature," said Major Pennyman.
"It has its cliques and rivalries and jealousies."
"It sounds as though they'd got a good
many new-comers this year," said Major
Kelsey.
^ "Let me see." The squadron-leader
counted them off on his fingers. "Young
Coleman is new, so is Reiter. Emmott was
out last year and so were the Mercados. Father
Lavigny is a new-comer. He's come in
place of Dr. Byrd, who was ill this year and
couldn't come out. Carey, of course, is an
old hand. He's been out ever since the beginning,
five years ago. Miss Johnson's been
out nearly as many years as Carey."
"I always thought they got on so well together
at Tell Yarimjah," remarked Major Kelsey. "They seemed like a happy family "--which is really surprising when one considers
what human nature is! I'm sure Nurse Leatheran agrees with me."

"Well,551 said. "I don't know that you're
not right! The rows I've known in hospital
and starting often from nothing more than
a dispute about a pot of tea."
"Yes, one tends to get petty in close communities,"
said Major Penny man. "All the
same I feel there must be something more
to it in this case. Leidner is such a gentle,
unassuming man, with really a remarkable
amount of tact. He's always managed to keep
his expedition happy and on good terms with
each other. And yet I did notice that feeling
of tension the other day."
Mrs. Kelsey laughed.
"And you don't see the explanation? Why, it leaps to the eye!"
"What do you mean?"
"Mrs. Leidner, of course."
"Oh, come, Mary," said her husband, "she's a charming woman--not at all the
quarrelsome kind."
"I didn't say she was quarrelsome. She causes quarrels!"
"In what way? And why should she?"
"Why? Why? Because she's bored. She's
not an archaeologist, only the wife of one.
She's bored shut away from any excitements
and so she provides her own drama. She

amuses herself by setting other people by the
ears." "Mary, you don t know in the least.
You're merely imagining."
"Of course I'm imagining! But you'll find
I'm right. Lovely Louise doesn't look like
the Mona Lisa for nothing! She mayn't mean
any harm, but she likes to see what will happen."

"She's devoted to Leidner."
"Oh! I dare say. I'm not suggesting vulgar
intrigues. But she's an allumeuse, that
woman."
"Women are so sweet to each other," said
Major Kelsey.
"I know. Cat, cat, cat, that's what youmen
say. But we're usually right about our
own sex."
"All the same," said Major Pennyman
thoughtfully, "assuming all Mrs. Kelsey's
uncharitable surmises to be true, I don't
think it would quite account for that curious
sense of tension--rather like the feeling ^ere is before a thunderstorm. I had the "npression very strongly that the storm "light break any minute."
'Now don't frighten nurse," said Mrs.
| Kelsey. "She's going there in three days' ^"le and you'll put her right off."

"Oh, you won't frighten me," I said,
laughing.
All the same I thought a good deal about
what had been said. Dr. Leidner's curious
use of the word "safer" recurred to me. Was
it his wife's secret fear, unacknowledged or
expressed perhaps, that was reacting on the
rest of the party? Or was it the actual tension
(or perhaps the unknown cause of it) that
was reacting on her nerves?
I looked up the word "allumeuse" that Mrs.
Kelsey had used in a dictionary, but couldn't
get any sense out of it.
"Well," I thought to myself, "I must wait
and see."

Chapter 4
/ Arrive in Hassanieh
three days later I left Baghdad.
I was sorry to leave Mrs. Kelsey and the
baby, who was a little love and was thriving
splendidly, gaining her proper number of
ounces every week. Major Kelsey took me to
the station and saw me off. I should arrive
at Kirkuk the following morning, and there
some one was to meet me.
I slept badly. I never sleep very well in a
train and I was troubled by dreams.
The next morning, however, when I
looked out of the window it was a lovely day
snd I felt interested and curious about the
People I was going to see.
As I stood on the platform hesitating and
Poking about me I saw a young man coming
towards me. He had a round pink face, and
feally, in all my life, I have never seen any
one who seemed so exactly like a young man
°ut of one of Mr. P. G. Wodehouse's books.

"Hallo, 'allo, 'allo," he said. "Are you
Nurse Leatheran? Well, I mean you must
be--I can see that. Ha ha! My name's Coleman.
Dr. Leidner sent me along. How are
you feeling? Beastly journey and all that?
Don't I know these trains! Well, here we
are--had any breakfast? This your kit? I say, awfully modest, aren't you? Mrs. Leidner
has four suitcases and a trunk--to say nothing
of a hat-box and a patent pillow, and
this, that and the other. Am I talking too
much? Come along to the old bus."
There was what I heard called later a station
wagon waiting outside. It was little like
a wagonette, a little like a lorry and a little
like a car. Mr. Coleman helped me in, explaining
that I had better sit next to the
driver so as to get less jolting.
Jolting! I wonder the whole contraption
didn't fall to pieces! And nothing like a
road--just a sort of track all ruts and holes.
Glorious East indeed! When I thought of our
splendid arterial roads in England it made
me quite homesick.
Mr. Coleman leaned forward from his
seat behind me and yelled in my ear a good
deal.
"Track's in pretty good condition," he
shouted just after we had all been thrown

^ our seats till we nearly touched the
roof.
And apparently he was speaking quite seriously.

"Very good for you--jogs the liver," he
said. "You ought to know that, nurse."
"A stimulated liver won't be much good
to me if my head's split open," I observed
tartly. "You should come along here after it's
rained! The skids are glorious. Most of the
time one's going sideways."
To this I did not respond.
Presently we had to cross the river, which
we did on the craziest ferry-boat you can
imagine. To my mind it was a mercy we evergot
across, but every one seemed to think it
was quite usual.
It took us about four hours to get to Hassanieh,
which, to my surprise, was quite a
big place. Very pretty it looked, too, before w^ got there from the other side of the

nyer--standing up quite white and fairy-like TOh minarets. It was a bit different, though,
when one had crossed the bridge and come ^ht into it. Such a smell, and everything ^mshackle and tumble-down, and mud and
mess everywhere.
^r. Coleman took me to Dr. Reilly's

house, where, he said, the doctor was expecting
me to lunch.
Dr. Reilly was just as nice as ever, and his
house was nice too, with a bathroom and
everything spick and span. I had a nice bath,
and by the time I got back into my uniform
and came down I was feeling fine.
Lunch was just ready and we went in, the
doctor apologizing for his daughter, whom
he said was always late.
We'd just had a very good dish of eggs in
sauce when she came in and Dr. Reilly said,
"Nurse, this is my daughter Sheila."
She shook hands, hoped I'd had a good
journey, tossed off her hat, gave a cool nod
to Mr. Coleman and sat down. |
"Well, Bill," she said. "How's everything?"
I
He began to talk to her about some party
or other that was to come off at the club,
and I took stock of her. I
I can't say I took to her much. A thought
too cool for my liking. An off-hand sort of
girl, though good-looking. Black hair and
blue eyes--a pale sort of face and the usual
lip-sticked mouth. She'd a cool, sarcastic
way of talking that rather annoyed me. I had
a probationer like her under me once--a girl

who worked well, I'll admit, but whose manner
always riled me.
It looked to me rather as though Mr. Coleman
was gone on her. He stammered a bit, and his conversation became slightly more
idiotic than it was before, if that was possible!
He reminded me of a large stupid dog
wagging its tail and trying to please.
After lunch Dr. Reilly went off to the hospital, and Mr. Coleman had some things to
get in the town, and Miss Reilly asked me
whether I'd like to see round the town a bit
or whether I'd rather stop in the house. Mr.
Coleman, she said, would be back to fetch
me in about an hour.
"Is there anything to see?" I asked.
"There are some picturesque corners," said Miss Reilly. "But I don't know that
you'd care for them. They're extremely
dirty."
The way she said it rather nettled me. I've
never been able to see that picturesqueness
excuses dirt.
In the end she took me to the club, which ^s pleasant enough, overlooking the river, ^d there were English papers and maga|
zines there.
^hen we got back to the house Mr. Cole-»c

man wasn't there yet, so we sat down and
talked a bit. It wasn't easy somehow.
She asked me if I'd met Mrs. Leidner yet.
"No," I said. "Only her husband."
"Oh," she said. "I wonder what you'll
think of her?" |
I didn't say anything to that. And she went
on:
"I like Dr. Leidner very much. Everybody
likes him."
That's as good as saying, I thought, that
you don't like his wife.
I still didn't say anything and presently
she asked abruptly:
"What's the matter with her? Did Dr.
Leidner tell you?"
I wasn't going to start gossiping about a
patient before I got there even, so I said evasively:

"I understand she's a bit run down and
wants looking after." |
She laughed--a nasty sort of laugh--hard
and abrupt.
"Good God," she said. "Aren't nine people
looking after her already enough?"
"I suppose they've all got their work to
do," I said.
"Work to do? Of course they've got work

rn do. But Louise comes first--she sees to
that all right."
"No " I said to myself. "You don't like
her."
"All the same," went on Miss Reilly, "I
don't see what she wants with a professional
hospital nurse. I should have thought amateur
assistance was more in her line; not
some one who'll jam a thermometer in her
mouth, and count her pulse and bring everything
down to hard facts."
Well, I must admit it, I was curious.
"You think there's nothing the matter
with her?" I asked.
"Of course there's nothing the matter with
her! The woman's as strong as an ox. 'Dear
Louise hasn't slept.' 'She's got black circles
under her eyes.' Yes--put there with a blue
pencil! Anything to get attention, to have
everybody hovering round her, making a
fuss of her!"
There was something in that, of course.
I had (what nurse hasn't?) come across many cases of hypochondriacs whose de- "ght it is to keep a whole household danc^g
attendance. And if a doctor or a nurse ^re to say to them, "There's nothing on earth the matter with you!" well, to begin ^th they wouldn't believe it, and their inT7

dignation would be as genuine as indignation can be.
Of course it was quite possible that Mrs.
Leidner might be a case of this kind. Th^ husband, naturally, would be the first to b^ deceived. Husbands, I've found, are a credulous
lot where illness is concerned. But all
the same, it didn't quite square with what
I'd heard. It didn't, for instance, fit in with
that word "safer."
Funny how that word had got kind of
stuck in my mind.
Reflecting on it, I asked:
"Is Mrs. Leidner a nervous woman? Is she
nervous, for instance, of living out far from
anywhere?"
"What is there to be nervous of? Good
heavens, there are ten of them! And they've
got guards too--because of the antiquities.
Oh, no, she's not nervous--at least--"
She seemed struck by some thought and
stopped--going on slowly after a minute or
two.
"It's odd your saying that."
"Why?"
"Flight-Lieutenant Jervis and I rode over
the other day. It was in the morning. Most
of them were up on the dig. She was sitting
writing a letter and I suppose she didn't hear
^»r»

us coming. The boy who brings you in
wasn't about for once, and we came straight no on to the verandah. Apparently she saw
Flight-Lieutenant Jervis's shadow thrown
on the wall--and she fairly screamed! Apologized, of course. Said she thought it was a
strange man. A bit odd, that. I mean, even
if it was a strange man, why get the wind
up?" I nodded thoughtfully.
Miss Reilly was silent, then burst out suddenly.

"I don't know what's the matter with
them there this year. They've all got the
jumps. Johnson goes about so glum she can't
open her mouth. David never speaks if he
can help it. Bill, of course, never stops, and
somehow his chatter seems to make the others
worse. Carey goes about looking as
though something would snap any minute.
And they all watch each other as though--
as though--Oh, I don't know, but it's queer."
It was odd, I thought, that two such dissimilar
people as Miss Reilly and Major Pen^man
should have been struck in the same banner.
Just then Mr. Coleman came bustling in. "ustling was just the word for it. If his
")Q

tongue had hung out and he had suddenly
produced a tail to wag you wouldn't have
been surprised.
"Hallo-allo," he said. "Absolutely the
world's best shopper--that's me. Have
you shown nurse all the beauties of the town?"
|
"She wasn't impressed," said Miss Reilly
dryly. |
"I don't blame her," said Mr. Coleman
heartily. "Of all the one-horse tumbledown
places!" |
"Not a lover of the picturesque or the antique, are you. Bill? I can't think why you
are an archaeologist." |
"Don't blame me for that. Blame my
guardian. He's a learned bird--fellow of his
college--browses among books in bedroom
slippers--that kind of man. Bit of a shock
for him to have a ward like me." |
"I think it's frightfully stupid of you to
be forced into a profession you don't care
for," said the girl sharply. I
"Not forced, Sheila, old girl, not forced.
The old man asked if I had any special
profession in mind, and I said I hadn't, and
so he wangled a season out here for me." "But
haven't you any idea really what
you'd like to do? You must have!"
if\

"Of course I have. My idea would be to rrive work a miss altogether. What I'd like
to do is to have plenty of money and go in
for motor-racing."
"You're absurd!" said Miss Reilly.
She sounded quite angry.
"Oh, I realize that it's quite out of the
question," said Mr. Coleman cheerfully.
"So, if I've got to do something, I don't
much care what it is so long as it isn't mugging
in an office all day long. I was quite
agreeable to seeing a bit of the world. Here
goes, I said, and along I came."
"And a fat lot of use you must be, I expect!"

"There you're wrong. I can stand up on
the dig and shout 'Y'Allah' with anybody!
And as a matter of fact I'm not so dusty at
drawing. Imitating handwriting used to be my speciality at school. I'd have made a firstclass
forger. Oh, well, I may come to that
yet. If my Rolls-Roy ce splashes you with "lud as you're waiting for a bus, you'll know
that I've taken to crime."
Miss Reilly said coldly:
"Don't you think it's about time you darted instead of talking so much?" 'Hospitable, aren't we, nurse?"
«i
31

I
"I'm sure Nurse Leatheran is anxious to
get settled in."
"You're always sure of everything," retorted
Mr. Coleman with a grin.
That was true enough, I thought. Cocksure
little minx.
I said dryly:
"Perhaps we'd better start, Mr. Coleman."
"Right you are, nurse."
I shook hands with Miss Reilly and
thanked her, and we set off.
"Damned attractive girl, Sheila," said
Mr. Coleman. "But always ticking a fellow
off."
We drove out of the town and presently
took a kind of track between green crops. It
was very bumpy and full of ruts.
After about half an hour Mr. Coleman
pointed to a big mound by the river bank
ahead of us and said:
"Tell Yarimjah."
I could see little black figures moving
about it like ants.
As I was looking they suddenly began to
run all together down the side of the mound.
"Fidos," said Mr. Coleman. "Knocking
off time. We knock off an hour before sunset."

3')

The expedition house lay a little way back
from the river.
The driver rounded a corner, bumped
through an extremely narrow arch and there
we were.
The house was built round a courtyard.
Originally it had occupied only the south
side of the courtyard with a few unimportant
out-buildings on the east. The expedition
had continued the building on the other two
sides. As the plan of the house was to prove
°f special interest later, I append a rough
^etch of it above.
All the rooms opened on to the courtyard,
^d most of the windows—the exception
oeing in the original south building where
here were windows giving on the outside
_°untry as well. These windows, however,
11

were barred on the outside. In the southwest
corner a staircase ran up to a long flat
roof with a parapet running the length of the
south side of the building which was higher
than the other three sides.
Mr. Coleman led me along the east side
of the courtyard and round to where a big
open verandah occupied the center of the
south side. He pushed open a door at one
side of it and we entered a room where several
people were sitting round a tea table.
"Toodle-oodle-oo!" said Mr. Coleman. "Here's Sairey Gamp."
The lady who was sitting at the head of
the table rose and came to greet me.
I had my first glimpse of Louise Leidner.
-,.N
1 A

Chapter 5
Tell Yarimjah

I don't mind admitting that my first impression
on seeing Mrs. Leidner was one of
downright surprise. One gets into the way
of imagining a person when one hears them
talked about. I'd got it firmly into my head
that Mrs. Leidner was a dark, dis*******ed
kind of woman. The nervy kind, all on edge.
And then, too, I'd expected her to be--well, to put it frankly--a bit vulgar.
She wasn't a bit like what I'd imagined
her! To begin with, she was very fair. She wasn't a Swede, like her husband, but she "light have been as far as looks went. She had Aat blonde Scandinavian fairness that you
don't very often see. She wasn't a young ^oman. Midway between thirty and forty, 1 should say. Her face was rather haggard,
anc^ ^w was some S^y nalr mingled with ule fairness. Her eyes, though, were lovely.
*^1^ i
Vhei
ney were the only eyes I've ever come
2<;

';
across that you might truly describe as violet.
They were very large, and there were faint
shadows underneath them. She was very thin
and fragile-looking, and if I say that she had
an air of intense weariness and was at the
same time very much alive, it sounds like
nonsense--but that's the feeling I got. I felt, too, that she was a lady through and through.
And that means something--even nowadays.
I
She put out her hand and smiled. Her
voice was low and soft with an American
drawl in it. I
"I'm so glad you've come, nurse. Will you
have some tea? Or would you like to go to
your room first?" .
I said I'd have tea, and she introduced me
to the people sluing round the table, j
"This is Miss Johnson--and Mr. Reiter.
Mrs. Mercado. Mr. Emmott. Father Lavigny.
My husband will be in presently. Sit
down here between Father Lavigny and Miss
Johnson." I
I did as I was bid and Miss Johnson began
talking to me, asking about my journey and
so on. I
I liked her. She reminded me of a matron
I'd had in my probationer days whom we
had all admired and worked hard for.
1C.

She was getting on for fifty, I should
rise and rather mannish in appearance, ) irh iron-grey nalr cropped short. She had
abrupt, pleasant voice, rather deep in
tone. She had an ugly rugged face with an
almost laughably turned-up nose which she
was in the habit of rubbing irritably when
anything troubled or perplexed her. She
wore a tweed coat and skirt made rather like
a man's. She told me presently that she was
a native of Yorkshire.
Father Lavigny I found just a bit alarming.
He was a tall man with a great black
beard and pince-nez. I had heard Mrs. Kelsey
say that there was a French monk there, and I now saw that Father Lavigny was wearing
a monk's robe of some white woollen
material. It surprised me rather, because I
always understood that monks went into
monasteries and didn't come out again.
Mrs. Leidner talked to him mostly in
French, but he spoke to me in quite fair ^glish. I noticed that he had shrewd, oh-
^rvant eyes which darted about from face
to face.
Opposite me were the other three. Mr. Kelter was a stout, fair young man with Susses. His hair was rather long and curly, nd ne had very round blue eyes. I should
3'7

1 ^
think he must have been a lovely baby, blithe
wasn't much to look at now! In fact he
was just a little like a pig. The other young
man had very short hair cropped close to his
head. He had a long, rather humorous face
and very good teeth, and he looked very attractive
when he smiled. He said very little, though, just nodded if spoken to or answered
in monosyllables. He, like Mr. Reiter, was
an American. The last person was Mrs. Mercado,
and I couldn't have a good look at her
because whenever I glanced in her direction
I always found her staring at me with a kind
of hungry stare that was a bit disconcerting
to say the least of it. You might have thought
a hospital nurse was a strange animal the way
she was looking at me. No manners at all!
She was quite young--not more than
about twenty-five--and sort of dark and
slinky-looking, if you know what I mean.
Quite nice-looking in a kind of way, but
rather as though she might have what my
mother used to call "a touch of the tarbrush."
She had on a very vivid pullover and
her nails matched it in colour. She had a thin
bird-like eager face with big eyes and rathe _ a tight, suspicious mouth. The
tea was very good--a nice strong _ blend--not like the weak China stuff that
10

nxrc Kelsey always had and that had been
M1"* .1
a sore trial to me.
There was toast and jam and a plate of
rock buns and a cutting cake. Mr. Emmott
was very polite passing me things. Quiet as
he was he always seemed to notice when my
plate was empty.
Presently Mr. Coleman bustled in and
took the place beyond Miss Johnson. There
didn't seem to be anything the matter with his nerves. He talked away nineteen to the
dozen.
Mrs. Leidner sighed once and cast a wearied
look in his direction but it didn't have
any effect. Nor did the fact that Mrs. Mercado,
to whom he was addressing most of
his conversation, was far too busy watching
me to do more than make perfunctory replies.

Just as we were finishing. Dr. Leidner and Mr. Mercado came in from the dig.
I^r. Leidner greeted me in his nice kind manner. I saw his eyes go quickly and anxiously
to his wife's face and he seemed to be relieved by what he saw there. Then he sat ^wn at the other end of the table and Mr. Mercado sat down in the vacant place by Mrs- Leidner. He was a tall, thin, melan_n_ly man, a good deal older than his wife,
'>n

I?
with a sallow complexion and a queer, soft
shapeless-looking beard. I was glad when he
came in, for his wife stopped staring at me
and transferred her attention to him, watching
him with a kind of anxious impatience
that I found rather odd. He himself stirred
his tea dreamily and said nothing at all. A
piece of cake lay untasted on his plate.
There was still one vacant place, and presently
the door opened and a man came in. I
The moment I saw Richard Carey I felt
he was one of the handsomest men I'd seen
for a long time--and yet I doubt if that were
really so. To say a man is handsome and at
the same time to say he looks like a death's
head sounds a rank contradiction, and yet it
was true. His head gave the effect of having
the skin stretched unusually tightly over the
bones--but they were beautiful bones. The
lean line of jaw and temple and forehead was
so sharply outlined that he reminded me of
a bronze statue. Out of this lean brown face
looked two of the brightest and most intensely
blue eyes I have ever seen. He stood
about six foot and was, I should imagine, a
little under forty years of age. |
Dr. Leidner said:
"This is Mr. Carey, our architect, nurse.5
He murmured something in a pleasant? _
' ^ .^H

•naudible English voice and sat down by
J^rs. Mercado.
• Mrs. Leidner said:
"I'm afraid the tea is a little cold, Mr.
Carey." He said:
"Oh, that's quite all right, Mrs. Leidner.
My fault for being late. I wanted to finish
plotting those walls."
Mrs. Mercado said, "J3111? Mr. Carey?"
Mr. Reiter pushed forward the toast.
And I remember Major Pennyman saying:
"I can explain best what I mean by saying
that they all passed the butter to each other a
shade too politely "
Yes, there was something a little odd
about it. ...
A shade formal. . . .
You'd have said it was a party of
strangers—not people who had known each
other—some of them—for quite a number
of years.

Chapter 6
First Evening
------ i
after tea Mrs. Leidner took me to show
me my room. |
Perhaps here I had better give a short description
of the arrangement of the rooms. This was very simple and can easily be understood
by a reference to the plan. 1
On either side of the big open porch were
doors leading into the two principal rooms.
That on the right led into the dining-room,
where we had had tea. The one on the other
side led into an exactly similar room (I have
called it the living-room) which was used
as a sitting-room and kind of informal
workroom--that is, a certain amount of
drawing (other than the strictly architectural)
was done there, and the more delicate
pieces of pottery were brought there to be
pieced together. Through the living-rooH1 one passed into the antiquities-room wher^ I all the finds from the dig were brought i^«

1 stored on shelves and in pigeonholes,
^d also laid out on big benches and tables. ^rom the antika-room there was no exit save
through the living-room.
Beyond the antika-room, but reached
through a door which gave on the courtyard, was Mrs. Leidner's bedroom. This, like the
other rooms on that side of the house, had
a couple of barred windows looking out over
the ploughed countryside. Round the corner
next to Mrs. Leidner's room, but with no
actual communicating door, was Dr. Leidner's
room. This was the first of the rooms
on the east side of the building. Next to it
was the room that was to be mine. Next to
me was Miss Johnson's, with Mr. and Mrs.
Mercado's beyond. After that came two socalled
bathrooms.
(When I once used that last term in the
hearing of Dr. Reilly he laughed at me and ^id a bathroom was either a bathroom or "of a bathroom! All the same, when you've
S°t used to taps and proper plumbing, it seenls strange to call a couple of mud-rooms with a tin hip-bath in each of them, and
^ddy water brought in kerosene tins, bathrooms!)
I A11 Ais side of the building had been ^ded by Dr. Leidner to the original Arab

'B
house. The bedrooms were all the same, each
with a window and a door giving on to the
courtyard. |
Along the north side were the drawing
office, the laboratory and the photographic
rooms. I
To return to the verandah, the arrangement
of rooms was much the same on the
other side. There was the dining-room leading
into the office where the files were kept
and the cataloguing and typing was done.
Corresponding to Mrs. Leidner's room was
that of Father Lavigny, who was given the
largest bedroom; he used it also for the
decoding--or whatever you call it--of tablets.
|
In the south-west corner was the staircase
running up to the roof. On the west side
were first the kitchen quarters and then four
small bedrooms used by the young men--
Carey, Emmott, Reiter and Coleman. |
At the north-west corner was the photographic-room
with the dark-room leading
out of it. Next to that the laboratory. Then
came the only entrance--the big arched
doorway through which we had entered.
Outside were sleeping quarters for the native servants, the guard-house for the soldiers?
and stables, etc., for the water horses. Tb^™

, .^ing-office was to the right of the arch-
occupying the rest °ttne north side.
T have gone into the arrangements of the hnuse rather fully here because I don't want
to have to go over them again later.
As I say? Mrs. Leidner herself took me
round the building and finally established
me in my bedroom? hoping that I should be
comfortable and have everything I wanted.
The room was nicely though plainly
furnished--a bed? a chest of drawers? a
wash-stand and a chair.
"The boys will bring you hot water before
lunch and dinner--and in the morning? of
course. If you want it any other time? go
outside and clap your hands? and when the
boy comes say? jib mai' har. Do you think
you can remember that?"
I said I thought so and repeated it a little
haltingly.
"That's right. And be sure and shout it.
Arabs don't understand anything said in an
ordinary 'English' voice."
"Languages are funny things?" I said. "It ^ms odd there should be such a lot of dif^entones."

Mrs- Leidner smiled. Hiere is a church in Palestine in which

the Lord's Prayer is written up in--ninety
I think it is--different languages." --
"Well!" I said, "I must write and tell i" old aunt that. She will be interested."
Mrs. Leidner fingered the jug and basin
absently and shifted the soap-dish an inch
or two. 1
"I do hope you'll be happy here," she said.
"And not get too bored." I
"I'm not often bored," I assured her.
"Life's not long enough for that." |
She did not answer. She continued to toy
with the wash-stand as though abstractedly.
Suddenly she fixed her dark violet eyes on
my face. I
"What exactly did my husband tell you,
nurse?" I
Well, one usually says the same thing to
a question of that kind. 1
"I gathered you were a bit run-down and
all that, Mrs. Leidner," I said glibly. "And
that you just wanted some one to look after
you and take any worries off your hands."
She bent her head slowly and thoughtfully.
I
"Yes," she said. "Yes--that will do very
well."
That was just a little bit enigmatic, but 11
wasn't going to question it. Instead I said:

"r
"" "I hope you'll let me help you with any.
^ere is to do in the house. You mustn't Lt'me be idle."
She smiled a little.
"Thank you, nurse."
Then she sat down on the bed and, rather
to my surprise, began to cross-question me
rather closely. I say rather to my surprise
because, from the moment I set eyes on her, I felt sure that Mrs. Leidner was a lady. And
a lady, in my experience, very seldom displays
curiosity about one's private affairs.
But Mrs. Leidner seemed anxious to know
everything there was to know about me.
Where I'd trained and how long ago. What
had brought me out to the East. How it hadcome
about that Dr. Reilly had recommended
me. She even asked me if I had ever
been in America or had any relations in
America. One or two other questions she
asked me that seemed quite purposeless at
the ^me, but of which I saw the significance
later.
<;k n3 ^^^ly? her manner changed. h^ smiled--a warm sunny smile--and she
sald? ^ry sweetly, that she was very glad I aa ^me and that she was sure I was going
I[0 "e a comfort to her.
-ne got up from the bed and said:

1;
"Would you like to come up to the roof
and see the sunset? It's usually very lovely about this time."
I agreed willingly.
As we went out of the room she asked:
"Were there many other people on the" train from Baghdad? Any men?" I
I said that I hadn't noticed anybody in
particular. There had been two Frenchmen
in the restaurant-car the night before. And
a party of three men whom I gathered from
their conversation had to do with the Pipe
line.
She nodded and a faint sound escaped her.
It sounded like a small sigh of relief. |
We went up to the roof together. |
Mrs. Mercado was there, sitting on the
parapet, and Dr. Leidner was bending over
looking at a lot of stones and broken pottery
that were laid out in rows. There were big
things he called querns, and pestles and celts
and stone axes, and more broken bits of pottery
with queer patterns on them than I've
ever seen all at once. |
"Come over here," called out Mrs. Mei_
cado. "Isn't it too, too beautiful?" a
It certainly was a beautiful sunset. Has'
sanieh in the distance looked quite fairy-It^61
I III with the setting sun behind it, and the Riv^.
lllln, . „ _J

r
^ flowing between its wide banks looked
Tigris iifwA^&. , , ,
1 a dream nver rather than a real one.
"Isn't it lovely, Eric?" said Mrs. Leidner.
The doctor looked up with abstracted
eyes, murmured, "Lovely, lovely," perfunctorily
and went on sorting potsherds.
Mrs. Leidner smiled and said:
"Archaeologists only look at what lies beneath
their feet. The sky and the heavens
don't exist for them."
Mrs. Mercado giggled.
"Oh, they're very queer people--you'll
soon find that out, nurse," she said.
She paused and then added:
"We are all so glad you've come. We've
been so very worried about our dear Mrs.
Leidner, haven't we, Louise?"
"Have you?"
Her voice was not encouraging.
"Oh, yes. She really has been very bad, nurse. All sorts of alarms and excursions.
ou know when anybody says to me of some
°ne, 'It's just nerves,' I always say: But what
could be worse? Nerves are the core and
cemre of one5s ^ing, aren't they?" ^ss, puss," I thought to myself.
I Mrs' Leidner said dryly:
well, you needn't be worried about me

1}
any more. Mane. Nurse is going to look after
me/? r
"Certainly I am," I said cheerfully. |
"I'm sure that will make all the differ ence," said Mrs. Mercado. "We've all felt that she ought to see a doctor or do something. Her nerves have really been all to pieces
haven't they, Louise dear?" |
"So much so that I seem to have got on your nerves with them," said Mrs. Leidner.
"Shall we talk about something more interesting
than my wretched ailments?"
I understood then that Mrs. Leidner was
the sort of woman who could easily make
enemies. There was a cool rudeness in her
tone (not that I blamed her for it) which
brought a flush to Mrs. Mercado's rather
sallow cheeks. She stammered out something, but Mrs. Leidner had risen and had
joined her husband at the other end of the
roof. I doubt if he heard her coming till she
laid her hand on his shoulder, then he looked
up quickly. There was affection and a kind
of eager questioning in his face. |
Mrs. Leidner nodded her head gently- Presently, her arm through his, they wai1'
dered to the far parapet and finally down th^ steps together.
1

"He's devoted to her, isn't he?" said Mrs.
Mercado.
"Yes," I sa1^- '^t?s very mce to see-" She was looking at me with a queer, rather
eager sidelong glance.
"What do you think is really the matter
with her, nurse?" she asked, lowering her
voice a little.
"Oh, I don't suppose it's much," I said
cheerfully. "Just a bit run down, I expect."
Her eyes still bored into me as they had
done at tea. She said abruptly:
"Are you a mental nurse?"
"Oh, dear no!" I said. "What made you
think that?"
She was silent for a moment, then she said:
"Do you know how queer she's been? Did
Dr. Leidner tell you?"
I don't hold with gossiping about my
cases. On the other hand, it's my experience
that it's often very hard to get the truth out
of the relatives, and until you know the truth
you're often working in the dark and doing n0 good. Of course, when there's a doctor
in charge, it's different. He tells you what 11 s necessary for you to know. But in this ^se there wasn't a doctor in charge. Dr.
all had.never been called in profession----
^nd in my own mind I wasn't at all
C 1

sure that Dr. Leidner had told me all f could have done. It's often the husbands
instinct to be reticent--and more honour to
him, I say. But all the same, the more I knew the better I could tell which line to take
Mrs. Mercado (whom I put down in my own
mind as a thoroughly spiteful little cat) was
clearly dying to talk. And frankly, on the
human side as well as the professional, I
wanted to hear what she had to say. You can
put it that I was just every-day curious if you
like. I
I said, "I gather Mrs. Leidner's not been
quite her normal self lately?" |
Mrs. Mercado laughed disagreeably. I
"Normal? I should say not. Frightening
us to death. One night it was fingers tapping
on her window. And then it was a hand without
an arm attached. But when it came to a
yellow face pressed against the window--
and when she rushed to the window there
was nothing there--well, I ask you, it is a
bit creepy for all of us." 1
"Perhaps somebody was playing a trick
on her," I suggested. I
"Oh, no, she fancied it all. And only three
days ago at dinner they were firing off shots
in the village--nearly a mile away--and she |
jumped up and screamed out--it scared us
Ct

Hto death. As for Dr. Leidner, he rushed
, g^d behaved in the most ridiculous 3 'It's nothing, darling, it's nothing at
11' he kept saying. I think, you know, irse men sometimes encourage women in
iese hysterical fancies. It's a pity because
\ a bad thing. Delusions shouldn't be en-
ouraged."
"Not if they are delusions," I said dryly.
"What else could they be?"
I didn't answer because I didn't know ^hat to say. It was a funny business. The hots and the screaming were natural
nough--for any one in a nervous condition,
tiat is. But this queer story of a spectral face
nd hand was different. It looked to me like
ne of two things--either Mrs. Leidner had lade the story up (exactly as a child shows
ff by telling lies about something that never
appened in order to make herself the centre f attraction) or else it was, as I had sug^ted, a deliberate practical joke. It was the ^t of thing, I reflected, that an unimaginative
hearty sort of young fellow like Mr. '°leman might think very funny. I decided 3 keep a close watch on him. Nervous paints
can be scared nearly out of their minds
----Hyjoke. fc^^ c->

Mrs. Mercado said with a sideways glan1 at me. 1|
"She's very romantic-looking, nurse
don't you think so? The sort of woman
things happen to." I
"Have many things happened to her?" I asked.
"Well, her first husband was killed in the
war when she was only twenty. I think that's
very pathetic and romantic, don't you?" I
"It's one way of calling a goose a swan,g I said dryly. |
"Oh! nurse. What an extraordinary remark!"
|
It was really a very true one. The amount
of women you hear say, "If Donald--or
Arthur--or whatever his name was--had only lived." And I sometimes think but if he
had, he'd have been a stout, unromantic,
short-tempered, middle-aged husband as
likely as not. I
It was getting dark and I suggested that
we should go down. Mrs. Mercado agreed
and asked if I would like to see the laboratory.
"My husband will be there--working."
1
I said I would like to very much and we made our way there. The place was lighted
by a lamp but it was empty.
Le<r
J ^1
C A

Mrs Mercado showed me some of the ap
.ug and some copper ornaments that P being treated 5 and also some bones
coated with wax.
"Where can Joseph be?" said Mrs. Mercado.
She
looked into the drawing-office, where
Carey was at work. He hardly looked up as
we entered, and I was struck by the extraordinary
look of strain on his face. It came to
me suddenly: "This man is at the end of his
tether. Very soon, something will snap."
And I remembered somebody else had nodeed
that same tenseness about him.
As we went out again I turned my head
for one last look at him. He was bent over
his paper, his lips pressed very closely together,
and that "death's head" suggestion
of his bones very strongly marked. Perhaps ^ was fanciful, but I thought that he looked
like a knight of old who was going into battle ^nd knew he was going to be killed.
And again I felt what an extraordinary and
quite unconscious power of attraction he
had.
we found Mr. Mercado in the living°oin.
He was explaining the idea of some
---- Process to Mrs. Leidner. She was sitting

^
on a straight wooden chair, embroidering
flowers in fine silks, and I was struck anew
by her strange, fragile, unearthly appearance.
She looked a fairy creature more than
flesh and blood.
Mrs. Mercado said, her voice high and
shrill: I
"Oh, there you are, Joseph. We thought
we'd find you in the lab." |
He jumped up looking startled and con1
fused, as though her entrance had broken a
spell. He said stammeringly; I
"I--I must go now. I'm in the middle
of--the middle of--" |
He didn't complete the sentence but
turned towards the door. |
Mrs. Leidner said in her soft, drawling
voice:
"You must finish telling me some other
time. It was very interesting." I
She looked up at us, smiled rather sweetly
but in a far-away manner, and bent over her
embroidery again. I
In a minute or two she said:
"There are some books over there, nurse. We've got quite a good selection. Choose one
and sit down." j
I went over to the bookshelf. Mrs. Mer'
cado stayed for a minute or two, then, tuH1'

abruptly? sne went out. As she passed ln^ T saw her face and I didn't like the look
Tit. She looked wild with fury.
0 Tn spite of myself I remembered some of
the things Mrs. Kelsey had said and hinted
about Mrs. Leidner. I didn't like to think
they were true because I liked Mrs. Leidner, but I wondered, nevertheless, if there
mightn't perhaps be a grain of truth behind
them.
I didn't think it was all her fault, but the
fact remained that dear ugly Miss Johnson, and that common little spitfire Mrs. Mercado,
couldn't hold a candle to her in looks
or in attraction. And after all, men are men
all over the world. You soon see a lot of that
in my profession.
Mercado was a poor fish, and I don't suppose
Mrs. Leidner really cared two hoots for
i
his admiration--but his wife cared. If I wasn't mistaken, she minded badly and ^would be quite willing to do Mrs. Leidner a bad turn if she could.
I looked at Mrs. Leidner sitting there and ^ewing at her pretty flowers, so remote and tar away and aloof. I felt somehow I ought 10 ^arn her. I felt that perhaps she didn't ™°^jr^°w stupid and unreasoning and vi
olent jealousy and hate can be--and howl little it takes to set them smouldering.
And then I said to myself, "Amy Leatheran, you're a fool. Mrs. Leidner's no
chicken. She's close on forty if she's a day
and she must know all about life there is to
know."
But I felt that all the same perhaps she
didn't.
She had such a queer untouched look. |
I began to wonder what her life had been.
I knew she'd only married Dr. Leidner two
years ago. And according to Mrs. Mercado
her first husband had died nearly twenty
years ago. |
I came and sat down near her with a book," and presently I went and washed my hands
for supper. It was a good meal--some really
excellent curry. They all went to bed early
and I was glad for I was tired. I
Dr. Leidner came with me to my room to
see I had all I wanted. |
He gave me a warm handclasp and said
eagerly: |
"She likes you, nurse. She's taken to you
at once. I'm so glad. I feel everything's going
to be all right now." |
His eagerness was almost boyish. I ^ I felt, too, that Mrs. Leidner had taken ^

in me, and I was pleased it should be
lilang L0 11A ?

^Rut I didn't quite share his confidence. I ( lr somehow, that there was more to it all
t^an he himself might know.
There was something--something I
louldn't get at. But I felt it in the air.
S
My bed was comfortable, but I didn't
sleep well for all that. I dreamt too much.
The words of a poem by Keats, that I'd
had to learn as a child, kept running through
my head. I kept getting them wrong and it
worried me. It was a poem I'd always
hated--I suppose because I'd had to learn
it whether I wanted to or not. But somehow
when I woke up in the dark I saw a sort of
beauty in it for the first time.
"Oh, say what ails thee, knight at arms,
alone--and (what was it?)--palely loiter- wg . . . ?" I saw the knight's face in my "und for the first time--and it was Mr. Car- ^V s face--a grim, tense, bronzed face like some of those poor young men I remembered as a girl during the war . . . and I felt sorry or hun--and then I fell off to sleep again and I saw that the Belle Dame sans Merci
as "^s. Leidner and she was leaning side^s
on a horse with an embroidery offlow- ^ ui her hands--and then the horse

1
stumbled and everywhere there were bone<
coated in wax, and I woke up all goose-fles}
and shivering, and told myself that curn
never had agreed with me at night.

Chapter 7
The Man at the Window
I think I'd better make it clear right away
that there isn't going to be any local colour
in this story. I don't know anything about
archaeology and I don't know that I very
much want to. Messing about with people
and places that are buried and done with
doesn't make sense to me. Mr. Carey used
to tell me that I hadn't got the archaeological
temperament and I've no doubt he was quite
right.
The very first morning after my arrival
Mr. Carey asked if I'd like to come and see
^he palace he was—planning I think he called
lt- Though how you can plan for a thing
that5s happened long ago I'm sure I don't
Know! Well, I said I'd like to, and to tell the
nuh, I was a bit excited about it. Nearly
^lree thousand years old that palace was, it
Ppeared. I wondered what sort of palaces
^_y had in those days, and if it would be

^
like the pictures I'd seen of Tutankhamen'^
tomb furniture. But would you believe n
there was nothing to see but mud! Dirty n^
walls about two feet high—and that's all
there was to it. Mr. Carey took me here and
there telling me things—how this was the
great court, and there were some chambers
here and an upper story and various other
rooms that opened off the central court. And
all I thought was, "But how does he know?»
though, of course, I was too polite to say so
I can tell you it was a disappointment! The
whole excavation looked like nothing but
mud to me—no marble or gold or anything
handsome—my aunt's house in Cricklewood
would have made a much more imposing
ruin! And those old Assyrians or whatever
they were called themselves kings. When Mr.
Carey had shown me his old "palace," he
handed me over to Father Lavigny, who
showed me the rest of the mound. I was a
little afraid of Father Lavigny, being a monk
and a foreigner and having such a deep voice
and all, but he was very kind—though rather
vague. Sometimes I felt it wasn't much more
real to him than it was to me. •
Mrs. Leidner explained that later. She
said that Father Lavigny was only interested
in "written documents"—as she called
led |
d

They wrote everything on clay, these tbern. ^eer heathenish-looking marks too,
^^Quite sensible. There were even school u! tc--the teacher's lesson on one side and ta pupil's effort on the back of it. I confess
diat that did interest me rather--it seemed
so human, if you know what I mean.
Father Lavigny walked round the work
with me and showed me what were temples
or palaces and what were private houses, and
also a place which he said was an early Akkadian
cemetery. He spoke in a funny jerky
way, just throwing in a scrap of information
and then reverting to other subjects.
He said:
"It is strange that you have come here. Is
Mrs. Leidner really ill, then?"
"Not exactly ill," I said cautiously.
He said:
^fShe is an odd woman. A dangerous
woman, I think."
^'^w what do you mean by that?" I said.
Dangerous? How dangerous?" Ue shook his head thoughtfully.
I think she is ruthless," he said. "Yes, I "link she could be absolutely ruthless."
^ you'll excuse me," I said, "I think ^re talking nonsense."
il-shook his head.
^5

^
"You do not know women as I do" lb
., > He said.
And that was a funny thing, I though? for a monk to say. But of course I suppocp
he might have heard a lot of things in confer sion. But that rather puzzled me, because I
wasn't sure if monks heard confessions or if
it was only priests. I supposed he was a monk with that long woollen robe--all sweeping
up the dirt--and the rosary and all!
"Yes, she could be ruthless," he said musingly.
"I am quite sure of that. And yet-- though she is so hard--like stone, like
marble--yet she is afraid. What is she afraid
of?" I
That, I thought, is what we should all like
to know! |
At least it was possible that her husband
did know, but I didn't think any one else
did. - |
He fixed me with a sudden bright, dark eye. i
"It is odd here? You find it odd? Or quite
natural?" ^
"Not quite natural," I said, considering- "It's comfortable enough as far as the a1''
rangements go--but there isn't quite a coitt'
fortable feeling." As "It makes me uncomfortable. I have th^l
C A .fl

,?_^e became suddenly a little more ^. ^g^^-^that something prepares itself. nr Leidner, too, he is not quite himself.
omething is worrying him also." "His wife's health?"
"That perhaps. But there is more. There
lis--how shall I say it--an uneasiness."
And that was just it, there was an uneasiness.
F We didn't say any more just then, for Dr.
Leidner came towards us. He showed me a
child's grave that had just been uncovered.
Rather pathetic it was--the little bones--
and a pot or two and some little specks that
Dr. Leidner told me were a bead necklace.
It was the workmen that made me laugh.
You never saw such a lot of scarecrows--all
in long petticoats and rags, and their heads
tied up as though they had toothache. And
every now and then, as they went to and fro
carrying away baskets of earth, they began
to sing--at least I suppose it was meant to
l0^ singing--a queer sort of monotonous ant Aat went on and on over and over agaln-1 noticed that most of their eyes were ^nble-^all covered with discharge, and
tK i^ tw0 looked half blind- I was ^st "iking what a miserable lot they were
L-_^r. Leidner said, "Rather a fme-lookr
c

ii • ,1' I ^^H
•rr, B 1 ^
'^r niiil r
f | i| ing lot of men, aren't they?" and I though f
what a queer world it was and how two dif.
ferent people could see the same thing each
of them the other way round. I haven't pi^
that very well, but you can guess what I
mean. •
After a bit Dr. Leidner said he was going
back to the house for a mid-morning cup of
tea. So he and I walked back together and
he told me things. When he explained, it was
all quite different. I sort of saw it all—how
it used to be—the streets and the houses,
and he showed me ovens where they baked
bread and said the Arabs used much the
same kind of ovens nowadays. I
We got back to the house and found Mrs.
Leidner had got up. She was looking better
to-day, not so thin and worn. Tea came in
almost at once and Dr. Leidner told her what
had turned up during the morning on the
dig. Then he went back to work and Mrs.
Leidner asked me if I would like to see some
of the finds they had made up to date. Of
course I said "Yes," so she took me through
into the antika-room. There was a lot of stuff
lying about—mostly broken pots it seemed
to me—or else ones that were all mended
and stuck together. The whole lot might
have been thrown away, I thought.
1

pear, dear," I said, "it's a pity they're
11 so broken, isn't it? Are they really worth
Mrs. Leidner smiled a little and she said:
"You mustn't let Eric hear you. Pots interest
him more than anything else, and
some of these are the oldest things we have
--perhaps as much as seven thousand years
old." And she explained how some of them
came from a very deep cut on the mound
down towards the bottom, and how, thousands
of years ago, they had been broken
and mended with bitumen, showing people
prized their things just as much then as they
do nowadays.
"And now," she said, "we'll show you
something more exciting."
And she took down a box from the shelf
and showed me a beautiful gold dagger with
dark-blue stones in the handle.
I exclaimed with pleasure.
| Mrs. Leidner laughed.
'Yes, everybody likes gold! Except my disband."
_Why doesn't Dr. Leidner like it?"
Well, for one thing it comes expensive. u have to pay the workmen who find it
----ight of the object in gold."

T
"Good gracious!" I exclaimed. "Bin
why?"
"Oh, it's a custom. For one thing it pr^ vents them from stealing. You see, if they did steal it wouldn't be for the archaeological
value but for the intrinsic value. They could
melt it down. So we make it easy for them to be honest." |
She took down another tray and showed
me a really beautiful gold drinking-cup with
a design of rams' heads on it. |
Again I exclaimed. |
"Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it? These came
from a prince's grave. We found other royal
graves but most of them had been plundered.
This cup is our best find. It is one of
the most lovely ever found anywhere. Early
Akkadian. Unique." I
Suddenly, with a frown, Mrs. Leidner
brought the cup up close to her eyes and
scratched at it delicately with her nail. j
"How extraordinary! There's actually wax
on it. Some one must have been in here with a candle."
She detached the little flake and replaced
the cup in its place.
After that she showed me some queer litti6
terra-cotta figurines--but most of them we^

• Jg Nasty minds those old people had,
1 %en we went back to the porch Mrs.
uercado was sitting polishing her nails. She
s holding them out in front of her admirwa
^e effect. I thought myself that anything
more hideous than that orange red could
hardly have been imagined.
Mrs. Leidner had brought with her from
the antika-room a very delicate little saucer
broken in several pieces, and this she now
proceeded to join together. I watched her for
a minute or two and then asked if I could
help.
"Oh, yes, there are plenty more." She
fetched quite a supply of broken pottery and,
we set to work. I soon got into the hang of
it and she praised my ability. I suppose most
nurses are handy with their fingers.
"How busy everybody is," said Mrs. Mer^do.
"It makes me feel dreadfully idle. Of
^rse I am idle."
\ "Why shouldn't you be if you like?" said
^s. Leidner.
ri^ voice was quite uninterested.
At twelve we had lunch. Afterwards Dr.
loner and Mr. Mercado cleaned some potYi
Pouring a solution of hydrochloric acid
^l11- One pot went a lovely plum colour

rp
and a pattern of bulls' horns came out o I
another one. It was really quite magical. a])
the dried mud that no washing would re.
move sort of foamed and boiled away. _
Mr. Carey and Mr. Coleman went out on
the dig and Mr. Reiter went off to the pho.
tographic room. •
"What will you do, Louise?" Dr. Leidner
asked his wife. "I suppose you'll rest for a
bit?" |
I gathered that Mrs. Leidner usually lay
down every afternoon. |
"I'll rest for about an hour. Then perhaps
I'll go out for a short stroll."
"Good. Nurse will go with you, won't
you?" I
"Of course," I said. |
"No, no," said Mrs. Leidner. "I like
going alone. Nurse isn't to feel so much on
duty that I'm not allowed out of her sight. _
"Oh, but I'd like to come," I said. a
"No, really, I'd rather you didn't." She
was quite firm—almost peremptory. <i
must be by myself every now and then. I1 s
necessary to me." a
I didn't insist, of course. But as I went on
for a short sleep myself it struck me as odo
that Mrs. Leidner, with her nervous terror

„ ug quite ******* to walk by herself
Sut any kind of protection. When I came out of my room at half-past ^ courtyard was deserted save for a
l^e boy with a large copper bath who was
washing pottery, and Mr. Emmott, who ^as sorting and arranging it. As I went towards
them Mrs. Leidner came in through
the archway. She looked more alive than I
had seen her yet. Her eyes shone and she
looked uplifted and almost gay.
Dr. Leidner came out from the laboratory
and joined her. He was showing her a big
dish with bulls' horns on it.
"The prehistoric levels are being extraordinarily
productive," he said. "It's been a,
good season so far. Finding that tomb right
at the beginning was a real piece of luck.
The only person who might complain is Father
Lavigny. We've had hardly any tablets
so far.55
| He doesn't seem to have done very much Wh the few we have had," said Mrs. Leidner ^Y- "He may be a very fine epigraphist ut ne5s a remarkably lazy one. He spends ^ ^rnoons sleeping."
^
^ We miss Byrd," said Dr. Leidner. "This
tho11 st^^es me as slightly unorthodox-- _ Sh, of course, I'm not competent to

and a pattern of bulls' horns came out on
another one. It was really quite magical. \\\
the dried mud that no washing would re«
move sort of foamed and boiled away. 1
Mr. Carey and Mr. Coleman went out on
the dig and Mr. Reiter went off to the pho.
tographic room. •
"What will you do, Louise?" Dr. Leidner
asked his wife. "I suppose you'll rest for a
bit?" 1
I gathered that Mrs. Leidner usually lay
down every afternoon.
"I'll rest for about an hour. Then perhaps
I'll go out for a short stroll."
"Good. Nurse will go with you, won't
you?"
"Of course," I said.
"No, no," said Mrs. Leidner. "I like
going alone. Nurse isn't to feel so much on
duty that I'm not allowed out of her sight."
"Oh, but I'd like to come," I said.
"No, really, I'd rather you didn't." She
was quite firm—almost peremptory. (<1
must be by myself every now and then. Its
necessary to me."
I didn't insist, of course. But as I went oil
for a short sleep myself it struck me as od"
that Mrs. Leidner, with her nervous terror^
MM

^,j ug quite ******* to walk by herself
Sout any kind of protection.
When I came out of my room at half-past ^q courtyard was deserted save for a
E i
t^e boy with a large copper bath who was cashing pottery, and Mr. Emmott, who was sorting and arranging it. As I went towards
them Mrs. Leidner came in through
the archway. She looked more alive than I
had seen her yet. Her eyes shone and she
looked uplifted and almost gay.
Dr. Leidner came out from the laboratory
and joined her. He was showing her a big
dish with bulls5 horns on it.
"The prehistoric levels are being extraordinarily
productive," he said. "It's been a
good season so far. Finding that tomb right
at the beginning was a real piece of luck.
The only person who might complain is Father
Lavigny. We've had hardly any tablets
so far."
He doesn't seem to have done very much Wh the few we have had," said Mrs. Leidner ^yly. "He may be a very fine epigraphist utlle5s a remarkably lazy one. He spends hls ^ernoons sleeping."
we miss Byrd," said Dr. Leidner. "This
, n strikes me as slightly unorthodox--
tUQUph r t»
en, of course, I m not competent to

^
judge. But one or two of his translations have
been surprising to say the least of it. I ^ hardly believe, for instance, that he's right
about that inscribed brick, and yet he musr
know." «
After tea Mrs. Leidner asked me if I would
like to stroll down to the river. I thought
that perhaps she feared that her refusal to
let me accompany her earlier in the afternoon
might have hurt my feelings.
I wanted her to know that I wasn't the
touchy kind, so I accepted at once.
It was a lovely evening. A path led between
barley fields and then through some
flowering fruit trees. Finally we came to the
edge of the Tigris. Immediately on our left
was the Tell with the workmen singing in their queer monotonous chant. A little to our
right was a big water-wheel which made a
queer groaning noise. It used to set my teeth on edge at first. But in the end I got fond of it and it had a queer soothing effect on me. Beyond the water-wheel was the vi\W from which most of the workmen came.
"It's rather beautiful, isn't it?" said M^ Leidner.
"It's very peaceful," I said. "It see^ funny to me to be so far away from evef^j where."

"" from everywhere," repeated Mrs.
•J^r "Yes. Here at least one might exJ^eidner.

„.
to be safe.
p I glanced at her sharply, but I think she
speaking more to herself than to me,
^d I don't think she realized that her words
^ad been revealing.
We began to walk back to the house.
Suddenly Mrs. Leidner clutched my arm
|o violently that I nearly cried out.
"Who's that, nurse? What's he doing?"
Some little distance ahead of us, just
where the path ran near the expedition
house, a man was standing. He wore European
clothes and he seemed to be standing
on tiptoe and trying to look in at one of the
windows.
As we watched he glanced round, caught
sight of us, and immediately continued on
the path towards us. I felt Mrs. Leidner's
^utch tighten.
^Nurse," she whispered. "Nurse . . ."
I ."It's all right, my dear, it's all right," I
^reassuringly.
^e man came along and passed us. He
as an Iraqi, and as soon as she saw him
^^ Mrs. Leidner relaxed with a sigh.
^'s only an Iraqi after all," she said.
e Went on our way. I glanced up at the

judge. But one or two of his translations have
been surprising to say the least of it. I ^ hardly believe, for instance, that he's right
about that inscribed brick, and yet he niuo» know."
After tea Mrs. Leidner asked me if I would like to stroll down to the river. I thought
that perhaps she feared that her refusal to
let me accompany her earlier in the afternoon
might have hurt my feelings.
I wanted her to know that I wasn't the
touchy kind, so I accepted at once. |
It was a lovely evening. A path led between
barley fields and then through some
flowering fruit trees. Finally we came to the
edge of the Tigris. Immediately on our left
was the Tell with the workmen singing in their queer monotonous chant. A little to our
right was a big water-wheel which made a
queer groaning noise. It used to set my teeth
on edge at first. But in the end I got fond
of it and it had a queer soothing effect on me. Beyond the water-wheel was the vil^ from which most of the workmen came.
"It's rather beautiful, isn't it?" said MrsLeidner.
I
"It's very peaceful," I said. "It seem5 funny to me to be so far away from evelT
where."
"i
J

«Far tr0111 everywhere," repeated Mrs.
•a^t "Yes. Here at least one might ex-
^eidnci. „
nect to be safe.
I glanced at her sharply, but I think she
speaking more to herself than to me,
v j j don't think she realized that her words
had been revealing.
We began to walk back to the house.
Suddenly Mrs. Leidner clutched my arm
so violently that I nearly cried out.
"Who's that, nurse? What's he doing?"
Some little distance ahead of us, just
where the path ran near the expedition
house, a man was standing. He wore European
clothes and he seemed to be standing
on tiptoe and trying to look in at one of the
windows.
As we watched he glanced round, caught
^ght of us, and immediately continued on
^ path towards us. I felt Mrs. Leidner's
^utch tighten.
^Nurse," she whispered. "Nurse ..."
It's all right, my dear, it's all right," I
^reassuringly.
n^ man came along and passed us. He
^ Iraqi, and as soon as she saw him
• "u101 ^rs" Leidner relaxed with a sigh.
^e's only an Iraqi after all," she said.
e ^VCnt On OUr WflV T crian^^rl nf» r,+ *4^

',1
windows as I passed. Not only were the
barred, but they were too high from th
ground to permit of any one seeing in, fo
the level of the ground was lower here than
on the inside of the courtyard.
"It must have been just curiosity," I said
Mrs. Leidner nodded.
"That's all. But just for a minute I
thought—"
She broke off.
I thought to myself, "You thought what':
That's what I'd like to know? What did you
think?"
But I knew one thing now—that Mrs,
Leidner was afraid of a definite flesh and
blood person.
j

Chapter 8
Night Alarm

it's a little difficult to know exactly what to
note in the week that followed my arrival at
Bill Yarimjah.
Looking back as I do from my present
standpoint of knowledge I can see a good
many little signs and indications that I was
quite blind to at the time.
To tell the story properly, however, I
think I ought to try and recapture the point
of view that I actually held--puzzled, un-
^sy, and increasingly conscious of something wrong.
For one thing was certain, that curious sense °f strain and constraint was not imaged. It was genuine. Even Bill Coleman the
^lsensitive commented upon it.
^
This place gets under my skin," I heard ^a ^y. "Are they always such a glum lot?"
th was ^)avlc! Emmott to whom he spoke,
^--^h--. assistant. I had taken rather a fancy
'-1C

T
to Mr. Emmott, his taciturnity was not
felt sure, unfriendly. There was somethin^ about him that seemed very steadfast an3
reassuring in an atmosphere where one ^a
uncertain what any one was feeling or think.
ing. |
"No," he said in answer to Mr. Colernan
"It wasn't like this last year." But
he didn't enlarge on the theme, or say any more.
"What I can't make out is what it's all
about," said Mr. Coleman in an aggrieved
voice. I
Emmott shrugged his shoulders but didn't
answer. . I
I had a rather enlightening conversation with Miss Johnson. I liked her very much.
She was capable, practical and intelligent.
She had, it was quite obvious, a distinct hero
worship for Dr. Leidner. I
On this occasion she told me the story of
his life since his young days. She knew every
site he had dug, and the results of the dig- I would almost dare swear she could quote
from every lecture he had ever delivered. She considered him, she told me, quite the finesfield
archaeologist living, j
"And he's so simple. So completely ^\ worldly. He doesn't know the meaning 01
'-i r

-.j conceit. Only a really great man
"The woru ^ . , ,,
nld be so simple.
"That's true enough," I said. "Big people
, ^ged to throw their weight about."
"And he's so light-hearted too. I can't tell
what fun we used to have—he and
^chard Carey and I—the first years we
were out here. We were such a happy party.
Richard Carey worked with him in Palestine
of course. Theirs is a friendship of ten
years or so. Oh, well, I've known him for
seven."
'What a handsome man Mr. Carey is," I
«^
said.
"Yes—I suppose he is."
She said it rather curtly.
"But he's just a little bit quiet, don^t you
think?"
"He usedn't to be like that," said Miss
Johnson quickly. "It's only since—"
She stopped abruptly.
"Only since—?" I prompted.
• 'Oh, well." Miss Johnson gave a char^teristic
motion of her shoulders. "A good
^any things are changed nowadays."
* didn't answer. I hoped she would go
^^-and she did—prefacing her remarks
ltn a little laugh as though to detract from
'.•lr importance.

"I'm afraid I'm rather a conservative old I
fogy. I sometimes think that if
archaeologist's wife isn't really interested it
would be wiser for her not to accompany the
expedition. It often leads to friction."
"Mrs. Mercado--" I suggested.
"Oh, her!" Miss Johnson brushed the
suggestion aside. "I was really thinking of
Mrs. Leidner. She's a very charming woman
--and one can quite understand why Dr.
Leidner 'fell for her'--to use a slang term.
But I can't help feeling she's out of place
here. She--it unsettles things." j
So Miss Johnson agreed with Mrs. Kelsey
that it was Mrs. Leidner who was responsible
for the strained atmosphere. But then where did Mrs. Leidner's own nervous fears
come in?
"It unsettles him," said Miss Johnson earnestly.
"Of course, I'm--well, I'm like a
faithful but jealous old dog. I don't like to
see him so worn out and worried. His whole mind ought to be on the work--not taken
up with his wife and her silly fears! If she s
nervous of coming to out-of-the-way places;
she ought to have stayed in America. I've n°
patience with people who come to a pl3^ and then do nothing but grouse about it!
'70

And then, a little fearful of having said
.^an she meant to say, she went on:
^'Of course I admire her very much. She's
I lovely woman and she's got great charm of
manner when she chooses."
And there the subject dropped.
I thought to myself that it was always the
same way—wherever women are cooped up
together, there's bound to be jealousy. Miss
Tohnson clearly didn't like her chiefs wife
(that was perhaps natural) and unless I was
much mistaken Mrs. Mercado fairly hated
her.
Another person who didn't like Mrs.
Leidner was Sheila Reilly. She came out
once or twice to the dig, once in a car and,
twice with some young man on a horse—on
two horses I mean, of course. It was at the |
back of my mind that she had a weakness
tor the silent young American, Emmott. I
When he was on duty at the dig she used to
^ay talking to him, and I thought, too, that |
^ admired her.
One day, rather injudiciously, I thought,
^Leidner commented upon it at lunch.
The Reilly girl is still hunting David
^own/' she said with a little laugh. "Poor
p la? she chases you up on the dig even!
"——foolish girls are!"

',
Mr. Emmott didn't answer, but under hi
tan his face got rather red. He raised his ey^ and looked right into hers with a very curious expression--a straight, steady glance with
something of a challenge in it.
She smiled very faintly and looked away
I heard Father Lavigny murmur something, but when I said "Pardon?" he merely
shook his head and did not repeat his remark.

That afternoon Mr. Coleman said to me:
"Matter of fact I didn't like Mrs. L. any
too much at first. She used to jump down
my throat every time I opened my mouth.
But I've begun to understand her better
now. She's one of the kindest women I've
ever met. You find yourself telling her all
the foolish scrapes you ever got into before
you know where you are. She's got her knife
into Sheila Reilly, I know, but then Sheila's
been damned rude to her once or twice.
That's the worst of Sheila--she's got no
manners. And a temper like the devil!"
That I could well believe. Dr. Reilly spoilt
her.
"Of course she's bound to get a bit full o1 herself, being the only young woman in th^ place. But that doesn't excuse her talkingt0 Mrs. Leidner as though Mrs. Leidner we^
1.1 i

great-aunt. Mrs. L's not exactly a
her ' but she's a damned good-looking
^n Rather like those fairy women who
w0 out of marshes with lights and lure you
c0 „ pJe added bitterly, "You wouldn't
a j sheila luring any one. All she does is to
tick a fellow off."
I only remember two other incidents of
any kind of significance.
One was when I went to the laboratory to
fetch some acetone to get the stickiness off
my fingers from mending the pottery. Mr.
Mercado was sitting in a corner, his head
was laid down on his arms and I fancied he
was asleep. I took the bottle I wanted and
went off with it.
That evening, to my great surprise, Mrs.
Mercado tackled me.
"Did you take a bottle of acetone from the
lab?"
^'Yes," I said. "I did."
"You know perfectly well that there's a
sma11 ^ttle always kept in the antika-room."
^he spoke quite angrily.
^ there? I didn't know."
1 think you did! You just wanted to come
ar mg round. I know what hospital nurses
•are."
ll
i^red at her.

^m
"I don't know what you're talking abon I Mrs. Mercado," I said with dignity, "p ) I
sure I don't want to spy on any one.", m
"Oh, no! Of course not. Do you think \ don't know what you're here for?"
Really, for a minute or two I thought she
must have been drinking. I went away with.
out saying any more. But I thought it was
very odd. |
The other thing was nothing very much.
I was trying to entice a pi dog pup with a
piece of bread. It was very timid, however,
like all Arab dogs--and was convinced I
meant no good. It slunk away and I followed
it--out through the archway and round the
corner of the house. I came round so sharply
that before I knew I had cannoned into Father
Lavigny and another man who were
standing together--and in a minute I realized
that the second man was the same one
Mrs. Leidner and I had noticed that day
trying to peer through the window.
I apologized and Father Lavigny smileA and with a word of farewell greeting to the other man he returned to the house with n^'
"You know," he said, "I am very
ashamed. I am a student of Oriental 1^11'
guages and none of the men on the work ^
understand me! It is humiliating, do you ^°m
J J

. ^ I was trying my Arabic on that man, thln '^ a townsman, to see if I got on
0 r--but it still wasn't very successful. ^JJner says my Arabic is too pure."
That was all. But it just passed through
v head that it was odd the same man should ^ill be hanging round the house.
That night we had a scare.
It must have been about two in the morning.
I'm a light sleeper, as most nurses have
to be. I was awake and sitting up in bed by
the time that my door opened.
"Nurse, nurse!"
It was Mrs. Leidner's voice, low and urgent.

I struck a match and lighted the candle.
She was standing by the door in a long
blue dressing-gown. She was looking petrified
with terror.
"There's some one--some one--in the room next to mine. ... I heard him--
scratching on the wall." I Jumped out of bed and came to her.
^'s all right," I said. "I'm here. Don't be ^raid, my dear."
^he whispered:
Get Eric."
nodded and ran out and knocked on his ^^^in a minute he was with us. Mrs. Leid-

ner was sitting on my bed, her breath conii,, in great gasps. '
"I heard him," she said. "I heard him scratching on the wall." |
"Some one in the antika-room?" cried Df
Leidner. I
He ran out quickly--and it just flashed
across my mind how differently these two
had reacted. Mrs. Leidner's fear was entirely
personal 5 but Dr. Leidner's mind leaped at
once to his precious treasures. |
"The antika-room!" breathed Mrs. Leidner.
"Of course! How stupid of me." |
And rising and pulling her gown round
her, she bade me come with her. All traces
of her panic-stricken fear had vanished.
We arrived in the antika-room to find Dr.
Leidner and Father Lavigny. The latter had
also heard a noise, had risen to investigate,
and had fancied he saw a light in the antika- room. He had delayed to put on slippers and snatch up a torch and had found no one by
the time he got there. The door, moreover;
was duly locked, as it was supposed to be a1 night.
Whilst he was assuring himself that noth'
ing had been taken. Dr. Leidner had join^ him.
Nothing more was to be learned. The ouy
JH

^i archway door was locked. The guard s e nobody could have got in from out-
SWG hnr as they had probably been fast
sid^ Du - i Ti. i eo this was not conclusive. There were
as marks or traces of an intruder and nothing
had been taken.
It was possible that what had alarmed
Mrs. Leidner was the noise made by Father
Lavigny taking down boxes from the shelves
to assure himself that all was in order.
BOn the other hand, Father Lavigny himself
was positive that he had (a) heard footsteps
passing his window and (b) seen the
flicker of a light, possibly a torch, in the
antika-room.
Nobody else had heard or seen anything.
The incident is of value in my narrative
because it led to Mrs. Leidner's unburdening
herself to me on the following day.
L;

Chapter 9
Mrs Leidner's Story
we had just finished lunch. Mrs. Leid
went to her room to rest as usual. I sen
her on her bed with plenty of pillows i
her book, and was leaving the room w]
she called me back.
"Don't go, nurse, there's somethin
want to say to you."
I came back into the room.
"Shut the door."
I obeyed.
She got up from the bed and began to w
up and down the room. I could see that
was making up her mind to something
I didn't like to interrupt her. She was cle;
in great indecision of mind.
At last she seemed to have nerved her
to the required point. She turned to me
said abruptly:
"Sit down."

t sat down by the table very quietly. She 'began nervously:
"You must have wondered what all this is
a ^ just nodded without saying anything.
"I've made up my mind to tell you--
verything! I must tell some one or I shall
go mad." "Well," I said. "I think really it would be
just as well. It's not easy to know the best
thing to do when one's kept in the dark."
She stopped in her uneasy walk and faced
me.
"Do you know what I'm frightened of?"
"Some man," I said.
"Yes--but I didn't say whom--I said
what."
I waited.
She said:
"Pm afraid of being killed!"
Well, it was out now. I wasn't going to
show any particular concern. She was near
enough hysterics as it was.
^ear me," I said. "So that's it, is it?"
hen she began to laugh. She laughed and
r^ghed--and the tears ran down her
"Tli
me way you said that!" she gasped.
-^ay you said it ..."

do."|^^had led directly to the sinking of an ^airhiIT1 rican transport and the loss of hundreds a coiri ^ifves I don't know what most people
.-m nt ll'""-' , . t>--^ t»ii ^-n ----- --i--,*.
"Now, now," I said. "This won't do _
spoke sharply. I pushed her into a chai ^sfi ran transport and the loss of hundreds
went over to the wash-stand and got a coiri ^Tves I don't know what most people
sponge and bathed her forehead and wrists \d have done. . . . But I'll tell you what
"No more nonsense," I said. "Tell i^ vvo.4 \ went straight to my father, who was
1^,1,. ^a ^.,^ui,. ^n »k^^ ^ " - 1 ^ ^^ Department, and told him the
in - -- , i- -.._- i-'ii-J ;_ <.i-^ -„„„ l,,<-
calmly and sensibly all about it." |
That stopped her. She sat up and spoke
in her natural voice.
"You're a treasure, nurse," she said. "Yoi
make me feel as though I'm six. I'm goim
to tell you." |
"That's right," I said. "Take your timi and don't hurry."
She began to speak, slowly and deliber
ately. I
"When I was a girl of twenty I married.
A young man in one of our state depart ments. It was in 1918."
"I know," I said. "Mrs. Mercado told me.
He was killed in the war." j
But Mrs. Leidner shook her head.
"That's what she thinks. That's what
everybody thinks. The truth is something
quite different. I was a queer patriotic, e11'
thusiastic girl, nurse, full of idealism. Whe11 I'd been married a few months I discovered--by
a quite unforeseeable accident-^ that my husband was a spy in German p^l
I learned that the information supplied ^
rruth. Frederick was killed in the war--but
he was killed in America--shot as a spy."
I "Oh, dear, dear!" I ejaculated. "How terrible!"

"Yes," she said. "It was terrible. He was
so kind, too--so gentle. . . . And all the
time . . . But I never hesitated. Perhaps I
was wrong."
"It's difficult to say," I said. "I'm sure I
don't know what one would do."
"What I'm telling you was never generally
known outside the state departments. Ostensibly
my husband had gone to the front snd had been killed. I had a lot of sympathy ^d kindness shown me as a war widow."
Her voice was bitter and I nodded comP^hendingly.
"T
r
U)ts of people wanted to marry me, but ^ ^ways refused. I'd had too bad a shock.
didn't feel I could ever trust any one
agam.» J
Yes? I can imagine feeling like that." ^d then I became very fond of a certain

^
young man. I wavered. An amazing thi
happened! I got an anonymous letter---f^ ^ Frederick--saying that if I ever married an
other man, he'd kill me!"
"From Frederick? From your dead hv^ band?"
"Yes. Of course, I thought at first I wa? mad or dreaming. ... At last I went to my
father. He told me the truth. My husband
hadn't been shot after all. He'd escaped--
but his escape did him no good. He was
involved in a train wreck a few weeks later
and his dead body was found amongst others.
My father had kept the fact of his escape
from me, and since the man had died anyway
he had seen no reason to tell me anything
until now. j
"But the letter I received opened up entirely
new possibilities. Was it perhaps a fact
that my husband was still alive? I
"My father went into the matter as carefully
as possible. And he declared that as fai|
as one could humanly be sure the body tN
was buried as Frederick's was Frederick s^ There had been a certain amount of distil uration, so that he could not speak with ab»
solute cast-iron certainty, but he reiterate his solemn belief that Frederick was ^ m

^T ii r this letter was a cruel and malicious
hoax^ same thing happened more than If I seemed to be on intimate terms
on^ any m311? I wou^ receive a threatening

F
e "In your husband's handwriting?"
She said slowly:
"That is difficult to say. I had no letters «ofhis. I had only my memory to go by."
"There was no allusion or special form of words used that could make you sure?"
"No. There were certain terms--nickEames,
for instance--private between us--
'one of those had been used or quoted, then
I should have been quite sure."
"Yes," I said thoughtfully. "That is odd.
It looks as though it wasn't your husband.
But is there any one else it could be?"
"There is a possibility. Frederick had a
younger brother--a boy of ten or twelve at "^ time of our marriage. He worshipped
| Frederick and Frederick was devoted to nln1- What happened to this boy, William ^"le was, I don't know. It seems to me ^ssible that, adoring his brother as fanatiJ
as he did, he may have grown up re,
^g me as directly responsible for his ]L{' He had always been jealous of me and

fl
may have invented this scheme by way ^VfTT have not forgotten. I am making my plans. punishment." ^^ got to die. Why did you disobey?
"Ti-'c rtr»cciM^ " T csnd "Tt's ama7ir>^ .1 ^ J" „ . ,^nr. Imchand T^nnw nKnnt thic^"
took out a letter and handed it to me. |
The ink was slightly faded. It was written
in a rather womanish hand with a forward
S^nt I ""' LAAat 1^! me nisi Lime i icauy uau
You ham disobeyed. Now you cannot escape ^^ ^ederick. There was always You must be Frederick Bosner's wife only! ^ «° a lmle ruthless behind his genti
,. . . c,rm ^iroo ^«-;n t ^i-.',-i_ i._. i have got to die. 1<
"I was frightened--but not so much as
might have been to begin with. Being ^lu1 jEric made me feel safe. Then, a month lat^ T got a second letter."
'It's possible," I said. "It's amazing th 1 way children do remember if they've had
shock." ,
"I know. This boy may have dedicated his
life to revenge."
"Please go on." |
"There isn't very much more to tell. I met
Eric three years ago. I meant never to marry.
Eric made me change my mind. Right up to
our wedding day I waited for another threatening
letter. None came. I decided that
whoever the writer might be, he was either
dead, or tired of his cruel sport. Two day^ after our marriage I got this." ^
Drawing a small attache-case which was
on the table towards her, she unlocked it,
Does your husband know about this?"
Mrs. Leidner answered slowly.
"He knows that I am threatened. I showed
,. ^oth letters when the second one came.
ug was inclined to think the whole thing a
hoax. He thought also that it might be some
one who wanted to blackmail me by pretending
my first husband was alive."
She paused and then went on.
"A few days after I received the second
letter we had a narrow escape from death by
gas poisoning. Somebody entered our apartment
after we were asleep and turned on the
gas. Luckily I woke and smelled the gas in
time. Then I lost my nerve. I told Eric how
I had been persecuted for years, and I told
him that I was sure this madman, whoever ^ might be, did really mean to kill me. I ^ink that for the first time I really did think
s someeness.
_____
-_----„--„ ^--^^^^. we was still, I think, less alarmed than was. He wanted to go to the police. Nat[y I wouldn't hear of that. In the end we
i eeu Aat I should accompany him here, "^ it might be wise if I didn't return

to

1^
to America in the summer but stayed in Tn •
don and Paris. •
"We carried out our plan and all wJ"
well. I felt sure that now everything would
be all right. After all, we had put half the
globe between ourselves and my enemy. •
"And then—a little over three weeks
ago—I received a letter—with an Iraq stamp
on it." •
She handed me a third letter. I
You thought you could escape. You were
wrong. You shall not be false to me and live.
I have always told you so. Death is coming very
soon.
"And a week ago—this! Just lying on me
table here. It had not even gone through
the post."
I took the sheet of paper from her. There
was just one phrase scrawled across it.
I have arrived. |
She stared at me. ' *
"You see? You understand? He's going to
kill me. It may be Frederick—it may be little
William—but he's going to kill me."
Her voice rose shudderingly. I caught b^
wrist. ,
"Now—now," I said warningly. "Don1
give way. We'll look after you. Have you S°\
any sal volatile?"
1
Q/l

t, nodded towards the wash-stand and
e her a good dose.
t gave ner <i &
"That's better," I said, as the colour re-
rurned to her cheeks.
"Yes I'n1 better now. But oh, nurse, do
see why I'm in this state. When I saw ^at man looking in through my window, I
thought: He's come . . . Even when you arrived
I was suspicious. I thought you might
be a man in disguise--"
"The idea!"
"Oh, I know it sounds absurd. But you
might have been in league with him
perhaps--not a hospital nurse at all."
"But that's nonsense!"
"Yes, perhaps. But I've got beyond
sense."
Struck by a sudden idea, I said:
"You'd recognize your husband, I suppose?"

She answered slowly.
'I don't even know that. It's over fifteen Years ago. I mightn't recognize his face." ^hen she shivered.
1 saw it one night--but it was a dead face. ^ was a tap, tap, tap on the window. ^n I saw a face, a dead face, ghastly inning against the pane. I screamed
n<

I
and screamed. . . . And they said the
wasn't anything there!" e
I remembered Mrs. Mercado's story. |
"You don't think," I said hesitatingly
"that you dreamt that?"
"I'm sure I didn't!" 1
I wasn't so sure. It was the kind of night.
mare that was quite likely under the circum.
stances and that easily might be taken for a
waking occurrence. However, I never contradict
a patient. I soothed Mrs. Leidner as
best I could and pointed out that if any
stranger arrived in the neighbourhood it was
pretty sure to be known. a
I left her, I think, a little comforted, and
I went in search of Dr. Leidner and told him
of our conversation. |
"I'm glad she's told you," he said simply. "It has worried me dreadfully. I feel sure
that all those faces and tappings on the windowpane
have been sheer imagination od
her part. I haven't known what to do for the
best. What do you think of the whole thing?"
I didn't quite understand the tone in tus
voice, but I answered promptly enough. I
"It's possible," I said, "that these letters
may be just a cruel and malicious hoax.
"Yes, that is quite likely. But what are ^J
'"* -^ Jll

^ Tlipv are driving her mad. I don't
to t what to think." ^^'dn't either. It had occurred to me that
ibiv a woman might be concerned. ^ose letters had a feminine note about
hem. Mrs. Mercado was at the back of my
Supposing that by some chance she had
learnt the facts of Mrs. Leidner's first marriage.
She might be indulging her spite by
terroiizing the other woman.
I didn't quite like to suggest such a thing
to Dr. Leidner. It's so difficult to know how
people are going to take things.
well," I said cheerfully, "we must
hope for the best. I think Mrs. Leidner
seems happier already from just talking
about it. That's always a help, you know. y's bottling things up that makes them get
°n your nerves."
"I'm very glad she has told you," he repeated.
"It's a good sign. It shows she likes
and ^usts you. I've been at my wit's end to ^ow what to do for the best."
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask him
ether he'd thought of giving a discreet
pi 1t0 ^ ^oca^ P0!^? but afterwards I was
1^1 hadn't done so.
--------6^U ^ ^
^_hat
lt happened was this. On the following

day Mr. Coleman was going in to Hassani i
to get the workmen's pay. He was also takin
in all our letters to catch the air mail. ,
The letters, as written, were dropped im
a wooden box on the dining-room window.
sill. Last thing that night Mr. Coleman tool
them out and was sorting them out into bun
dies and putting rubber-bands round them
Suddenly he gave a shout.
"What is it?" I asked.
He held out a letter with a grin.
"It's our Lovely Louise—she really i
going balmy. She's addressed a letter to som<
one at 42nd Street, Paris, France. I don'
think that can be right, do you? Do you mim
taking it to her and asking what she doe.
mean? She's just gone off to bed." |
I took it from him and ran off to Mrs
Leidner with it and she amended the ad
dress. I
It was the first time I had seen Mrs. Leid
ner's handwriting, and I wondered idl1
where I had seen it before, for it was certairi
quite familiar to me.
It wasn't till the middle of the night tha
it suddenly came to me.
Except that it was bigger and rather mor1
straggling, it was extraordinarily like the '^nt
ing on the anonymous letters.
c\o

^™ ideas flashed through my head.
' j Mrs. Leidner conceivably written
rhose let^5 ^^
And did Dr. Leidner half suspect the fact?
f\r\

Chapter 10
Saturday Afternoon
I
mrs. leidner told me her story on a Friday.
On Saturday morning there was a feelina of slight anticlimax in the air.
Mrs. Leidner, in particular, was inclined to be very off-hand with me and rather pointedly
avoided any possibility of a tetedtete. Well, that didn't surprise me! I've had the
same thing happen to me again and again.
Ladies tell their nurses things in a sudden burst of confidence, and then, afterwards;
they feel uncomfortable about it and wish
they hadn't! It's only human nature. -
I was very careful not to hint or remind her in any way of what she had told W- purposely kept my conversation as matter- of-fact as possible.
Mr. Coleman had started in to Hassanie11 in the morning, driving himself in the lor^. with the letters in a knapsack. He also ti3 j
one or two commissions to do for the itt^a

^L f the expedition. It was pay-day for
en and he would have to go to the
^e ^j bring out the money in coins of
331111 denominations. All this was a long
>n1 ness and he did not expect to be back
3 ril the afternoon. I rather suspected he
^ight be lunching with Sheila Reilly.
Work on the dig was usually not very busy
3n the afternoon of pay-day as at three-thirty
[he paying-out began.
The little boy, Abdullah, whose business
it was to wash pots, was established as usual
In the centre of the courtyard, and again as
usual, kept up his queer nasal chant. Dr.
Leidner and Mr. Emmott were going to put
in some work on the pottery until Mr. Coleman
returned, and Mr. Carey went up to the
dig.
Mrs. Leidner went to her room to rest. I
settled her as usual and then went to my own
room, taking a book with me as I did not
e1 ^epy. It was then about a quarter to
^ and a couple of hours passed quite
P^santly. I was reading Death in a Nursing
I ^^^y a most exciting story—though
, on t think the author knew much about
p ^y nursing homes are run! At any rate
^__ver known a nursing home like that!

1
I really felt inclined to write to the auti" and put him right about a few points. r
When I put the book down at last (it m the red-haired parlourmaid and I'd nevp I
suspected her once!) and looked at my watch
I was quite surprised to find it was twenty minutes to three!
I got up, straightened my uniform, and
came out into the courtyard. J
Abdullah was still scrubbing and still singing
his depressing chant, and David Emmott
was standing by him sorting the scrubbed
pots, and putting the ones that were broken into boxes to await mending. I strolled over
towards them just as Dr. Leidner came down the staircase from the roof. m
"Not a bad afternoon," he said cheerfully.
"I've made a bit of a clearance up there.
Louise will be pleased. She's complained
lately that there's not room to walk about.
I'll go and tell her the good news." '
He went over to his wife's door, tappe0 on it and went in.
It must, I suppose, have been about a mi11'
ute and a half later that he came out agai^' I happened to be looking at the door whe° I
he did so. It was like a nightmare. He ha gone in a brisk, cheerful man. He came ou I like a drunken one--reeling a little on ^j
1 r»^» M ^B

d with a queer dazed expression on
tec1?
hisa gg_5) he called in a queer, hoarse
' voice. "Nurse-"
I saw at once something was wrong, and
T ran across to him. He looked awful--his
face was all grey and twitching, and I saw
he might collapse any minute.
"My wife ..." he said. "My wife . . .
Oh, my God ..."
I pushed past him into the room. Then I
caught my breath.
Mrs. Leidner was lying in a dreadful huddled
heap by the bed.
I bent over her. She was quite dead--must
have been dead an hour at least. The cause
of death was perfectly plain --a terrific blow
on the front of the head just over the right
temple. She must have got up from the bed and been struck down where she stood.
1 didn't handle her more than I could help.
1 glanced round the room to see if there w^_ anything that might give a clue, but ^othing seemed out of place or disturbed.
ne Endows were closed and fastened, and
^ ha^ ^as n0 place where the murderer could (e "^den. Obviously he had been and belong ago.
K1111 ^t? closing the door behind me.

Dr. Leidner had collapsed completely
now. David Emmott was with him and
turned a white, inquiring face to me.
In a few low words I told him what had
happened. :- - .
As I had always suspected, he was a first-
class person to rely on in trouble. He was
perfectly calm and self-possessed. Thosem blue eyes of his opened very wide, but otherwise
he gave no sign at all.
He considered for a moment and then
said: I |
"I suppose we must notify the police as
soon as possible. Bill ought to be back any
minute. What shall we do with Leidner?"
"Help me to get him into his room."
He nodded.
"Better lock this door first, I suppose,"
he said.
He turned the key in the lock of Mrs.B Leidner5 s door, then drew it out and handedB it to me.
"I guess you'd better keep this, nurse.
Now then."
Together we lifted Dr. Leidner and carried
him into his own room and laid him on
his bed. Mr. Emmott went off in search 01 brandy. He returned, accompanied by mi^ Johnson.
I

T-fer face was drawn and anxious 5 but she
. ^flim and capable, and I felt satisfied to
was canu _ ., J. , ,
leave Dr. Leidner m her charge.
T hurried out into the courtyard. The station
wagon was just coming in through the
archway. I think it gave us a all a shock to
see Bill's pink, cheerful face as he jumped
out with his familiar "Hallo, 'allo, 'allo!
Here's the oof!" He went on gaily, "No highway
robberies--"
He came to a halt suddenly. "I say, is
anything up? What's the matter with you all?
You look as though the cat had killed your
canary."
Mr. Emmott said shortly:
"Mrs. Leidner's dead--killed." "What?" Bill's jolly face changed ludicrously.
He stared, his eyes goggling.
"Mother Leidner dead! You're pulling my
leg."
'Dead?" It was a sharp cry. I turned to ^e Mrs. Mercado behind me. "Did you say ^s. Leidner had been killed?9'
^es," I said. "Murdered." ^. No!" she gasped. "Oh, no! I won't be- le^elt .^haps she's committed suicide."
h 'ulcides don5t hit themselves on the ^^i" I said dryly. "It's murder all right, nrs. Mercado."

ip
She sat down suddenly on an upturned
packing-case.
She said, "Oh, but this is horrible--kor~
rible ..." |
Naturally it was horrible. We didn't need her to tell us so! I wondered if perhaps she
was feeling a bit remorseful for the harsh
feelings she had harboured against the dead
woman, and all the spiteful things she had I
said.
After a minute or two she asked rather
breathlessly: I
"What are you going to do?" ^
Mr. Emmott took charge in his quiet way.
"Bill, you'd better get in again to Hassanieh
as quick as you can. I don't know much
about the proper procedure. Better get hold
of Captain Maitland, he's in charge of the
police here, I think. Get Dr. Reilly first.
He'll know what to do."
Mr. Coleman nodded. All the facetiousness
was knocked out of him. He just looked
young and frightened. Without a word he
jumped into the station wagon and drove 06'
Mr. Emmott said rather uncertainly? *
suppose we ought to have a hunt round.
He raised his voice and called:
„ i^Ibrahim!"
"Na'am."

The house-boy came running. Mr. Emspoke
to him in Arabic. A vigorous "^loquy passed between them. The boy reined to be emphatically denying some-
At last Mr. Emmott said in a perplexed
voice:
"He says there's not been a soul here this
afternoon. No stranger of any kind. I suppose
the fellow must have slipped in without
their seeing him."
"Of course he did," said Mrs. Mercado.
"He slunk in when the boys weren't looking."

"Yes," said Mr. Emmott.
The slight uncertainty in his voice made
me look at him inquiringly.
He turned and spoke to the little potboy, Abdullah, asking him a question.
The boy replied vehemently at length.
The puzzled frown on Mr. Emmott's brow "^creased.
'I don't understand it," he murmured un- tohis breath. "I don't understand it at all."
^Ut he didn't tell me what he didn't un- ^rstand.

Chapter 11
An Odd Bus/ness
I'M adhering as far as possible to telling only
my personal part in the business. I pass over
the events of the next two hours 5 the arrival
of Captain Maitland and the police and Dr.
Reilly. There was a good deal of general confusion, questioning, all the routine business, I suppose.
In my opinion we began to get down to
brass tacks about five o'clock when Dr.
Reilly asked me to come with him into the
office. I
He shut the door, sat down in Dr. Leidner's
chair, motioned me to sit down opposite
him, and said briskly:
"Now, then, nurse, let's get down to
it. There's something damned odd here.
I settled my cuffs and looked at him i11'
quiringly. j
He drew out a notebook. I
"This is for my own satisfaction. no^.

1 ^ time was it exactly when Dr. Leidner
what "11A" . ,,
found his wife's body?
"T should say it was almost exactly a
quarter to three," I said.
"And how do you know that?"
"Well? I looked at my watch when I got
up. It was twenty to three then." "Let's have a look at this watch of yours." I slipped it off my wrist and held it out to
him.
"Right to the minute. Excellent woman.
Good, that's that fixed. Now did you form
any opinion as to how long she'd been
dead?"
"Oh, really, doctor," I said, "I shouldn't
like to say."
"Don't be so professional. I want to see
if your estimate agrees with mine."
"Well, I should say she'd been dead at
least an hour."
"Quite so. I examined the body at halfPast
four and I'm inclined to put the time 01 death between 1.15 and 1.45. We'll say
^f-past one at a guess. That's near
enough."
Hepopped and drummed thoughtfully
l^his fingers on the table.
damned odd, this business," he said.

1
"Can you tell me about it--you were resting
you say? Did you hear anything?"
"At half-past one? No, doctor. I didn't
hear anything at half-past one or at any other
time. I lay on my bed from a quarter to one
until twenty to three and I didn't hear anything
except that droning noise the Arab boy
makes, and occasionally Mr. Emmott shouting
up to Dr. Leidner on the roof." |
"The Arab boy--yes." I
He frowned. At that moment the door opened and Dr.^B Leidner and Captain Maitland came in. Captain
Maitland was a fussy little man with a
pair of shrewd grey eyes.
Dr. Reilly rose and pushed Dr. Leidner
into his chair.
"Sit down, man. I'm glad you've come.
We shall want you. There's something very
queer about this business."
Dr. Leidner bowed his head. m "I know." He looked at me. "My wife
confided the truth to Nurse Leatheran. ^e mustn't keep anything back at this juncture? nurse, so please tell Captain Maitland and Dr. Reilly just what passed between you an0 my wife yesterday."
As nearly as possible I gave our conv^ sation verbatim. «

r ntain Maitland uttered an occasional
. , lotion. When I had finished he turned
^Dr. Leidner.
"And this is all true, Leidner—eh?"
"Every word Nurse Leatheran has told
you is correct."
"What an extraordinary story," said Dr.
Reilly. "Yo11 can produce these letters?"
"I have no doubt they will be found
amongst my wife's belongings."
"She took them out of the attache-case on
her table," I said.
"Then they are probably still there."
He turned to Captain Maitland and his
usually gentle face grew hard and stern.
"There must be no question of hushing
this story up. Captain Maitland. The one
thing necessary is for this man to be caught
and punished."
"You believe it actually is Mrs. Leidner's
former husband?" I asked.
'Don't you think so, nurse?" asked Cap^n
Maitland.
Well, I think it is open to doubt," I said
^sitatingly.
^ "In any case," said Dr. Leidner, "the man
. murderer—and I should say a dangerous
^c also. He must be found. Captain

1
Maitland. He must. It should not be diffi
cult."
Dr. Reilly said slowly:
"It may be more difficult than you think
eh, Maitland?"
Captain Maitland tugged at his moustache
without replying. 1
Suddenly i gave a start.
"Excuse me," I said, "but there's something
perhaps I ought to mention."
I told my story of the Iraqi we had seen
trying to peer through the window, and of I
how I had seen him hanging about the place
two days ago trying to pump Father La-
vigny.
"Good," said Captain Maitland, "we'll
make a note of that. It will be something for
the police to go on. The man may have some
connection with the case."
"Probably paid to act as a spy," I suggested.
'^o find out when the coast was
clear."
Dr. Reilly rubbed his nose with a harassed
gesture.
"That^s the devil of it," he said. "SuP-l
posing the coast wasn't clear--eh?"
I stared at him in a puzzled fashion.
Captain Maitland turned to Dr. Leidi^- 4(1 ^nt you to listen to me very carefw,

•riner This is a review of the evidence
1 p eot up to date. After lunch, which was
we j at twelve o'clock and was over by five
se ^venty to one, your wife went to her
^oom accompanied by Nurse Leatheran,
who settled her comfortably. You yourself
went up to the roof, where you spent the
next two hours, is that right?"
"Yes."
"Did you come down from the roof at all
during that time?"
"No."
"Did any one come up to you?"
"Yes, Emmott did pretty frequently. He
went to and fro between me and the boy,
who was washing pottery down below."
"Did you yourself look over into the
courtyard, at all?"
K"0nce or twice—usually to call to Emott
about something."
r
'On each occasion the boy was sitting in
the middle of the courtyard washing pots?"
•"Yes."
What was the longest period of time
w n Emmott was with you and absent from
Lne courtyard?"
^ r; Leidner considered.
Ute ^» ^fficult to say—perhaps ten min^——Personally
I should say two or three

|^^^ d lately outside the archway chatting to ^ m^ guard and plucking a couple of fowls. ihrahim and Mansur, the house-boys, joined
, . fhere at about 1.15. They both remained
there laughing and talking until 2.30--by
which time your wife was already dead." Dr. Leidner leaned forward.
"I don't understand--you puzzle me.
What are you hinting at?"
minutes, but I know by experience that my
sense of time is not very good when I am
absorbed and interested in what I am
doing."
Captain Maitland looked at Dr. Reillv
The latter nodded. "We'd better get down
to it," he said.
Captain Maitland took out a small notebook
and opened it.
"Look here, Leidner, I'm going to read
to you exactly what every member of your
expedition was doing between one and two H
this afternoon."
"But surely--"
"Wait. You'll see what I'm driving at in --
a minute. First Mr. and Mrs. Mercado. Mr.
Mercado says he was working in his laboratory.
Mrs. Mercado says she was in her
bedroom shampooing her hair. Miss John- f son says she was in the living-room taking U impressions of cylinder seals. Mr. Reiter says
he was in the dark-room developing plates.
Father Lavigny says he was working in his bedroom. As to the two remaining members
of the expedition, Carey and Coleman, the former was up on the dig and Coleman ^as * in Hassanieh. So much for the members °
the expedition. Now for the servants. in
r-nnk--vour Indian chap--was sitting lln j:
"Is there any means of access to your
wife's room except by the door into the
courtyard?"
"No. There are two windows, but they
are heavily barred--and besides, I think
they were shut."
He looked at me questioningly.
rfThey were closed and latched on the inside,"
I said promptly.
"In any case," said Captain Maitland, ^ven if they had been open, no one could
have entered or left the room that way. My allows and I have assured ourselves of that. 1 ^s the same with all the other windows ^ng on the open country. They all have n bars and all the bars are in good conon.
To have got into your wife's room, a ^nger must have come through the arched
--^y into the courtyard. But we have the

united assurances of the guard, the cook and the house-boy that nobody did so."
Dr. Leidner sprang up. "What do you mean? What do you
mean?"
"Pull yourself together, man," said Dr.
Reilly quietly. "I know it's a shock, but ifs
got to be faced. The murderer didn't come from
outside--so he must have come from inside. It looks as though Mrs. Leidner must have
been murdered by a member of your own expedition."


Chapter 12
//; D/c/n't Believe . . .//

"No. No!"
Dr. Leidner sprang up and walked up and
down in an agitated manner.
"It's impossible what you say, Reilly. Absolutely
impossible. One of us? Why, every
single member of the expedition was devoted
to Louise!"
A queer little expression pulled down the
corners of Dr. Reilly's mouth. Under the
circumstances it was difficult for him to say anything, but if ever a man's silence was eloquent his was at that minute. ^'Q^te impossible," reiterated Dr. Leidner.
They were all devoted to her. Louise had such wonderful charm. Every one felt it."
n
Rr- Reilly coughed.
Excuse me, Leidner, but after all that's
ex ^Y0111' OPlnlon ^ ^v member of the
Ina?0 on na(^ disliked your wife they would ^----Ity not advertise the fact to you.'
»5

Dr. Leidner looked distressed.
"True—quite true. But all the same
Reilly, I think you are wrong. I'm sure every
one was fond of Louise."
He was silent for a moment or two and
then burst out. 1
"This idea of yours is infamous. "It'sJ
ifs frankly incredible." •
"You can't get away from—er—the
facts," said Captain Maitland.
"Facts? Facts? Lies told by an Indian cook
and a couple of Arab house-boys. You know
these fellows as well as I do, Reilly; so do
you, Maitland. Truth as truth means nothing
to them. They say what you want them to
say as a mere matter of politeness."
"In this case," said Dr. Reilly dryly, "they
are saying what we don't want them to say.
Besides, I know the habits of your household
fairly well. Just outside the gate is a kind of
social club. Whenever I've been over here
in the afternoon I've always found most of
your staff there. It's the natural place ^
them to be."
"All the same I think you are assume
too much. Why shouldn't this man—th^
devil—have got in earlier and conceal^
himself somewhere?" 1
"I agree that that is not actually imp0 a
M

r ,? gaid Dr. Reilly coolly. "Let us ass that a stranger ^i'J somehow gain "Mission unseen. He would have to remain a ncealed until the right moment (and he 00 ^ainly couldn't have done so in Mrs. Leidc 5g room, there is no cover there) and take
the risk of being seen entering the room and
leaving it--with Emmott and the boy in the
courtyard most of the time."
"The boy. I'd forgotten the boy," said Dr.
Leidner. "A sharp little chap. But surely, I Maitland, the boy must have seen the murderer
go into my wife's room?"
"We've elucidated that. The boy was
washing pots the whole afternoon with one
exception. Somewhere around half-past
one--Emmott can't put it closer than that
--he went up to the roof and was with you tor ten minutes--that's right, isn't it?"
"Yes. I couldn't have told you the exact
tune but it must have been about that."
"Very good. Well, during that ten min- ^s, the boy, seizing his chance to be idle, strolled out and joined the others outside the gate for a chat. When Emmott came down e ound the boy absent and called him an-
Yi asking him what he meant by leaving
nls Worl^ A c t t
^ ,il\ As tar as I can see, your wife must ^_ een murdered during that ten minutes."

1
With a groan. Dr. Leidner sat down and
hid his face in his hands.
Dr. Reilly took up the tale, his voice qui'
and matter-of-fact.
"The time fits in with my evidence," he
said. "She'd been dead about three hours
when I examined her. The only question is
--who did it?"
There was a silence. Dr. Leidner sat up
in his chair and passed a hand over his forehead.

"I admit the force of your reasoning,
Reilly," he said quietly. "It certainly seems as though it were what people call 'an inside
job.' But I feel convinced that somewhere or
other there is a mistake. It's plausible but
there must be a flaw in it. To begin with,
you are assuming that an amazing coincidence
has occurred."
"Odd that you should use that word," said
Dr. Reilly.
Without paying any attention Dr. Leidner
went on:
"My wife receives threatening letters. She
has reason to fear a certain person. Then she is--killed. And you ask me to believe that she is killed--not by that person--but by
some one entirely different! I say that th^ is ridiculous."

It seems so--yes," said Dr. Reilly med-
lta looked at Captain Maitland. "Coincidence--eh? What do you say, Mait-
i a~> Are you in favour of the idea? Shall
land- pounds \iv J , ., .„
we put it up to Leidner?
Captain Maitland gave a nod.
"Go ahead," he said shortly.
"Have you ever heard of a man called Hercule
Poirot, Leidner?"
Dr. Leidner stared at him, puzzled.
"I think I have heard the name, yes," he
said vaguely. "I once heard a Mr. Van Aldin
speak of him in very high terms. He is a private detective, is he not?" ' "That's the man."
"But surely he lives in London, so how
will that help us?"
"He lives in London, true," said Dr.
Reilly, "but this is where the coincidence ^omes in. He is now, not in London, but in ^yna, and he will actually pass through Hassameh
on his way to Baghdad tomorrow!" Who told you this?"
Jean Berat, the French consul. He dined
. n us last night and was talking about him. ^ eems he has been disentangling some mil-
V scandal in Syria. He's coming through
e to .visit Baghdad, and afterwards re
1,
turning through Syria to London. Ho\v'
that for a coincidence?"
Dr. Leidner hesitated a moment anc looked apologetically at Captain Maitland.
"What do you think. Captain Maitland?"
"Should welcome co-operation," said
Captain Maitland promptly. "My fellows are
good scouts at scouring the countryside and
investigating Arab blood feuds, but frankly
Leidner 5 this business of your wife's seems
to me rather out of my class. The whole thing
looks confoundedly fishy. I'm more than
willing to have the fellow take a look at the
case."
"You suggest that I should appeal to this
man Poirot to help us?" said Dr. Leidner.
"And suppose he refuses?"
"He won't refuse," said Dr. Reilly. Ji
"How do you know?"
"Because I'm a professional man myself.
If a really intricate case of say--cerebrol
spinal meningitis comes my way and I'm invited
to take a hand, I shouldn't be able to
refuse. This isn't an ordinary crime, Leidner.
"No," said Dr. Leidner. His lips twitched
with sudden pain.
"Will you then, Reilly, approach this H^'
cule Poirot on my behalf?"
"I will."

' Leidner made a gesture of thanks.
"Even now," he said slowly, "I can't re.
^_that Louise is really dead."
a \ could bear it no longer.
"Oh! Dr. Leidner," I burst out. "I --I
an't tell you how badly I feel about this.
I've failed so badly in my duty. It was my
job to watch over Mrs. Leidner--to keep
er from harm."
1
Dr. Leidner shook his head gravely.
"No, no, nurse, you've nothing to reproach
yourself with," he said slowly. "It's
/, God forgive me, who am to blame. ... I
didn't believe--all along I didn't believe . . .
I didn't dream for one moment that there
was any real danger. ..."
He got up. His face twitched.
"Z let her go to her death. . . . Yes, I let
her go to her death--not believing--"
He staggered out of the room.
Dr. Reilly looked at me.
.1 feel pretty culpable too," he said. "I
"^ught the good lady was playing oin his
nerves." ^ ^ b
1 didn't take it really seriously eitlner" I ^nfessed.
n.^ were all three wrong," said Dr. ^ty gravely.
"_ seems," said Captain Maitlamd.
i >'»

Chapter 13
Hercule Poirot Arrives
I don't think I shall ever forget my first sight
of Hercule Poirot. Of course, I got used to
him later on, but to begin with it was a
shock, and I think every one else must have
felt the same!
I don't know what I'd imagined--something
rather like Sherlock Holmes--long
and lean with a keen, clever face. Of course,
I knew he was a foreigner, but I hadn't expected
him to be quite as foreign as he was, if you know what I mean.
When you saw him you just wanted to s laugh! He was like something on the stage
or at the pictures. To begin with, he wasn t
above five foot five, I should think--an odd
plump little man, quite old, with an enormous
moustache, and a head like an egg. ne looked like a hairdresser in a comic play-
And this was the man who was going t0^ find out who killed Mrs. Leidner!

T suppos6 something of my disgust must
shown in my face, for almost straighthe
said to me with a queer kind of
twinkle:
"You disapprove of me, ma soeurp Remember,
the pudding proves itself only
when you eat it." The proof of the pudding's in the eating,
I suppose he meant.
Well, that's a true enough saying, but I
couldn't say I felt much confidence myself!
Dr. Reilly brought him out in his car soon
after lunch on Sunday, and his first procedure
was to ask us all to assemble together.
We did so in the dining-room, all sitting
round the table. Mr. Poirot sat at the head
of it with Dr. Leidner one side and Dr.
Reilly the other.
When we were all assembled. Dr. Leidner
cleared his throat and spoke in his gentle, hesitating voice.
*I dare say you have all heard of M. Her^e
Poirot. He was passing through Has- ^nieh to-day, and has very kindly agreed to
I reak ^s journey to help us. The Iraq police
. Captain Maitland are, I am sure, doing
lr ^ry best, but--but there are circum- ^lces_n the case"--he floundered and shot
1 nc

1,
an appealing glance at Dr. Reilly--"there
may, it seems, be difficulties. ..."
"It is not all the square and overboard--. no?" said the little man at the top of the
table. Why, he couldn't even speak English
properly!
"Oh, he must be caught!" cried Mrs. Mercado.
"It would be unbearable if he got
away!"
I noticed the little foreigner's eyes rest on
her appraisingly.
"He? Who is he, madame?" he asked.
"Why, the murderer, of course."
"Ah! the murderer," said Hercule Poirot.
He spoke as though the murderer was of
no consequence at all!
We all stared at him. He looked from one
face to another.
"It is likely, I think," he said, "that you
have none of you been brought in contact
with a case of murder before?" B
There was a general murmur of assent.
Hercule Poirot smiled.
"It is clear, therefore, that you do not understand
the A.B.C. of the position. There
are unpleasantnesses! Yes, there are a lot oi
unpleasantnesses. To begin with, there 1s suspicion."
"Suspicion?"

Tr was Miss Johnson who spoke. Mr.
" ^t looked at her thoughtfully. I had an 1 ^t he regarded her with approval. He looked as though he were thinking, "Here
is a sensible, intelligent person!"
"Yes mademoiselle," he said. "Suspirion' Let us not make the bones about it. You are all under suspicion here in this house. The cook, the house-boy, the scullion, the pot-boy--yes, and all the members of the
expedition too."
Mrs. Mercado started up, her face working.

"How dare you? How dare you say such
a thing! This is odious--unbearable! Dr.
Leidner--you can't sit here and let this
man--and let this man--"
Dr. Leidner said wearily:
"Please try and be calm, Marie."
Mr. Mercado stood up too. His hands
were shaking and his eyes were bloodshot.
'I agree. It is an outrage--an insult--"
| "No, no," said Mr. Poirot. "I do not insult
you. I merely ask you all to face facts. n a house where murder has been committed, ery. ^mate comes in for a certain share of
Picion. I ask you what evidence is there
- Ti1^ mur^erer came from outside at all?" Mrs- Mercado cried:
1)'7

"But of course he did! It stands to reason 1
Why--" She stopped and said more slowly
"Anything else would be incredible!"
"You are doubtless correct, madame " said Poirot with a bow. "I explain to you
only how the matter must be approached
First I assure myself of the fact that every
one in this room is innocent. After that I
seek the murderer elsewhere."
"Is it not possible that that may be a little
late in the day?" asked Father Lavigny
suavely.
"The tortoise, mon pere, overtook the
hare."
Father Lavigny shrugged his shoulders.
"We are in your hands," he said resignedly.
"Convince yourself as soon as may
be of our innocence in this terrible business."
"As rapidly as possible. It was my duty
to make the position clear to you, so that
you may not resent the impertinence of any
questions I may have to ask. Perhaps, mon pere, the Church will set an example?" ^
"Ask any questions you please of in0? said Father Lavigny gravely.
"This is your first season out here?'
"Yes."
"And you arrived--when?"

'r
"'Three weeks ago almost to a day. That
• nn the 27th of February."
IS? -' c •\ff
"Coming trom.^
"The Order of the Peres Blancs at Carthage."
,
^-
w/

"Thank
you, mon pere. Were you at any
time acquainted with Mrs. Leidner before
coming here?"
"No, I had never seen the lady until I met
her here."
"Will you tell me what you were doing at
the time of the tragedy?"
"I was working on some cuneiform tablets
in my own room."
I noticed that Poirot had at his elbow a
rough plan of the building.
"That is the room at the south-west corner
corresponding to that of Mrs. Leidner on
the opposite side?"
"Yes."
At what time did you go to your room?"
"Immediately after lunch. I should say at
about twenty minutes to one."
^And you remained there until—when?"
Just before three o'clock. I had heard the
^tion wagon come back—and then I heard
^ve off again. I wondered why, and came
°m to see."
i ^>n

1
"During the time that you were there did1 you leave the room at all?" <i
"No, not once."
"And you heard or saw nothing that might
have any bearing on the tragedy?"
"No."
"You have no window giving on the courtyard
in your room?"
"No, both the windows give on the countryside."

"Could you hear at all what was happening
in the courtyard?"
"Not very much. I heard Mr. Emmott
passing my room and going up to the roof.
He did so once or twice."
"Can you remember at what time?"
"No, I'm afraid I can't. I was engrossed
in my work, you see."
There was a pause and then Poirot said:
"Can you say or suggest anything at all
that might throw light on this business. Did
you, for instance, notice anything in the days
preceding the murder?"
|i| Father Lavigny looked slightly uncomfortable.
i
He shot a half-questioning look at D^ Leidner. i^
"That is rather a difficult question, nio11.
sieur," he said gravely. "If you ask m6-

r reply fr811^ ^^ m "^ OPlmon ^rs^^ner
was clearly in dread of some one or
ething. She was definitely nervous about son1.,oers. I imagine she had a reason for this ^vousness of hers--but I know nothing.
She did not confide in me."
Poirot cleared his throat and consulted
some notes that he held in his hand.
"Two nights ago I understand there was
a scare of burglary."
Father Lavigny replied in the affirmative
and retailed his story of the light seen
in the antika-room and the subsequent futile
search.
"You believe, do you not, that some unauthorized
person was on the premises at
that time?"
"I don't know what to think," said Father
Lavigny frankly. "Nothing was taken or disturbed
in any way. It might have been one
°f the house-boys--" ^Or a member of the expedition?" Or a member of the expedition. But in "at case there would be no reason for the
P^son not admitting the fact."
^t it might equally have been a stranger ^ outside?" Oppose so." Opposing a stranger had been on the
101

jrf . 1
premises, could he have concealed himself
successfully during the following day and
until the afternoon of the day following
that?"
He asked the question half of Father Lavigny
and half of Dr. Leidner. Both men
considered the question carefully.
"I hardly think it would be possible," said
Dr. Leidner at last with some reluctance. "I
don't see where he could possibly conceal
himself, do you. Father Lavigny?"
"No--no--I don't."
Both men seemed reluctant to put the suggestion
aside. ^
Poirot turned to Miss Johnson.
"And you, mademoiselle? Do you consider
such a hypothesis feasible?"
After a moment's thought Miss Johnson
shook her head.
"No," she said. "I don't. Where could any
one hide? The bedrooms are all in use and,
in any case, are sparsely furnished. The
dark-room, the drawing-office and the lab* i|i [II oratory were all in use the next day--so were
all these rooms. There are no cupboards or
corners. Perhaps, if the servants were i11 collusion--" .
"That is possible, but unlikely," s^ Poirot. .

m ^urned once more to Father Lavigny.
"There is another point. The other day
M rse Leatheran here noticed you talking to
man outside. She had previously noticed Aat same man trying to peer in at one of the
windows on the outside. It rather looks as
though the man were hanging round the
place deliberately."
"That is possible, of course," said Father
Lavigny thoughtfully.
"Did you speak to this man first, or did
he speak to you?"
Father Lavigny considered for a moment
or two.
"I believe--yes, I am sure, that he spoke
to me."
"What did he say?"
Father Lavigny made an effort of memory.

"He said, I think, something to the effect ^s this the American expedition house? ^d then something else about the Ameri- cans ^ploying a lot of men on the work. I dld not really understand him very well, but ^deavoured to keep up a conversation so
Is to improve my Arabic. I thought, per-
sr a ^t ^^S a ^wnee he would under- jj^anie better than the men on the dig do."
--^ you converse about anything else?"

1
"As far as I remember, I said Hassanieh
was a big town--and we then agreed that
Baghdad was bigger--and I think he asked
whether I was an Armenian or a Syrian
Catholic--something of that kind."
Poirot nodded. ,
"Can you describe him?" |
Again Father Lavigny frowned in
thought.
"He was rather a short man," he said at
last, "and squarely built. He had a very noticeable
squint and was of fair complexion."
Mr. Poirot turned to me.
"Does that agree with the way you wouk
describe him?" he asked. I
"Not exactly," I said hesitatingly. "I
should have said he was tall rather than
short, and very dark complexioned. He
seemed to me of a rather slender build. 1
didn't notice any squint." |
Mr. Poirot gave a despairing shrug of the
shoulders.
"It is always so! If you were of the police
how well you would know it! The description
of the same man by two differ^ people--never does it agree. Every detail ^ contradicted."
sai^
55
"I'm fairly sure about the squint,
he
Father Lavigny. "Nurse Leatheran may °

ht about the other points. By the way, r1^ n I said fair, I only meant fair for an w j expect nurse would call that dark."
'Very dark," I said obstinately. "A dirty
dark-yellow colour."
I saw Dr. Reilly bite his lip and smile.
poirot threw up his hands.
"passons!" he said. "This stranger hanging
about, he may be important--he may
not. At any rate he must be found. Let us
continue our inquiry."
He hesitated for a minute, studying the
faces turned towards him round the table, then, with a quick nod, he singled out Mr.
Reiter.
"Come, my friend," he said. "Let us have,
your account of yesterday afternoon."
Mr. Reiter's pink, plump face flushed
scarlet.
^'Me?" he said.
'Yes, you. To begin with, your name and
your age?"
^Carl Reiter, twenty-eight."
«<
^'American--yes?"
«
Yes, I come from Chicago."
(f
Tllls is your ^st season?" Yes' I'm in charge of the photography."
did yes' ^nc^ y^^day afternoon, how --u employ yourself?"

"Well--I was in the dark-room most of
the time."
"Most of the time--eh?"
"Yes. I developed some plates first
Afterwards I was fixing up some objects to
photograph."
"Outside?"
"Oh, no, in the photographic room."
"The dark-room opens out of the photographic
room?"
"Yes."
"And so you never came outside the
photographic room?"
"No."
"Did you notice anything that went on in
the courtyard?"
The young man shook his head.
"I wasn't noticing anything," he explained.
"I was busy. I heard the car come
back, and as soon as I could leave what I
was doing I came out to see if there was any
mail. It was then that I--heard."
"And you began your work in the ph_
tographic room--when?" |
"At ten minutes to one." I
"Were you acquainted with Mrs. Leidn6^ before you joined this expedition?"
The young man shook his head.
- - - A

"Ko sir. I never saw her till I actually got
??
here^ you think of anything--any indent---however
small--that might help
-\55
USrCarl
Reiter shook his head.
He said helplessly:
"I guess I don't know anything at all, sir."
"Mr. Emmott?"
David Emmott spoke clearly and concisely
in his pleasant soft American voice.
"I was working with the pottery from a
quarter to one till a quarter to three--overseeing
the boy Abdullah, sorting it, and occasionally
going up to the roof to help Dr. Leidner."
"How often did you go up to the roof?"
"Four times, I think."
"For how long?"
"Usually a couple of minutes--not more. But on one occasion after I'd been working a little over half an hour I stayed as long as ten "Mutes--discussing what to keep and ^at to fling away."
And I understand that when you came
°wn you found the boy had left his place?"
p es- I called him angrily and he reap-
^on from outside the archway. He had ^^Ut to gossip with the others."

"That was the only time he left his work^'
"Well, I sent him up once or twice to the
roof with pottery."
Poirot said gravely:
"It is hardly necessary to ask you, Mr
Emmott, whether you saw any one enter 01
leave Mrs. Leidner's room during thai
time?"
Mr. Emmott replied promptly.
"I saw no one at all. Nobody even came
out into the courtyard during the two hours
I was working."
"And to the best of your belief it was halfpast
one when both you and the boy were
absent and the courtyard was empty?"
"It couldn't have been far off that time.
Of course, I can't say exactly."
Poirot turned to Dr. Reilly.
"That agrees with your estimate of the
time of death, doctor?"
"It does," said Dr. Reilly.
Mr. Poirot stroked his great curled mous
taches.
"I think we can take it," he said gravely'
"that Mrs. Leidner met her death during
that ten minutes."
i

Chapter 14
One of Us?

there was a little pause--and in it a wave
of horror seemed to float round the room.
I think it was at that moment that I first (believed Dr. Reilly's theory to be right. Hi felt that the murderer was in the room.
Sitting with us--listening. One of us . . .
^
Perhaps Mrs. Mercado felt it too. For she suddenly gave a short sharp cry.
"I can't help it," she sobbed. "I--it's so
terrible!"
"Courage, Marie," said her husband.
He looked at us apologetically.
"She is so sensitive. She feels things so
much.^
"T T
^--l was so fond of Louise " sobbed ^s. Mercado.
I r ~01^t know whether something of what
fou t! ^^^ m my f30^ but I suddenly d ^at Mr. Poirot was looking at me,
^n^- a slight smile hovered on his lips.

I gave him a cold glance, and at once he
resumed his inquiry.
"Tell me, madame," he said, "oftheway
you spent yesterday afternoon?"
"I was washing my hair," sobbed Mrs.
Mercado. "It seems awful not to have known
anything about it. I was quite happy and
busy."
"You were in your room?"
"Yes."
"And you did not leave it?"
"No. Not till I heard the car. Then Icame
out and I heard what had happened. Oh, it
was awful!"
"Did it surprise you?"
Mrs. Mercado stopped crying. Her eyes
opened resentfully.
"What do you mean, M. Poirot? Are you suggesting--"
"What should I mean, madame? You have
just told us how fond you were of Mrs. Leidner.
She might, perhaps, have confided ii1
you."
"Oh, I see. . . . No--no, dear Louise
never told me anything--anything define that is. Of course, I could see she was terribly
worried and nervous. And there were tho5 strange occurrences--hands tapping on tt1 ^ window and all that." 1

'r"

^Fancies,J remember you said," I put in,
^ble to keep silent.
y11 1-^1 <-<-t ooo ih
was gl^t0 see ^^ ^ ^°°ked momently
disconcerted.
!
Once again I was conscious of Mr. Poirot's
amused eye glancing in my direction.
Ke summed up in a business-like way.
|"It comes to this, madame, you were
washing your hair--you heard nothing and you saw nothing. Is there anything at all you
can think of that would be a help to us in
anyway?" I te. Mercado took no time to think.
'^o, indeed there isn't. It's the deepest
mystery! But I should say there is no
doubt--no doubt at all that the murderer
cane from outside. Why, it stands to reason"

Nrot turned to her husband.
'W you, monsieur, what have you to
say'"
A. Mercado started nervously. He pulled
atlis beard in an aimless fashion.
'^ust have been. Must have been," he
saio''Ye_ how could any one wish to harm
her?She"was so gentle--so kind--" He shoA his head. "Whoever killed her must
_en a fiend--yes, a fiend!"

"And you yourself, monsieur, how ^
you pass yesterday afternoon?" 3
"I?" he stared vaguely. |
"You were in the laboratory, Joseph," ^i.
wife prompted him. •
"Ah, yes, so I was—so I was. My usual
tasks." i
"At what time did you go there?"
Again he looked helplessly and inquiringly
at Mrs. Mercado.
"At ten minutes to one, Joseph."
"Ah, yes, at ten minutes to one."
"Did you come out in the courtyard at
all?"
"No—I don't think so." He considered.
"No, I am sure I didn't."
"When did you hear of the tragedy?"
"My wife came and told me. It was
terrible—shocking. I could hardly believe it.
Even now, I can hardly believe it is true.'
Suddenly he began to tremble.
"It is horrible—horrible ..." •
Mrs. Mercado came quickly to his side.B
"Yes, yes, Joseph, we all feel that. But we
mustn't give way. It makes it so much m0^
difficult for poor Dr. Leidner." ..^
I saw a spasm of pain pass across Dr. L^
ner's face, and I guessed that this emotion
atmosphere was not easy for him. He 83 •
J

</ glance at Poirot as though in appeal. ^nirot responded quickly.
"Miss Johnson?" he said. ^Tm afraid I can tell you very little," said
Ms Johnson. Her cultured well-bred voice
was soothing after Mrs. Mercado's shrill treble.
She went on:
"I was working in the living-room--taking
impressions of some cylinder seals on
plasticine." "And you saw or noticed nothing?"
I "No."
Poirot gave her a quick glance. His ear
had caught what mine had--a faint note of
indecision.
"Are you quite sure, mademoiselle? Is
there something that comes back to you
vaguely?"
"No--not really--"
"Something you saw, shall we say, out of
the wner of your eye hardly knowing you
saw it."
No, certainly not," she replied posi-
Something you heard then. Ah, yes,
v^? g y011 are not ^mte sure whether
Meard or "of?" ^s Johnson gave a short vexed laugh.
_u press me very closely, M. Poirot.

1
I'm afraid you are encouraging me to tell yo1
what I am, perhaps 5 only imagining."
"Then there was something you—shall we
say—imagined?"
Miss Johnson said slowly, weighing her
words in a detached way:
"I have imagined—since—that at some
time during the afternoon I heard a very faint
cry. . . . What I mean is that I dare say I
did hear a cry. All the windows in the livingroom
were open and one hears all sorts of
sounds from people working in the barley
fields. But you see—since—I've got the idea
into my head that it was—that it was Mrs.
Leidner I heard. And that's made me rather
unhappy. Because if I'd jumped up and run
along to her room—well, who knows? I
might have been in time ..." i
Dr. Reilly interposed authoritatively.
"Now, don't start getting that into your
head," he said. "I've no doubt but that Mrs.
Leidner (forgive me, Leidner) was struck
down almost as soon as the man entered the
room, and it was that blow that killed herNo second blow was struck. Otherwise she
would have had time to call for help _
make a real outcry." „
i "Still, I might have caught the murderer?
said Miss Johnson. • |

-- "vx^hat time was this, mademoiselle?"
, poirot. "In the neighbourhood of
asKC" y> half-past oner'
"Tr must have been about that time--
ves." She reflected a minute.
"That would fit in," said Poirot thoughtfully. "You heard nothing else--the opening
or shutting of a door, for instance?"
Miss Johnson shook her head.
"No, I do not remember anything of that
kind." "You were sitting at a table, I presume.
Which way were you facing? The courtyard?
The antika-room? The verandah? Or the
lopen countryside?"
"I was facing the courtyard."
"Could you see the boy Abdullah washing
pots from where you were?"
"Oh, yes, if I looked up, but of course, I
was very intent on what I was doing. All my
attention was on that."
11 ^y one had passed the courtyard win- "ow though, you would have noticed it?"
0113 yes' I aln almost sure of that." ^nd nobody did so?"
| No."
«p
the ^ ^ any one ^ac^ ^^^ say? a^oss ^uM11^10 ^the courtyard, would you have "^d that?"

"I think—probably not—unless, as I ^
before, I had happened to look up and our
of the window."
"You did not notice the boy Abdullah
leave his work and go out to join the other
servants?"
"No."
"Ten minutes," mused Poirot. "That fatal
ten minutes."
There was a momentary silence.
Miss Johnson lifted her head suddenly and"
said: r
"You know, M. Poirot, I think I have
unintentionally misled you. On thinking it
over, I do not believe that I could possibly
have heard any cry uttered in Mrs. Leidner's
room from where I was. The antika-room |
lay between me and her—and I understanc_
her windows were found closed." L
"In any case, do not distress yourself, nia-^
demoiselle," said Poirot kindly. "It is not
really of much importance." •
"No, of course not. I understand that. Bu1
you see, it is of importance to me, because
I feel I might have done something." .
"Don't distress yourself, dear Anne," ^a
Dr. Leidner with affection. "You must b^
sensible. What you heard was probably (n-

1-a.vling to another some distance away
. ^e fields." Miss Johnson flushed a little at the kind
TLess of his tone. I even saw tears spring to B . gygs. She turned her head away and
srwke even more gruffly than usual.
"probably was. Usual thing after a ^ggdy-- start imagining things that aren't
so at all." Poirot was once more consulting his note^book.
u "I do not suppose there is much more to
be said. Mr. Carey?"
Richard Carey spoke slowly--in a
wooden, mechanical manner.
"I'm afraid I can add nothing helpful. I
was on duty at the dig. The news was
brought to me there."
i
"And you know or can think of nothing
helpful that occurred in the days immediately
preceding the murder?"
"Nothing at all." ^r. Coleman?"
^ ^as right out of the whole thing," said ^r- ^oleman with--was it just a shade of
ye^'^111 his tone' (<1 went int0 Hassanieh erday morning to get the money for the
"^ages. When I came back Emmott

told me what had happened and I went baoV
in the bus to get the police and Dr. Reilly »
"And beforehand?"
"Well, sir, things were a bit jumpy--.^m
you know that already. There was the ami.
ka-room scare and one or two before that
--hands and faces at the window--you remember, sir," he appealed to Dr. Leidner
who bent his head in assent. "I think, you
know, that you'll find some Johnny did get
in from outside. Must have been an artful
sort of beggar."
Poirot considered him for a minute or two
in silence.
"You are an Englishman, Mr. Coleman?« he asked at last. |
"That's right, sir. All British. See _
trademark. Guaranteed genuine." *
"This is your first season?"
"Quite right." m
"And you are passionately keen o111 archaeology?"
This description of himself seemed to
cause Mr. Coleman some embarrassmen1.
He got rather pink and shot the side look °
a guilty schoolboy at Dr. Leidner. ^
"Of course--it's all very interesting?'
stammered. "I mean--I'm not exactly _ brainy chap ..."

t-t broke off rather lamely. Poirot did not
lnslsp tapped thoughtfully on the table with
the end of his pencil and carefully straight-
ed an inkpot that stood in front of him.
"It seems then," he said, "that that is as
near as we can get for the moment. If any
one of you thinks of something that has for
the time being slipped his or her memory do
not hesitate to come to me with it. It will be
well now, I think, for me to have a few words
alone with Dr. Leidner and Dr. Reilly."
It was the signal for a breaking up of the
party. We all rose and filed out of the door.
When I was half-way out, however, a voice
recalled me.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Poirot, "Nurse
Leatheran will be so kind as to remain. I
think her assistance will be valuable to us."
I came back and resumed my seat at the
table.

^,
Chapter 15
Po/rot Makes a Suggestion
dr. reilly had risen from his seat. When
every one had gone out he carefully closed
the door. Then, with an inquiring glance at I
Poirot, he proceeded to shut the window giv- * ing on the courtyard. The others were already
shut. Then he, too, resumed his seat B
at the table. |
"Bien!" said Poirot. "We are now private
and undisturbed. We can speak freely. We
have heard what the members of the expedition
have to tell us and-- But yes, ma soeur, what is it that you think?"
I got rather red. There was no denying
that the queer little man had sharp eyes.
He'd seen the thought passing through my mind--I suppose my face had shown a b_
too clearly what I was thinking! I
"Oh, it's nothing--" I said, hesitating"
"Come on, nurse," said Dr. R^'.
"Don't keep the specialist waiting." |

n's nothing really,'51 said hurriedly. "It
just passed through my mind, so to on l- that perhaps even if any one did know ^Tuspect something it wouldn't be easy to
g if out in front of everybody else--or
even, perhaps, in front of Dr. Leidner."
Rather to my astonishment, M. Poirot
nodded his head in vigorous agreement.
"precisely. Precisely. It is very just what Mi say there. But I will explain. That little
reunion we have just had--it served a purpose.
In England before the races you have
a parade of the horses, do you not? They go
in front of the grandstand so that every one
may have an opportunity of seeing and judging
them. That is the purpose of my little
assembly. In the sporting phrase, I run my
eye over the possible starters."
Dr. Leidner cried out violently, "I do not
believe for one minute that any member of "^ expedition is implicated in this crime!"
. ^hen, turning to me, he said authoritatively:

Nurse, I should be much obliged if you ^°uid tell M. Poirot here and now exactly
dav passe<^ between my wife and you two
I -pi ^°- '
|^y us ^ged, I plunged straightaway into ^^^a trying as far as possible to recall

the exact words and phrases Mrs. Leidn ^T" had used. r^! When I had finished, M. Poirot said: ^^ } "Very good. Very good. You have the [ mind neat and orderly. You will be of grear
service to me here." f He turned to Dr. Leidner. "You have these letters?" I g
"I have them here. I thought that you g would want to see them first thing." _ --\
Poirot took them from him, read them^B^ and scrutinized them carefully as he did so. I
I was rather disappointed that he didn't dust I
powder over them or examine them with a i
microscope or anything like that--but 1 re-1 c alized that he wasn't a very young man and I i
that his methods were probably not very up I to date. He just read them in the way that j. any one might read a letter. I
Having read them he put them down ai_B r cleared his throat. m l
"Now," he said, "let us proceed to get our ^ facts clear and in order. The first of these
letters was received by your wife shortly ai^ her marriage to you in America. There n8 been others but these she destroyed. in first letter was followed by a second. A we.
short time after the second arrived you D0 had a near escape from coal gas poison111

then came abroad and for nearly two ^ou no further letters were received. They 7ears^ again at the beginning of your season
ltar ,^ar---that is to ^y3 ^hin the ^ast three
5. That is correct?"
"Absolutely.
"Your wife displayed every sign of panic
md, after consulting Dr. Reilly, you enraged
Nurse Leatheran here to keep your
vife company and allay her fears?"
"Yes."
"Certain incidents occurred--hands tap)ing
at the window--a spectral face--noises
n the antika-room. You did not witness any of these phenomena yourself?" »
"No."
"In fact nobody did except Mrs. Leidler?"

'Father Lavigny saw a light in the antikaoom."
"Yes, I have not forgotten that."
He was silent for a minute or two, then ^ said:
^ad your wife made a will?" 1 do not think so." ^hy was that?'
<(]
"^
'(i
^y - ------ fc,AA»*l.
r did not seem worth it from her point
>1 vie\v."
^_e not a wealthy woman?"

"Yes, during her lifetime. Her father W
her a considerable sum of money in trim She could not touch the principal. At hp
death it was to pass to any children she might
have--and failing children to the Pittstown
Museum."
Poirot drummed thoughtfully on the ta
ble. "Then
we can, I think," he said, "elim.
inate one motive from the case. It is, you
comprehend, what I look for first. Who benefits
by the deceased's death? In this case it is
a museum. Had it been otherwise, had Mrs.
Leidner died intestate but possessed of a
considerable fortune, I should imagine that
it would prove an interesting question as to
who inherited the money--you--or a former
husband. But there would have been this difficulty, the former husband would
have had to resurrect himself in order to
claim it, and I should imagine that he woulo
then be in danger of arrest, though I hardly
fancy that the death penalty would be exacted
so long after the war. However, these speculations need not arise. As I say, I setu first the question of money. For the next st^ I proceed always to suspect the husband
wife of the deceased! In this case, in the t1 place, you are proved never to have g°

^^ vnur wife55 room yesterday afternoon,
nea^ second place, you lose instead of gain
^vour wife's death, and in the third
oy j ,, v-—^
place—
He paused.
"Yes?" said Dr. Leidner.
"In the third place," said Poirot slowly.
"I can I think, appreciate devotion when I
see it. I believe. Dr. Leidner, that your love
for your wife was the ruling passion of your
life. It is so, is it not?"
Dr. Leidner answered quite simply:
"Yes."
Poirot nodded.
"Therefore," he said, "we can proceed."
"Hear, hear, let's get down to it," said
Dr. Reilly with some impatience.
Poirot gave him a reproving glance.
"My friend, do not be impatient. In a case
like this everything must be approached with
°rder and method. In fact, that is my rule
in every case. Having disposed of certain
P°ssibilities, we now approach a very imponant
point. It is vital that, as you say—
a11 the cards should be on the table—there
ustbe nothing kept back."
Jj^te so," said Dr. Reilly.
^hat is why I demand the whole truth,"
went Qn Poirot.
i<;<;

Dr. Leidner looked at him in surprise
"I assure you, M. Poirot, that I have ken7
nothing back. I have told you everything that
I know. There have been no reserves."
"Tout de meme, you have not told me everything."

4'Yes 5 indeed. I cannot think of any detail
that has escaped me."
He looked quite distressed.
Poirot shook his head gently.
"No," he said. "You ham not told me, for
instance, why you installed Nurse Leatheran in
the house."
Dr. Leidner looked completely bewildered.

"But I have explained that. It is obvious.
My wife's nervousness--her fears ..."
Poirot leaned forward. Slowly and emphatically
he wagged a finger up and down.
"No, no, no. There is something there
that is not clear. Your wife is in danger? yes--she is threatened with death, yes. You
send--not for the police--not for a private
detective even--but for a nurse! It does nomake
the sense, that!"
"I--I--" Dr. Leidner stopped. The^ colour
rose in his cheeks. "I thought--" r1 came to a dead stop.

^^Lw we are coming to it," Poirot enr^iraged
him. "You thought--what?" ^n Leidner remained silent. He looked
harassed and unwilling.
--^See you," Poirot's tone became winning
I 'd appealing, "it all rings true what you
have told me, except for that. Why a nurse?
There is an answer--yes. In fact, there can
be only one answer. You did not believe yourself
in your wife's danger."
And then with a cry Dr. Leidner broke
| down.
"God help me," he groaned. "I didn't. I
didn't."
Poirot watched him with the kind of attention
a cat gives a mouse-hole--ready to
pounce when the mouse shows itself.
"What did you think then?" he asked. _I don't know. I don't know ..."
'But you do know. You know perfectly.
Perhaps I can help you--with a guess. Did you, Dr. Leidner, suspect that these letters were ^Wtten by your wife herself?"
1 here wasn't any need for him to answer.
e truth of Poirot's guess was only too ap-
th^L' The horrifled hand he held ^ as _igh begging for mercy, told its own tale.
T1 arew a deep breath. So I had been right ^^^^If-formed guess! I recalled the cu1<;7

T
rious tone in which Dr. Leidner had ask
me what I thought of it all. I nodded m
head slowly and thoughtfully, and suddeni
awoke to the fact that M. Poirofs eyes \ver
on me.
"Did you think the same, nurse?55 "The idea did cross my mind,55 I sai
truthfully.
"For what reason?55 I explained the similarity of the hanc
writing on the letter that Mr. Coleman ha
shown me.
Poirot turned to mr. Leidner.
"Had you, too, noticed that similarity?'
Dr. Leidner bowed his head.
"Yes, I did. The writing was small an
cramped--not big and generous lik
Louise^, but several of the letters wer
' i
formed the same way. I will show you.55 I
From an inner breast pocket he took 01
some letters and finally selected a sheet froi
one which he handed to Poirot. It was pai
of a letter written to him by his wife. Poi^
compared it carefully with the anonymou
letters.
"Yes,55 he murmured. "Yes. There ai
several similarities--a curious way of fo^
ing the letter s, a distinctive e. I am not
handwriting expert--I cannot pronoun
1 co R 3 :

.r
^^telv (anc^ ^or ^^ matter? ^ have never cie i ^vo handwriting experts who agree on
noint whatsoever)--but one can at least
this_tn^ similarity between the two ^writings is very marked. It seems highly
nrobable that they were all written by the
ame person. But it is not certain. We must
take all contingencies into mind."
He leaned back in his chair and said
thoughtfully:
"There are three possibilities. First, the
similarity of the handwriting is pure coincidence.
Second, that these threatening letters
were written by Mrs. Leidner herself
for some obscure reason. Third, that they
were written by someone who deliberately
copied her handwriting. Why? There seems
no sense in it. One of these three possibilities must be the correct one."
He reflected for a minute or two and then,
turning to Dr. Leidner, he asked, with a ^symal of his brisk manner.
'When the possibility that Mrs. Leidner ^elf was the author of these letters first struck you, what theory did you form?"
Dr- Leidner shook his head.
as put ^ ^^ out °^ m^ ^ea^ as ^i^ly
Possible. I felt it was monstrous."
T;Q

"Did you search for no explanation?"
"Well," he hesitated, "I wondered if^or.
rying and brooding over the past had per.
haps affected my wife's brain slightly. t
thought she might possibly have written
those letters to herself without being conscious
of having done so. That is possible
isn't it?" he added, turning to Dr. Reilly.
Dr. Reilly pursed up his lips.
"The human brain is capable of almost" anything," he replied vaguely. |
But he shot a lightning glance at Poirot? and as if in obedience to it, the latter abandoned
the subject. I
"The letters are an interesting point," he
said. "But we must concentrate on the case
as a whole. There are, as I see it, three possible
solutions."
"Three?"
"Yes. Solution one: the simplest. Your wife's first husband is still alive. He first
threatens her and then proceeds to carry out
his threats. If we accept this solution, our
problem is to discover how he got in or ou
without being seen.
"Solution two: Mrs. Leidner, for reasons
- .\\J
of her own (reasons probably more ^S11J understood by a medical man than a 1^

r
^" ^tes herself threatening letters. The 111 business is staged by her (remember, it gas she who roused you by telling you she wa ir eas. But, if Mrs. Leidner wrote herself srn ]^ers, she cannot be in danger from the opposed 'writer. We must, therefore, look
elsewhere for the murderer. We must look, in fact, amongst the members of your staff.
Yes " in answer to a murmur of protest from
Dr. Leidner, "that is the only logical conclusion.
To satisfy a private grudge one of
them killed her. That person, I may say, was
probably aware of the letters--or was at any
rate aware that Mrs. Leidner feared or was
pretending to fear some one. That fact, in
the murderer's opinion, rendered the murder
quite safe for him. He felt sure it would
be put down to a mysterious outsider--the
writer of the threatening letters.
'A variant of this solution is that the mur- ^rer actually wrote the letters himself, ^ing aware of Mrs. Leidner's past history.
"^ in that case it is not quite clear why the ^inunal should have copied Mrs. Leidner's
.wn ^ndwriting since, as far as we can see,
11^011^13e more to his or her advantage that
I ^y u^ appear to be written by an out-
"Tk
^ne third solution is the most interesting
1^1

^
to my mind. I suggest that the letters ar
genuine. They are written by Mrs. Leidner^
first husband (or his younger brother), ^
is actually one of the expedition staff."

Chapter 16
The Suspects
dr. leidner sprang to his feet.
"Impossible! Absolutely impossible! The
idea is absurd!"
Mr. Poirot looked at him quite calmly but
said nothing.
"You mean to suggest that my wife's former
husband is one of the expedition and
that she didn't recognize him?"
"Exactly. Reflect a little on the facts.
Nearly twenty years ago your wife lived with this man for a few months. Would she know
him if she came across him after that lapse of time? I think not. His face will have banged, his build will have changed--his olce "^ay not have changed so much, but w is a detail he can attend to himself. And
| l ^ber, she is not looking for him amongst sc^ own }lousen0^. She visualizes him as
thiT^^ outside--a stranger. No, I do not
B ^e would recognize him. And there
1^

T is a second possibility. The young brothp --the child of those days who was so pao
sionately devoted to his elder brother. He is now a man. Will she recognize a child often
or twelve years old in a man nearing thirty^ Yes, there is young William Bosner to bel
reckoned with. Remember, his brother iiJ
his eyes may not loom as a traitor but as a
patriot, a martyr for his own country--Germany.
In his eyes Mrs. Leidner is the
traitor--the monster who sent his beloved
brother to death! A susceptible child is capable
of great hero worship, and a young
mind can easily be obsessed by an idea which
persists into adult life."
"Quite true," said Dr. Reilly. "The popular
view that a child forgets easily is not an
accurate one. Many people go right through
life in the grip of an idea which has been
impressed on them in very tender years." |
"Bien. You have these two possibilities.
Frederick Bosner, a man by now of fifty odd,
and William Bosner, whose age would be
something short of thirty. Let us examine the members of your staff from these two
points of view."
"This is fantastic," murmured Dr. Leid'
ner. "My staff The members of my o^ expedition." H
i ^ a ^B Jl^l

a d consequently considered above sus.
- n' said Poirot dryly. "A very useful
P101 ^ view. CommenQons! Who could em-
^adcally not be Frederick or William?"
pliai-^1-.^ „
"The women.
J » y "
"I
Naturally. Miss Johnson and Mrs. Mercado
are crossed off. Who else?"
"Carey. He and I have worked together
for years before I even met Louise--"
"And also he is the wrong age. He is, I
should judge, thirty-eight or nine, too young
for Frederick, too old for William. Now for
the rest. There is Father Lavigny and Mr.
Mercado. Either of them might be Frederick
Bosner."
"But, my dear sir," cried Dr. Leidner in
a voice of mingled irritation and amusement, "Father Lavigny is known all over the world
as an epigraphist and Mercado has worked
for years in a well-known museum in New
York. It is impossible that either of them
should be the man you think!" gPoirot waved an airy hand.
Impossible--impossible--I take no ac- ^°unt of the word! The impossible, always ^ Famine it very closely! But we will pass He - the "^ment. Who else have you? Carl
Da\ ^ a ^^S man wltn a German name, dvlci Bnimon--"
i^<;

"He has been with me two seasons
member."
"He is a young man with the gift of ?
tience. If he committed a crime, it wouk
not be in a hurry. All would be very wel
prepared."
Dr. Leidner made a gesture of despair.
"And lastly, William Coleman," contin
ued Poirot.
"He is an Englishman."
"Pourquoi pas? Did not Mrs. Leidner sa^
that the boy left America and could not b(
traced? He might easily have been brough
up in England."
"You have an answer to everything," sak
Dr. Leidner. I
I was thinking hard. Right from the be
ginning I had thought Mr. Coleman's man
ner rather more like a P. G. Wodehouse boot
than like a real live young man. Had he really
been playing a part all the time? |
Poirot was writing in a little book. B
"Let us proceed with order and method|
he said. "On the first count we have tw(
names. Father Lavigny and Mr. Mercado
On the second we have Coleman, Emu101
and Reiter. .
"Now let us pass to the opposite aspe01'•°
the matter—means and opportunity. w
•J&

^^* . ^ expedition had the means and the
arn0 rtunity of committing the crime? Carey was
rhe dig? Coleman was in Hassanieh, you
on rself were on the roof. That leaves us
^ther Lavigny, Mr. Mercado, Mrs. Merfldo
David Emmott, Carl Reiter, Miss
Tohnson and Nurse Leatheran."
"Oh!" I exclaimed, and I bounded in my
chair. II
Mr. Poirot looked at me with twinkling
eyes.
• "Yes, I'm afraid, ma soeur, that you have
got to be included. It would have been quite
easy for you to have gone along and killed
Mrs. Leidner while the courtyard was
empty. You have plenty of muscle and
strength, and she would have been quite unsuspicious
until the moment the blow was
struck."
I was so upset that I couldn't get a word
°ut. Dr. Reilly, I noticed, was looking highly
amused.
Interesting case of a nurse who murdered
ner Patients one by one," he murmured.
^ch a look as I gave him!
a ..^ Leidner's mind had been running on
^renttack.
^ ^t Emmott, M. Poirot," he objected.
^—^'t include him. He was on the roof

with me, remember, during that ten mi
utes." , n!
"Nevertheless we cannot exclude him. H ^ could have come down, gone straight to Mrs! Leidner's room, killed her, and then called
the boy back. Or he might have killed her
on one of the occasions when he had sent the
boy up to you." Dr.
Leidner shook his head, murmuring" "What a nightmare! It's all so--fantas
tic."
To
my surprise Poirot agreed.
"Yes, that is true. This is a fantastic crime. One does not often come across them. Usually
murder is very sordid--very simple. But
this is unusual murder ... I suspect, Dr.
Leidner, that your wife was an unusual
woman."
He had hit the nail on the head with such
accuracy that I jumped.
"Is that true, nurse?" he asked. B
Dr. Leidner said quietly:
"Tell him what Louise was like, nurse.
You are unprejudiced."
I spoke quite frankly.
"She was very lovely," I said. "you
couldn't help admiring her and wanting to do things for her. I've never met any op like her before."

Thank yo11?" sal(^ ^)r- Leidner and Smiled at me. . .
"That is valuable testimony coming from
outsider," said Poirot politely. "Well, let an nroceed. Under the heading of means and u'rtunity we have seven names. Nurse
Leatheran, Miss Johnson, Mrs. Mercado, Mr. Mercado, Mr. Reiter, Mr. Emmott and
Father Lavigny."
Once more he cleared his throat. I've always
noticed that foreigners can make the
oddest noises.
"Let us for the moment assume that our
third theory is correct. That is, that the murderer
is Frederick or William Bosner, and
that Frederick or William Bosner is a member
of the expedition staff. By comparing
both lists we can narrow down our suspects
on this count to four. Father Lavigny, Mr.
Mercado, Carl Reiter and David Emmott."
'Father Lavigny is out of the question," said Dr. Leidner with decision. "He is one
otUie peres Blancs in Carthage."
And his beard's quite real," I put in.
thef soeur9f) said poirot' <<a murderer of ^rst class never wears a false beard!"
I fir<;t^w d0 you ^^w the murderer is of the
I ^class?- I asked rebelliously.
--^use if he were not, the whole truth

would be plain to me at this instant---and n
, 55 ^l
is not.
That's pure conceit, I thought to myself
"Anyway," I said, reverting to the beard
"it must have taken quite a time to grow."3
"That is a practical observation," said
Poirot. Dr. Leidner said irritably:
"But it's ridiculous--quite ridiculous.
Both he and Mercado are well-known men)
They've been known for years." .
Poirot turned to him. |
"You have not the true vision. You do not
appreciate an important point. I/Frederick
Bosner is not dead--what has he been doing
all these years? He must have taken a different
name. He must have built himself up a career."
I
"As a Pere Blanc?" asked Dr. Reilly sceptically.

"It is a little fantastic that, yes," confessed
Poirot. "But we cannot put it right out of
court. Besides, there are other possibilities.
"The young 'uns?" said Reilly. "If ^ want my opinion, on the face of it there s
only one of your suspects that's even pi3, sible." |
"And that is?" ^ : "Young Carl Reiter. There's nothing ^
tually against him, but come down to it ^a ^«J

l^ve go1 to admit a few thm^--he's the lvou gg he's got a German name, he's new
rlg year3 and he had the opportunity all
ht He'd only got to pop out of his pho^raphic
place, cross the courtyard to do
h's dirty work and hare back again while
rhe coast was clear. If any one were to have
dropped into the photographic room while
he was out of it, he can always say later that
he was in the dark-room. I don't say he's
your man but if you are going to suspect
some one I say he's by far and away the most
likely."
M. Poirot didn't seem very receptive. He
nodded gravely but doubtfully.
"Yes," he said. "He is the most plausible,
but it may not be so simple as all that."
Then he said:
'Let us say no more at present. I would ^e now if I may to examine the room where ^ crime took place."
"Certainly." Dr. Leidner fumbled in his
pockets ther! looked at Dr. Reilly. ^ Captain Maitland took it," he said.
lhad tland ga^ n to me^ said Reilly. "He L^ato §o off on that Kurdish business."
^e Produced the key.
L-- Leidner said hesitatingly:

"Do you mind—if I don't— Perha
nurse—"
"Of course. Of course," said Poirot
quite understand. Never do I wish to cai
you unnecessary pain. If you will be gc
enough to accompany me, ma soeur."
"Certainly," I said.

Chapter 17
The 5ta/n by the WashStand
mrs. leidner's body had been taken to
Hassanieh for the post-mortem, but otherwise
her room had been left exactly as it was.
There was so little in it that it had not taken
the police long to go over it.
To the right of the door as you entered
was the bed. Opposite the door were the two
barred windows giving on the countryside.
Between them was a plain oak table with two
drawers that served Mrs. Leidner as a dress- ^g-table. On the east wall there was a line
°t hooks with dresses hung up protected by cotton bags and a deal chest of drawers. Immediately
to the left of the door was the ^sh-stand. In the middle of the room was
^-^zed plain oak table with a blotter
in .i111^311^ and a small attache-case. It was
|ano latter that Mrs- Leidner had ^P1 the Istri1^1110118 ^etters- The curtains were short
L1--^ native material--white striped with

orange. The floor was of stone with som
goatskin rugs on it, three narrow ones of
brown striped with white in front of the two windows and the wash-stand, and a larger
better quality one of white with brown
stripes lying between the bed and the writing-table.
There
were no cupboards or alcoves or
long curtains--nowhere, in fact, where any
one could have hidden. The bed was a plain
iron one with a printed cotton quilt. The
only trace of luxury in the room were three
pillows all made of the best soft and billowy
down. Nobody but Mrs. Leidner had pillows
like these.
In a few brief dry words Dr. Reilly explained
where Mrs. Leidner's body had been
found--in a heap on the rug beside the bed.
To illustrate his account, he beckoned me
to come forward.
"If you don't mind, nurse?" he said.
I'm not squeamish. I got down on the floor
and arranged myself as far as possible in the
attitude in which Mrs. Leidner's body h^ been found. ,
"Leidner lifted her head when he fou^ her," said the doctor. "But I questioned hi^ closely and it's obvious that he didn't ^ tually change her position."

-'Tr seems quite straightforward," said ^ r "She was lying on the bed, asleep or
101 ,,cr---some one opens the door, she looks
resting -. ,,
un rises to her feet--
"And he struck her down," finished the doctor. "The blow would produce unconsciousness
and death would follow very
shortly. You see--"
He explained the injury in technical language.

"Not much blood, then?" said Poirot.
"No, the blood escaped internally into the
brain."
"Eh bien," said Poirot, "that seems
straightforward enough--except for one
thing. // the man who entered was a
stranger, why did not Mrs. Leidner cry out
at once for help? If she had screamed she
would have been heard. Nurse Leatheran
here would have heard her, and Emmott and
the boy."
.That5s ^ly answered," said Dr. Reilly
W. "Because it wasn't a stranger." ^"otnodded.
, ^^ he said meditatively. "She may
shJ0 n ^?m^ to see the person--but ^ was ^t afraid. Then, as he struck, she _ ^have uttered a half cry--too late." m the Gry Miss Johnson heard?"

"Yes, if she did hear it. But on the whoi
I doubt it. These mud walls are thick an
the windows were closed."
He stepped up to the bed.
"You left her actually lying down?" k asked me. I explained exactly what I hac done.
"Did she mean to sleep or was she goim
to read?"
"I gave her two books-- a light one anc
a volume of memoirs. She usually read for i while and then sometimes dropped off for [ short sleep."
"And she was--what shall I say--quit(
as usual?"
I considered.
"Yes. She seemed quite normal and in good spirits," I said. "Just a shade offhand:
perhaps, but I put that down to her having
confided in me the day before. It makes people
a little uncomfortable sometimes."
Poirot's eyes twinkled.
"Ah, yes, indeed, me, I know that well- He looked round the room.
"And when you came in here after ^ murder, was everything as you had seen _ before?"
I looked round also.

Vps I think so. I don't remember anything
being different."
"There was no sign of the weapon with
^vhich she was struck?"
"No." poirot looked at Dr. Reilly.
"What was it in your opinion?"
The doctor replied promptly.
"Something pretty powerful of a fair size
and without any sharp corners or edges. The
rounded base of a statue, say--something I like that. Mind you, I'm not suggesting that
that was it. But that type of thing. The blow
was delivered with great force."
"Struck by a strong arm? A man's arm?"
"Yes--unless--"
"Unless--what?"
Dr. Reilly said slowly:
"It is just possible that Mrs. Leidner "light have been on her knees--in which ^se, the blow being delivered from above ^th a heavy implement, the force needed ^uld not have been so great."
°n her knees," mused Poirot. "It is an ^a-that."
"T*5
ha^t only an idea5 mind?" the doctor
n^k^ to P01111 out- "There's absolutely &§ to indicate it."
"-Ut's possible."

"Yes. And after all, in view of the circurn
stances, it's not fantastic. Her fear mighr
have led her to kneel in supplication rathe
than to scream when her instinct would tell
her it was too late--that nobody could get
there in time."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "It is an
idea. ..."
It was a very poor one, I thought. I
couldn't for one moment imagine Mrs. Leidner
on her knees to any one.
Poirot made his way slowly round the
room. He opened the windows, tested the
bars, passed his head through and satisfied
himself that by no means could his shoulders
be made to follow his head. .a
"The windows were shut when you found
her," he said. "Were they also shut when
you left her at a quarter to one?"
"Yes, they were always shut in the afternoon.
There is no gauze over these windows
as there is in the living-room and diningroom.
They are kept shut to keep out the
mes/5 . ,? "And in any case no one could get in tha
way," mused Poirot. "And the walls are oi
the most solid--mud-brick--and there ^ no trap-doors and no sky-lights. No, tb6 is only one way into this room--throws ^

^, y. And there is only one way to the the _through the courtyard. And there is
i one entrance to the courtyard--through T archway. And outside the archway ^here were five people and they all tell the
same story, and I do not think, me, that they
are lying. ... No, they are not lying. They
are not bribed to silence. The murderer was
, " here. . .
I didn't say anything. Hadn't I felt the
same thing just now when we were all cooped
up round that table?
Slowly Poirot prowled round the room.
He took up a photograph from the chest of drawers. It was of an elderly man with a
white goatee beard. He looked inquiringly
at me. k.
"Mrs. Leidner's father," I said. "She told
me so."
He put it down again and glanced over the nicies on the dressing-table--all of plain tortoiseshell-- simple but good. He looked
P at a row of books on a shelf, repeating
hemles aloud.
L. h0 ^ere the Greeks? Introduction to Rel7y -y' ^f6 of Lady Hester Stanhope. Crewe rmn'Back to Methuselah. Linda Condon. ^^^y tell us something, perhaps.

"She was not a fool, your Mrs. Leidnp
She had a mind."
"Oh! she was a very clever woman,551 ^m eagerly. "Very well read and up in every
thing. She wasn't a bit ordinary.55
He smiled as he looked over at me.
"No,55 he said. "I've already realized
that.55
He passed on. He stood for some moments
at the wash-stand where there was a big array
of bottles and toilet creams.
Then, suddenly, he dropped on his knees
and examined the rug. m
Dr. Reilly and I came quickly to join him.
He was examining a small dark brown stain,
almost invisible on the brown of the rug. In
fact it was only just noticeable where it impinged
on one of the white stripes.
"What do you say, doctor?55 he said. "Is
that blood?55 |
Dr. Reilly knelt down. *
"Might be,'5 he said. "I'll make sure it you like?"
"If you would be so amiable."
Mr. Poirot examined the jug and basin- The jug was standing on the side of the wasn stand. The basin was empty, but beside u1 wash-stand there was an old kerosene ^ containing slop water.

He turned to me.
"Do yo11 remember, nurse? Was this jug
f the basin or in it when you left Mrs. ?Tidner at a quarter to one?"
"I can't be sure," I said after a minute or ,yo "I rather think it was standing in the
basin."
"Ah?"
"But you see," I said hastily, "I only think
so because it usually was. The boys leave it
like that after lunch. I just feel that if it
hadn't been in I should have noticed it."
He nodded quite appreciatively.
"Yes, I understand that. It is your hospital
training. If everything had not been just so
in the room, you would quite unconsciously, have set it to rights hardly noticing what you
were doing. And after the murder? Was it
like it is now?"
1 shook my head.
"I didn't notice then," I said. "All I looked for was whether there was any place ^y one could be hidden or if there were anything the murderer had left behind him."
tt's blood all right," said Dr. Reilly, ris^irom
his knees. "Is it important?" ^ °irot was frowning perplexedly. He _ ng out his hands with petulance.
--SPnot tell. How can I tell? It may mean

nothing at all. I can say, if I like, that th
murderer touched her--that there was blood
on his hands--very little blood, but still
blood--and so he came over here and
washed them. Yes, it may have been li^p
that. But I cannot jump to conclusions and
say that it was so. That stain may be of no
importance at all."
"There would have been very little
blood," said Dr. Reilly dubiously. "None
would have spurted out or anything like that.
It would have just oozed a little from the
wound. Of course, if he'd probed it at
all . . ."
I gave a shiver. A nasty sort of picture
came up in my mind. The vision of
somebody--perhaps that nice pig-faced
photographic boy, striking down that lovely
woman and then bending over her probing
the wound with his finger in an awful gloating
fashion and his face, perhaps, quite different
... all fierce and mad. . . .
Dr. Reilly noticed my shiver.
"What's the matter, nurse?" he said.
"Nothing--just goose-flesh," I said. 'A
goose walking over my grave." l Mr. Poirot turned round and looked a,
me. I
"I know what you need," he said. "^a
mj--jj

when we have finished here and I go i with the doctor to Hassanieh we will bac qu with us. You will give Nurse Leath- Si tea, will you not, doctor?" "Delighted.?9
"Oh no, doctor," I protested. "I couldn't
think of such a thing."
u poirot gave me a little friendly tap on
the shoulder. Quite an English tap, not a
foreign one.
"You, ma soeur, will do as you are told,"
he said. "Besides, it will be of advantage to
me. There is a good deal more that I want
to discuss, and I cannot do it here where one
must preserve the decencies. The good Dr.
Leidner, he worshipped his wife and he is
sure--oh, so sure--that everybody else felt
the same about her! But that, in my opinion,
would not be human nature! No, we want
to discuss Mrs. Leidner with--how do you ^y--the gloves removed? That is settled
then. When we have finished here, we take you with us to Hassanieh."
^ I suppose," I said doubtfully, "that I uglnt0 be leaving anyway. It's rather awk«T\
,,,,° "othing for a day or two," said Dr.
y- "You can't very well go until after
luneral."

"That's all very well," I said. "And su1
posing I get murdered too, doctor?" .
I said it half jokingly and Dr. Reilly toov it in the same fashion and would, I think
have made some jocular response.
But M. Poirot, to my astonishment, stooc
stock still in the middle of the floor anc
clasped his hands to his head.
"Ah! if that were possible," he mur' mured. "It is a danger--yes--a great
danger--and what can one do? How can one
guard against it?" I
"Why, M. Poirot," I said, "I was only
joking! Who'd want to murder me, I should
like to know?" I
"You--or another," he said, and I didn't
like the way he said it at all. Positively
creepy.
"But why?" I persisted.
He looked at me very straight then.
"I joke, mademoiselle," he said, "and
laugh. But there are some things that are n°
joke. There are things that my profession has
taught me. And one of these things, the mos- terrible thing, is this:
"Murder is a habit . . .))

Chapter 18
Tea at Dr. Reilly's
before leaving, Poirot made a round of the
expedition house and the outbuildings. He
also asked a few questions of the servants at
second hand--that is to say. Dr. Reilly
translated the questions and answers from
English into Arabic and vice versa.
These questions dealt mainly with the appearance
of the stranger Mrs. Leidner and
I had seen looking through the window and
to whom Father Lavigny had been talking
on the following day. A
"Do you really think that fellow had any- ^"g to do with it?" asked Dr. Reilly when
»»»^ «/
e were bumping along in his car on our ^yio Hassanieh
p. ^ all the information there is" was
1°^ reply< very really3 that described his methods
I^Vth^^' ^ ^oun^ ^siter that there wasn't ^^^^§~--no small scrap of insignificant

gossip--in which he wasn't interested. M aren't usually so gossipy.
I must confess I was glad of my cup of tp
when we got to Dr. Reilly's house. M Poirot, I noticed, put five lumps of sugar in
his. |
Stirring it carefully with his teaspoon he
said: .
"And now we can talk, can we not? We
can make up our minds who is likely to have
committed the crime."
"Lavigny, Mercado, Emmott or Reiter?" asked Dr. Reilly. |
14
I
"No, no--that was theory number three.
I wish to concentrate now on theory number
two--leaving aside all question of a mysterious
husband or brother-in-law turning up
from the past. Let us discuss now quite simply
which member of the expedition had the
means and opportunity to kill Mrs. Leidner,
and who is likely to have done so." *
"I thought you didn't think much of that
theory." I
"Not at all. But I have some natural delicacy,"
said Poirot reproachfully. "Can Idls' cuss in the presence of Dr.- Leidner u1 motives likely to lead to the murder of^ wife by a member of the expedition? j,
would not have been delicate at all. I ^^J
«^fl

^iflin the fiction that his wife was adorable
su^ that every one adored her!
a "But naturally it was not like that at all.
Mow we can be brutal and impersonal and ^yhat we think. We have no longer to
consider people's feelings. And that is where
Nurse Leatheran is going to help us. She is,
I am sure, a very good observer."
"Oh, I don't know about that," I said.
Dr. Reilly handed me a plate of hot
scones--"to fortify yourself," he said. They
were very good scones.
"Come now," said M. Poirot in a friendly,
chatty way. "You shall tell me, ma soeur,
exactly what each member of the expedition
felt towards Mrs. Leidner."
"I was only there a week, M. Poirot," I
fsaid.
"Quite long enough for one of your intelligence.
A nurse sums up quickly. She makes her judgments and abides by them. ^oine, let us make a beginning. Father La- ^gny, for instance?"
Well, there now, I really couldn't say.
to ^ Mrs" Leidner ^med to like talking
I p^^' But they usually spoke French and
|Il not very S0^ at French myself though
t^ arnt u as a girl at school. I've an idea ^J__ked mainly about books."

"They were, as you might say 5 compare ionable together--yes?"
"Well, yes, you might put it that way
But, all the same, I think Father Lavigny was puzzled by her and--well--almost annoyed
by being puzzled, if you know what
I mean."
And I told him of the conversation I had
had with him out on the dig that first day
when he had called Mrs. Leidner a "dangerous
woman."
"Now that is very interesting," M. Poirot
said. "And she--what do you think she
thought of him?"
"That's rather difficult to say, too. It
wasn't easy to know what Mrs. Leidner
thought of people. Sometimes, I fancy, he puzzled her. I remember her saying to Dr.
Leidner that he was unlike any priest she« had ever known." I
"A length of hemp to be ordered for Father
Lavigny," said Dr. Reilly facetiously. |
"My dear friend," said Poirot. "Have you
not, perhaps, some patients to attend.
would not for the world detain you from y0111 professional duties." .1
"I've got a whole hospital of them," sa1! Dr. Reilly. ^
And he got up and said a wink was as g°_

I nod to a blind horse, and went out laugh^5
*^
^'That is better," said Poirot. "We will
now an interesting conversation teted- . gut you must not forget to eat your tea."
He passed me a plate of sandwiches and
suggested my having a second cup of tea.
He really had very pleasant, attentive manners.

"And now," he said, "let us continue with
your impressions. Who was there who in
your opinion did not like Mrs. Leidner?"
"Well," I said, "it's only my opinion and
I don't want it repeated as coming from me."
"Naturally not."
"But in my opinion little Mrs. Mercado
fairly hated her!"
"Ah! And Mr. Mercado?"
"He was a bit soft on her," I said. "I Wouldn't think women apart from his wife
had ever taken much notice of him. And ^s. Leidner had a nice kind way of being Wrested in people and the things they told
er- ^ father went to the poor man's head, 1 tancv "
^y."
And Mrs. Mercado--she was not .Pleased?"
"SK
^urh was )ust p^aln i6310118--that's the ^^--^ it. You've got to be very careful
1 or\

when there's a husband and wife about anril
that's a fact. I could tell you some surprisin
things. You've no idea the extraordinary things women get into their heads when n's
a question of their husbands."
"I do not doubt the truth of what you say I
So Mrs. Mercado was jealous? And she hated Mrs. Leidner?" .
"I've seen her look at her as though she'd
have liked to kill her--oh, gracious!" I
pulled myself up. "Indeed, M. Poirot, I
didn't mean to say--I mean that is, not for
one moment--" 1
"No, no. I quite understand. The phrase
slipped out. A very convenient one. And
Mrs. Leidner, was she worried by this animosity
of Mrs. Mercado's?" |
"Well," I said, reflecting, "I don't really
think she was worried at all. In fact, I
don't even know whether she noticed it. I
thought once of just giving her a hint--but
I didn't like to. Least_said_sopJiesunended,
That's what I say7"I "You are doubtless wise. Can you give n^ any instances of how Mrs. Mercado show^
her feelings?"
I told him about our conversation o11'^
roof. - , "So she mentioned Mrs. Leidner's i^

riage?" sa1^ ^olrot thoughtfully. "Can rna remember--in mentioning it--did she
f° k at you as though she wondered whether
°o°u had heard a different version?"
"You think she may have known the truth
.yf about it?
"It is a possibility. She may have written
those letters--and engineered a tapping
hand and all the rest of it."
"I wondered something of the same kind
myself. It seemed the kind of petty revengeful
thing she might do."
"Yes. A cruel streak, I should say. But
hardly the temperament for cold-blooded
brutal murder unless, of course--"
He paused and then said:
9 "It is odd, that curious thing she said to
ou. 7 know why you are here.' What did she mean by it?"
^
"I can't imagine," I said frankly.
'She thought you were there for some ul- terlor reason apart from the declared one. \vh^ reason? And why should she be so ^ncerned in the matter. Odd, too, the way oute11 "ie she stared at you all through tea ^e day you arrived."
^11, she's not a lady, M. Poirot," I said ^inily.
1 m

"That, ma soeur, is an excuse but not a I
explanation."
I wasn't quite sure for the minute what h
meant. But he went on quickly. |
"And the other members of the staff?" I
I considered.
"I don't think Miss Johnson liked Mrs
Leidner either very much. But she was quite
open and above-board about it. She as good
as admitted she was prejudiced. You see^ she's very devoted to Dr. Leidner and had
worked with him for years. And of course,
marriage does change things--there's no denying
it."
"Yes," said Poirot. "And from Miss Johnson's
point of view it would be an unsuitable
marriage. It would really have been much
more suitable if Dr. Leidner had married her."
"It would really," I agreed. "But there,
that's a man all over. Not one in a hundred
considers suitability. And one can't really
blame Dr. Leidner. Miss Johnson, P001' soul, isn't so much to look at. Now M^ Leidner was really beautiful--not young?ot course--but oh! I wish you'd known W- There was something about her. . . . I re member Mr. Coleman saying she was lik0 thingummyjig that came to lure people in ^
- -- ^uJS

^^ hes. That wasn't a very good way of
I ^'g it but--oh, well--you'll laugh at me
P11 ^ere ^^ something about her that ^well-unearthly."
"She could cast a spell--yes, I understand," said Poirot.
"Then I don't think she and Mr. Carey
gffon very well either," I went on. "I've an
idea he was jealous just like Miss Johnson.
He was always very stiff with her and so was
she with him. You know--she passed him
I things and was very polite and called him
Mr. Carey rather formally. He was an old
friend of her husband's, of course, and some
women can't stand their husband's old
friends. They don't like to think that any
one knew them before they did--at least
that's rather a muddled way of putting
it--"
"I quite understand. And the three young "^n? Coleman, you say, was inclined to be
Poetic about her."
I couldn't help laughing. ^ 'It was funny, M. Poirot," I said. "He's
ucna "matter-of-fact young man."
^nd the other two?"
Lr , ^on5t really know about Mr. Emmott. ^ s always so quiet and never says much.
Was very nice to him always. You
1 rt-»

know--friendly--called him David aru used to tease him about Miss Reilly o^ things like that."
"Ah, really? And did he enjoy that?"
"I don't quite know," I said doubtfully "He'd just look at her. Rather funnily. You
couldn't tell what he was thinking.55
"And Mr. Reiter?55
"She wasn5! always very kind to him,5' I
said slowly. "I think he got on her nerves.
She used to say quite sarcastic things to
him.'5
"And did he mind?55
"He used to get very pink, poor boy. Of
course, she didn't mean to be unkind.5'
And then suddenly, from feeling a little
sorry for the boy, it came over me that he
was very likely a cold-blooded murderer and
had been playing a part all the time.
"Oh, M. Poirot,551 exclaimed. "What do
you think really happened?5'
He shook his head slowly and thoughtfully.
1
"Tell me," he said. "You are not afrai^
to go back there tonight?"
"Oh, no," I said. "Of course, I remeinbel
what you said, but who would want to m^^ der me?" ^ ,
"I do not think that any one could,' 1
1 slowly. "That is partly why I have been sa1 nxious to hear all you could tell me. No,
?°rhink_I am sure--y011 are ^ulte safe" "If any one had told me in Baghdad--"
I began and stopped.
"Did you hear any gossip about the Leidners
and the expedition before you came
here?" he asked.
I told him about Mrs. Leidner's nickname
and just a little of what Mrs. Kelsey had said
about her.
In the middle of it the door opened and Miss Reilly came in. She had been playing
tennis and had her racquet in her hand.
I gathered Poirot had already met her
when he arrived in Hassanieh.
She said how do you do to me in her usual
off-hand manner and picked up a sandwich.
"Well, M. Poirot," she said. "How are
you getting on with our local mystery?"
"Not very fast, mademoiselle."
'I see you've rescued nurse from the
wreck."
Nurse Leatheran has been giving me valu le ^formation about the various mem|
^s of the expedition. Incidentally I have
th t ^S00^ deal--about the victim. And
, ^ctirn, mademoiselle, is very often the ue tQ the mvsterv"
mystery."
in<

V,
Miss Reilly said:
"That's rather clever of you, M. Poiror It's certainly true that if ever a woman de
served to be murdered Mrs. Leidner wa< that woman!"
"Miss Reilly!" I cried, scandalized.
She laughed, a short, nasty laugh. "Ah!" she said. "I thought you hadn't been hearing quite the truth. Nurse Leatheran, I'm afraid, was quite taken in, like
many other people. Do you know, M.
Poirot, I rather hope that this case isn't going
lilB to be one of your successes. I'd quite like
'.i.i.' illiui -/ A
the murderer of Louise Leidner to get away
with it. In fact, I wouldn't much have objected
to putting her out of the way myself."
I was simply disgusted with the girl. M.
Poirot, I must say, didn't turn a hair. He
just bowed and said quite pleasantly:
"I hope, then, that you have an alibi foi
yesterday afternoon?"
There was a moment's silence and Mis5 Reilly's racquet went clattering down on to
the floor. She didn't bother to pick it uPj
Slack and untidy like all her sort! She said
in a rather breathless voice: .
"Oh, yes, I was playing tennis at the cli1
But, seriously, M. Poirot, I wonder it V.
9 f\ ^- jfll^l
^. anything at all about Mrs. Leidner and
^kind of woman she was?" Aeain he made a funny little bow and said:
"You shall inform me, mademoiselle.55 She hesitated a minute and then spoke
ith a callousness and lack of decency that
really sickened me.
"There's a convention that one doesn't
sneak ill of the dead. That's stupid, I think.
The truth's always the truth. On the whole
it's better to keep your mouth shut about
living people. You might conceivably injure
them. The dead are past that. But the harm
they've done lives after them sometimes. Not
quite a quotation from Shakespeare but very
nearly! Has nurse told you of the queer atmosphere
there was at Tell Yarimjah? Has
she told you how jumpy they all were? And
low they all used to glare at each other like
nemies? That was Louise Leidner's doing. when I was a kid out here three years ago
sin
|11.
W
they were tlle happiest, jolliest lot imaginEven
last year they were pretty well all
But this year there was a blight over --and it was her doing. She was the
°f woman who won't let anybody else Wy! There are women like that and ^as one of them! She wanted to break
always. Just for fun--or for the

sense of power--or perhaps just because sh was made that way. And she was the kiTJ of woman who had to get hold of every mai
creature within reach!" |
"Miss Reilly," I cried, "I don't think
that's true. In fact I know it isn't."
She went on without taking the least notice
of me.
"It wasn't enough for her to have her husband
adore her. She had to make a fool of
that long-legged shambling idiot of a Mercado.
Then she got hold of Bill. Bill's a sensible
cove, but she was getting him all mazed
and bewildered. Carl Reiter she just amused
herself by tormenting. It was easy. He's a
sensitive boy. And she had a jolly good go
at David.
"David was better sport to her because he
put up a fight. He felt her charm--but he
wasn't having any. I think because he'd got
sense enough to know that she didn't really
care a damn. And that's why I hate her so.
She's not sensual. She doesn't want affairs- It's just cold-blooded experiment on her pa^ and the fun of stirring people up and settle them against each other. She dabbled in th3 too. She's the sort of woman who's fiev€^ had a row with any one in her life--but to
always happen where she is! She makes in

nen. She's a kind of female lago. She ^^have drama. But she doesn't want to be ^Tnlved herself. She's always outside pulling
111' < y"^i l
^ings-- looking on--enjoying it. Oh, do ^ou see at all what I mean?"
"I see perhaps, more than you know, mademoiselle,"
said Poirot.
I couldn't make his voice out. He didn't
sound indignant. He sounded--oh, well, I
can't explain it.
Sheila Reilly seemed to understand for she
flushed all over her face.
"You can think what you choose," she
said. "But I'm right about her. She was a
clever woman and she was bored and she
experimented--with people--like other
people experiment with chemicals. She enjoyed
working on poor old Johnson's feelings
and seeing her bite on the bullet and control
herself like the old sport she is. She liked
goading little Mercado into a white-hot TOizy. She liked flicking me on the raw-- ^d she could do it too, every time! She liked
inding out things about people and holding
bl Q^ ^hem. Oh, I don't mean crude cl<lnall--l mean just letting them know
^e knew--and leaving them uncertain ----be meant to do about it. My God,

though, that woman was an artist! There \va nothing crude about her methods!"
"And her husband?" asked Poirot.
"She never wanted to hurt him," said
Miss Reilly slowly. "I've never known her
anything but sweet to him. I suppose she
was fond of him. He's a dear--wrapped up in his own world--his digging and his theories.
And he worshipped her and thought
her perfection. That might have annoyed
some women. It didn't annoy her. In a sense
he lived in a fool's paradise--and yet it
wasn't a fool's paradise because to him she
was what he thought her. Though it's hard
to reconcile that with--"
She stopped.
"Go on, mademoiselle," said Poirot.
She turned suddenly on me.
"What have you said about Richard
Carey?"
"About Mr. Carey?" I asked, astonished.
"About her and Carey?"
"Well," I said, "I've mentioned that they
didn't hit it off very well--" .
To my surprise she broke into a fit °
laughter. ,
"Didn't hit it off very well! You fool! H^i
head over ears in love with her. And \ tearing him to pieces--because he W^J

. Teidner too. He's been his friend for s p "fhat would be enough for her, of we rse. She's made it her business to come
i'°tween them. But all the same I've
fancied--" ^
"Eh bien?"
She was frowning, absorbed in thought.
"I've fancied that she'd gone too far for once_that she was not only biter but bit!
Carey's attractive. He's as attractive as
hell. . . . She was a cold devil--but I believe
she could have lost her coldness with
him. ..."
"I think it's just scandalous what you're
saying," I cried. "Why, they hardly spoke
to each other!"
"Oh, didn't they?" She turned on me. "A
hell of a lot you know about it. It was 'Mr.
Carey' and 'Mrs. Leidner' in the house, but ^ey used to meet outside. She'd walk down
.^e path to the river. And he'd leave the dig tor an hour at a time. They used to meet lamong the fruit trees.
1 saw him once just leaving her, striding
af tQt^ dig? and she was standing looking r nun. I was a female cad, I suppose. I
some glasses with me and I took them ^_d had a good look at her face. If you

1'
ask me I believed she cared like hell for Ri^
ard Carey. . . ."
She broke off and looked at Poirot.
"Excuse my butting in on your case," she
said with a sudden rather twisted grin, "bui
I thought you'd like to have the local coloiii
. ss
correct."
And she marched out of the room.
"M. Poirot," I cried. "I don't believe one
word of it all!"
He looked at me and he smiled, and he
said (very queerly I thought):
"You can't deny, nurse, that Miss Reill^
has shed a certain—illumination on the
case."

'r'
Chapter 19
/4 New Suspicion
we couldn't say any more just then because
Dr. Reilly came in, saying jokingly that he'd
killed off the most tiresome of his patients.
He and M. Poirot settled down to a more
or less medical discussion of the psychology
and mental state of an anonymous letterwriter.
The doctor cited cases that he had
known professionally, and M. Poirot told
various stories from his own experience.
"It is not so simple as it seems," he ended.
There is the desire for power and very often a strong inferiority complex."
.r. Reilly nodded.
That's why you often find that the author
^onymous letters is the last person in the ^ ace to be suspected. Some quiet inoffensive
pq e sou! who apparently can't say Boo to a ^ o.^^^ sweetness and Christian meek- kp on ^ outside--and seething with all ^-.V of hell underneath!"

Poirot said thoughtfully:
"Should you say Mrs. Leidner had
tendency to an inferiority complex?'5
ai^
Dr. Reilly scraped out his pipe with
chuckle.
"Last woman on earth I'd describe that
way. No repressions about her. Life, life and
more life--that's what she wanted--and
got, too!"
"Do you consider it a possibility, psychologically
speaking, that she wrote those letters?'5

"Yes, I do. But if she did, the reason arose
out of her instinct to dramatize herself. Mrs.
Leidner was a bit of a film star in private
life! She had to be the centre of things--in
the limelight. By the law of opposites she
married Leidner who's about the most retiring
and modest man I know. He adored her--but adoration by the fireside wasn't
enough for her. She had to be the persecuted
heroine as well." ,
"In fact," said Poirot, smiling, "you don t
subscribe to his theory that she wrote thel^ and retained no memory of her act?"
"No, I don't. I didn't turn down the id^ in front of him. You can't very well s3. a man who's just lost a dearly loved wif^t,
that same wife was a shameless exhibitio11^J

I, t^ she drove him nearly crazy with an etv to satisfy her sense of the dramatic. an3a ^atter of fact it wouldn't be safe to tell
man the truth about his wife! Funnily
nueh I'd trust most women with the truth
hout their husbands. Women can accept the ?act that a man is a rotter, a swindler, a drugtaker,
a confirmed liar, and a general swine
without batting an eyelash and without its
impairing their affection for the brute in the
least! Women are wonderful realists."
"Frankly, Dr. Reilly, what was your exact
opinion of Mrs. Leidner?"
Dr. Reilly lay back in his chair and puffed
slowly at his pipe.
™ Frankly--it's hard to say! I didn't know
ner well enough. She'd got charm--any
amount of it. Brains, sympathy. . . . What else? She hadn't any of the ordinary unpleasBnt
vices. She wasn't sensual or lazy or even
Particularly vain. She was, I've always nought (but I've no proofs of it), a most ^omplished liar. What I don't know (and ^hat I'd like to know) is whether she lied to
us
p^-f or.only to other people. I'm rather
HeY to liars "^^ A woman who doesn't a woman without imagination and with-
^^P^hy. I don't think she was really
----hunter--she just liked the sport of

bringing them down 'with my bow and a I row.5 If you get my daughter on ^
r .. 55 11^
subject--
"We have had that pleasure," said Poiror with a slight smile.
"H'm," said Dr. Reilly. "She hasn't
wasted much time! Shoved her knife into her
pretty thoroughly, I should imagine! The
younger generation has no sentiment towards
the dead. It's a pity all young people
are prigs! They condemn the 'old morality' and then proceed to set up a much more hard
and fast code of their own. If Mrs. Leidner
had had half a dozen affairs Sheila would
probably have approved of her as 'living her
life fully'--or 'obeying her blood instincts.'
What she doesn't see is that Mrs. Leidner
was acting true to type--her type. The cat is obeying its blood instinct when it plays
with the mouse! It's made that way. Men
aren't little boys to be shielded and pr°' tected. They've got to meet cat women-- and faithful spaniel, yours-till-death adoruig
women, and henpecking nagging Dlr women--and all the rest of it! Lif^ battlefield--not a picnic! I'd like to see
Sheila honest enough to come off ^."^fl horse and admit that she hated Mrs. L61011 for good old thoroughgoing personal--j

Sheila's about the only young girl in son place and she naturally assumes that she
ht to have it all her own way with the oug g things in trousers. Naturally it annoys l°r when a woman, who in her view is middle-aged
and who has already two husbands
^gr credit, comes along and licks her on
her own ground. Sheila's a nice child, healthy and reasonably good-looking and attractive
to the other sex as she should be.
But Mrs. Leidner was something out of the
ordinary in that line. She'd got just that sort
of calamitous magic that plays the deuce with
things--a kind of Belle Dame sans Merci."
I jumped in my chair. What a coincidence
his saying that!
"Your daughter--I am not indiscreet--
she has perhaps a tendresse for one of the
young men out there?"
"Oh, I don't suppose so. She's had Em- ^ott and Coleman dancing attendance on ner as a matter of course. I don't know that
e ^^s for one more than the other. There re a couple of young Air Force chaps too.
^cy all's fish that comes to her net at
fg sent- No, I think it's age daring to de-
doe yout^ tnat annoys her so much! She It sn J know as much of the world as I do. ^^-h you get to my age that you really

appreciate a schoolgirl complexion and
clear eye and a firmly knit young body. ^ a woman over thirty can listen with rapt at
tention and throw in a word here and ther
to show the talker what a fine fellow he i<;
--and few young men can resist that! Sheila's
a pretty girl--but Louise Leidner was
beautiful. Glorious eyes and that amazing golden fairness. Yes, she was a beautiful
woman."

Yes, I thought to myself, he's right. Beauty's
a wonderful thing. She had been beautiful.
It wasn't the kind of looks you were
jealous of--you just sat back and admired.
I felt that first day I met her that I'd do anything for Mrs. Leidner!
All the same, that night as I was being
driven back to the Tell Yarimjah (Dr. Reilly
made me stay for an early dinner) one or two
things came back to my mind and made me
rather uncomfortable. At the time I hadn't
believed a word of all Sheila Reilly's outpouring.
I'd taken it for sheer spite and malice.

But now I suddenly remembered the ^a-
Mrs. Leidner had insisted on going ^.
stroll by herself that afternoon and wou^l
-7 . . t.alfl
hett
hear of me coming with her. I couldn t
wondering if perhaps, after all, she had u

p. to meet Mr. Carey. ... And of
^01 rse it ^as a ^"^ oc^ really, the way he CG g^g spoke to each other so formally.
an ^ of the others she called by their Christian
names.
He never seemed to look at her, I remembered.
That might be because he disliked
her--or it might be just the opposite. . . .
I gave myself a little shake. Here I was
fancying and imagining all sorts of things--
all because of a girl's spiteful outbursts!
It just showed how unkind and dangerous it
was to go about saying that kind of thing.
Mrs. Leidner hadn't been like that at
all. . . .
* Of course, she hadn't liked Sheila Reilly.
She'd really been--almost catty about her
_hat day at lunch to Mr. Emmott. m Funny, the way he'd looked at her. The
sort of way that you couldn't possibly tell ^at he was thinking. You never could tell wnat ^r. Emmott was thinking. He was so qulet- ^ut very nice. A nice dependable per-.
w Mr. Coleman was a foolish young
man if i-k «
I'rl ever was one'
^, §of to that point in my meditations
^d r\we arrlvec^ ^ was i^ on mne o'clock ^^^g door was closed and barred.

Ibrahim came running with his great
to let me in. ^
key
We all went to bed early at Tell Yarimj^
There weren't any lights showing in the liv
ing-room. There was a light in the drawing.
office and one in Dr. Leidner's office bur
nearly all the other windows were dark
Every one must have gone to bed even earlier
than usual.
As I passed the drawing-office to go to my
room I looked in. Mr. Carey was in his shin
sleeves working over his big plan.
Terribly ill, he looked, I thought. So
strained and worn. It gave me quite a pang.
I don't know what there was about Mr.
Carey—it wasn't what he said because he
hardly said anything—and that of the most
ordinary nature, and it wasn't what he did,
for that didn't amount to much either—and
yet you just couldn't help noticing him, and
everything about him seemed to matter more
than it would have about any one else. He
just counted, if you know what I mean.
He turned his head and saw me. He—
moved his pipe from his mouth and sala^
"Well, nurse, back from Hassanieh?' I
"Yes, Mr. Carey. You're up working^,;
Everybody else seems to have gone to be .
"I thought I might as well get on w1

(ts " he said. "I was a bit behind-hand.
thing ?^^ ^ ^^ ^ ^ ^g ^ tomorrow.
'^'re starting digging again." "Already?" I asked, shocked.
He looked at me rather queerly.
"It's the best thing, I think. I put it up
Leidner. He'll be in Hassanieh most of
to-morrow seeing to things. But the rest of
us will carry on here. You know it's not too
easy all sitting round and looking at each
other as things are."
He was right there, of course. Especially
in the nervy, jumpy state every one was in.
"Well, of course you're right in a way,"
Tsaid. "It takes one's mind off if one's got
something to do."
The funeral, I knew, was to be the day
after tomorrow.
He had bent over his plan again. I don't know why, but my heart just ached for him.
1 felt certain that he wasn't going to get any
sleep.
"If
lr you d like a sleeping draught, Mr. ^.ey?" I said hesitatingly.
f^eshook his head with a smile.
r_ 11 carry on, nurse. Bad habit, sleeping
Lights."
ler^0113 S00^111^, Mr. Carey," I said. "If
_-_mhing I can do--"

T^
"Don't think so, thank you, nurse. GooH
1 55 < 'ju>
night." i
"I'm terribly sorry," I said, rather too im
pulsively I suppose.
"Sorry?" He looked surprised.
"For--for everybody. It's all so dreadful
But especially for you."
"For me? Why for me?"
"Well, you're such an old friend of them
both."
"I'm an old friend of Leidner's. I wasn't
a friend of hers particularly."
He spoke as though he had actually disliked
her. Really, I wished Miss Reilly could
have heard him!
"Well, good-night," I said and hurried
along to my room.
I fussed around a bit in my room before
undressing. Washed out some handkerchiefs
and a pair of wash-leather gloves and wrote
up my diary. I just looked out of my door
again before I really started to get ready ^ bed. The lights were still on in the drawingoffice
and in the south building. .
I supposed Dr. Leidner was still up an
working in his office. I wondered whether
---- J ^^\ 1
ought to go and say good-night to nlln'^ hesitated about it--I didn't want to se^q
officious. He might be busy and not want J '»'» ^jjh.i^e

isturbed. In the end, however, a sort of
^e ,np<ss drove me on. After all, it couldn't
nneasinc53 - . i i i /.
any h3™- I d )ust say g00^111^ ask lf here was anything I could do and come
a Rut Dr. Leidner wasn't there. The office
itself was lit up but there was no one in it
except Miss Johnson. She had her head
down on the table and was crying as though
her heart would break.
It gave me quite a turn. She was such a
quiet, self-controlled woman. It was pitiful
to see her.
"Whatever is it, my dear?" I cried. I put
my arm round her and patted her. "Now, now, this won't do at all. . . . You mustn't
sit here crying all by yourself."
She didn't answer and I felt the dreadful
shuddering sobs that were racking her.
"Don't, my dear, don't," I said. "Take a
hold on yourself. I'll go and make you a cup 01 nice hot tea."
^he raised her head and said:
fo l503 n03 lt5s a^ rl^t> nurse- I5111 being a
That's upset you, my dear?" I asked. , e didn't answer at once, then she said:
us all too awful. ..." -ww don't start thinking of it," I told

1'
her. "What's happened has happened and
can't be mended. It's no use fretting."
She sat up straight and began to pat he
hair. d
"I'm making rather a fool of myself," she
said in her gruff voice. "I've been clearing
up and tidying the office. Thought it was
best to do something. And then—it all came
over me suddenly—" ft
"Yes, yes," I said hastily. "I know. A nice
strong cup of tea and a hot-water bottle in
your bed is what you want," I said.
And she had them too. I didn't listen to
any protests. m
"Thank you, nurse," she said when I'd
settled her in bed, and she was sipping her
tea and the hot-water bottle was in. "You're
a nice kind sensible woman. It's not often I
make such a fool of myself."
"Oh, anybody's liable to do that at a time
like this," I said, "what with one thing and
another. The strain and the shock and the
police here, there and everywhere. Why? 1 _
quite jumpy myself."
She said slowly in rather a queer voice^
"What you said in there is true. v^j
happened has happened and cant
mended. ..."

r
ther
che was silent for a minute or two and
. ^id—rather oddly, I thought:
men J<u" . .,,
"She was never a nice woman!
V^ell? I didn't argue the point. I'd always
?lt it was quite natural for Miss Johnson
and Mrs. Leidner not to hit it off.
I wondered if, perhaps. Miss Johnson had
secretly had a feeling that she was pleased
Mrs. Leidner was dead, and had then been
ashamed of herself for the thought.
I said:
I "Now you go to sleep and don't worry
about anything."
I just picked up a few things and set the
room to rights. Stockings over the back of
the chair and coat and skirt on a hanger.
There was a little ball of crumpled paper on
the floor where it must have fallen out of a
pocket.
I was just smoothing it out to see whether
could safely throw it away when she quite
hauled me.
"Give that to me!"
1 did so—rather taken aback. She'd called
m^30- P^^Ptorily. She snatched it from
snatched it—and then held it in
flame till it was burnt to ashes.
I was startled—and I just stared

Y
I hadn't had time to see what the panJi
was--she'd snatched it so quick. But funml
enough, as it burned it curled over towardy me and I just saw that there were word
written in ink on the paper. --
It wasn't till I was getting into bed that I
realized why they'd looked sort of familiar
to me.
It was the same handwriting as that of the
anonymous letters. --
Was that why Miss Johnson had given way
to a fit of remorse? Had it been her all along
who had written those anonymous letters?
'r
Chapter 20
Miss Johnson, Mrs. Mercado, Mr. Reiter
I don't mind confessing that the idea came
as a complete shock to me. I'd never thought
of associating MissJohnson with the letters.
Mrs. Mercado, perhaps. But Miss Johnson
was a real lady, and so self-controlled and
sensible.
But I reflected, remembering the conversation
I had listened to that evening between
M. Poirot and Dr. Reilly, that that might be
Just why.
^/it were Miss Johnson who had written me ^ters it explained a lot. Mind you, I
1 n t think for a minute Miss Johnson had nad anything to do with the murder. But I
h'av that her dislike ofMrs- Leidner might
of e i1113^ ner succumb to the temptation a ^^-putting the wind up her--to put it

She might have hoped to frighten a\v
Mrs. Leidner from the dig. ^
But then Mrs. Leidner had been irm
dered and Miss Johnson had felt terribi
pangs of remorse--first for her cruel trick and also, perhaps, because she realized thai those letters were acting as a very good shield
to the actual murderer. No wonder she had
broken down so utterly. She was, I was sure
a decent soul at heart. And it explained, too
why she had caught so eagerly at my consolation
of "what's happened5 s happened
and can't be amended."
And then her cryptic remark--her vindication
of herself--"She was never a nice
woman!"
The question was, what was / to do about
it?
I tossed and turned for a good while and
in the end decided I'd let M. Poirot know
about it at the first opportunity.
He came out next day but I didn't get a chance of speaking to him what you niig111
call privately. ,
We had just a minute alone together an
before I could collect myself to know n° |
to begin, he had come close to me and ^J
whispering instructions in my ear. .J
"Me, I shall talk to Miss Johnsonj^
A^.

hers perhaps, in the living-room. You
0 flip kev of Mrs. Leidner's room still?"
have ulc J .,
"Yes," I sald^Tres
bien. Go there, shut the door behind
you and give a cry--not a scream--a cry.
You understand what I mean--it is alarm--
surprise that I want you to express--not
mad terror. As for the excuse if you are
heard_I leave that to you--the stepped toe
or what you will."
At that moment Miss Johnson came out
into the courtyard and there was no time for
more.
I understood well enough what M. Poirot
was after. As soon as he and Miss Johnson
had gone into the living-room I went across
to Mrs. Leidner's room and, unlocking the
door, went in and pulled the door to behind
me. --
I can't say I didn't feel a bit of a fool
standing up in an empty room and giving a
y^P all for nothing at all. Besides, it wasn't s0 ^sy to know just how loud to do it. I
gave a pretty loud "Oh" and then tried it a Dlt higher and a bit lower.
B n I came out again and prepared my
use of a stepped (stubbed I suppose he
^Otoe.
^^^soon appeared that no excuse would

be needed. Poirot and Miss Johnson \vp
talking together earnestly and there hJ clearly been no interruption.
"Well," I thought, "that settles that. Ei.
ther Miss Johnson imagined that cry she
heard or else it was something quite differ.
ent."
I didn't like to go in and interrupt them.
There was a deck-chair on the porch so I sat
down there. Their voices floated out to me.
"The position is delicate, you understand,"
Poirot was saying. "Dr. Leidner-- obviously he adored his wife--"
"He worshipped her," said Miss Johnson.
"He tells me, naturally, how fond all his
staff was of her! As for them, what can they
say? Naturally they say the same thing. It is
politeness. It is decency. It may also be the
truth! But also it may not! And I am convinced, mademoiselle, that the key to this
enigma lies in a complete understanding o1 Mrs. Leidner's character. If I could get the
opinion--the honest opinion--of e^ member of the staff. I might, from the
whole, build up a picture. Frankly, that 1s why I am here to-day. I knew Dr. Leidn would be in Hassanieh. That makes it ^as.
for me to have an interview with each of _
here in turn, and beg your help." f

'That's all very well," began Miss John-
.on and stopped. ) "Do not make me the British cliches,"
poirot begged. "Do not say it is not the -ricket or the football, that to speak anything
Ibut well of the dead is not done--that-- enfin-- there is loyalty! Loyalty, it is a pestilential
thing in crime. Again and again it
obscures the truth."
"I've no particular loyalty to Mrs. Leidner,"
said Miss Johnson dryly. There was
indeed a sharp and acid tone in her voice.
"Dr. Leidner's a different matter. And, after
all, she was his wife."
"Precisely--precisely. I understand that
you would not wish to speak against your
chiefs wife. But this is not a question of a
testimonial. It is a question of sudden and
mysterious death. If I am to believe that it ^ a martyred angel who has been killed it ^es not add to the easiness of my task."
"I certainly shouldn't call her an angel," sa1^ Miss Johnson and the acid tone was even ^ore in evidence.
, tell me your opinion, frankly, of Mrs. ^dner--as a woman."
ff H m! To begin with, M. Poirot, I'll give
this warning. I'm prejudiced. I am--we were-- devoted to Dr. Leidner. And, I

1V,
suppose, when Mrs. Leidner came alone vy were jealous. We resented the demands sh
made on his time and attention. The devo
tion he showed her irritated us. I'm being? truthful, M. Poirot, and it isn't very pleasanr
for me. I resented her presence here--yes
I did, though, of course, I tried never to
show it. It made a difference to us, you see "
"Us? You say us?"
"I mean Mr. Carey and myself. We're the
two old-timers, you see. And we didn't much
care for the new order of things. I suppose
that's natural, though perhaps it was rather
petty of us. But it did make a difference."
"What kind of a difference?"
"Oh! to everything. We used to have such
a happy time. A good deal of fun, you know,
and rather silly jokes, like people do who
work together. Dr. Leidner was quite lighthearted--just
like a boy."
"And when Mrs. Leidner came she
changed all that?"
"Well, I suppose it wasn't her fault. ^ wasn't so bad last year. And please belief M. Poirot, that it wasn't anything she did- She's always been charming to me--q111 charming. That's why I've felt ashan^ sometimes. It wasn't her fault that W ^ things she said and did seemed to rubJjJ

the wrong way. Really nobody could
J^e nicer than she was."
((gut nevertheless things were changed
,. season? There was a different atmo-
, ??
sphere.
"Oh entirely. Really, I don't know what
it was. Everything seemed to go wrong--not
with the work--I mean with us--our term-
Eers and our nerves. All on edge. Almost the 3rt of feeling you get when there is a thunerstorm
coming."
"And you put that down to Mrs. Leidner's
[influence?"
"Well, it was never like that before she
came," said Miss Johnson dryly. "Oh! I'm
la cross-grained, complaining old dog.
[Conservative--liking things always the
same. You really mustn't take any notice of
me, M. Poirot."
"How would you describe to me Mrs.
Leidner's character and temperament?"
Miss Johnson hesitated for a moment. Then sue said slowly:
Well, of course, she was temperamental. of of ups and downs. Nice to people one ^ y and Perhaps wouldn't speak to them the
tho k^ was very kind3! think-And ^y
^ ug fu^ for others. All the same you could ^--^had been thoroughly spoilt all her
^T?

life. She took Dr. Leidner's waiting on hp hand and foot as perfectly natural. And T
don't think she ever really appreciated whar a very remarkable--what a really greats man she had married. That used to annoy me sometimes. And of course she was terribly
highly strung and nervous. The things
she used to imagine and the states she used
to get into! I was thankful when Dr. Leidner
brought Nurse Leatheran here. It was too
much for him having to cope both with his
work and with his wife's fears."
"What is your own opinion of these anonymous
letters she received?"
I had to do it. I leaned forward in my chair
till I could just catch sight of Miss Johnson's
profile turned to Poirot in answer to his question.

She was looking perfectly cool and coL
lected.
"I think some one in America had a spit0 against her and was trying to frighten or annoy
her."
"Pas plus serieux que qa?"
"That's my opinion. She was a very handsome
woman 5 you know, and might easu have had enemies. I think those letters we written by some spiteful woman. Mrs. I^_
A
-1^» A

being °f a nervous temperament took
^m seriously."
"She certainly did that," said Poirot. "But
member--the last of them arrived by
"Well? I suppose that could have been
managed if any one had given their minds
to it. Women will take a lot of trouble to
gratify their spite, M. Poirot."
They will indeed, I thought to myself!
"Perhaps you are right, mademoiselle. As
you say, Mrs. Leidner was handsome. By
the way, you know Miss Reilly, the doctor's
daughter?"
"Sheila Reilly? Yes, of course."
Poirot adopted a very confidential, gossipy
tone.
"I have heard a rumour (naturally I do not
like to ask the doctor) that there was a tendresse
between her and one of the members
of Dr. Leidner's staff. Is that so, do you
know?"
Miss Johnson appeared rather amused.
°h, young Coleman and David Emmott
.^ both inclined to dance attendance. I
to h^ ^w was some rivalry as to who was ^ e ner partner in some event at the club.
atQ , the boys went in on Saturday evenings ^~__|ub as a general rule. But I don't
^>^»c

^,
know that there was anything in it on h
side. She's the only young creature in ^ place, you know, and so she's by way nf
being the belle of it. She's got the Air Fore
dancing attendance on her as well."
"So you think there is nothing in it?"
"Well--I don't know." Miss Johnson became
thoughtful. "It is true that she comes
out this way fairly often. Up to the dig and all that. In fact, Mrs. Leidner was chaffing
David Emmott about it the other day--saying
the girl was running after him. Which
was rather a catty thing to say, I thought,
and I don't think he liked it. ... Yes, she
was here a good deal. I saw her riding towards
the dig on that awful afternoon." She
nodded her head towards the open window.
"But neither David Emmott nor Coleman
were on duty that afternoon. Richard Carey
was in charge. Yes, perhaps she is attracted
to one of the boys--but she's such a modern
unsentimental young woman that one
doesn't know quite how seriously to take
her. I'm sure I don't know which of them ^ is. Bill's a nice boy, and not nearly su<?h a fool as he pretends to be. David Eminott\ a dear--and there's a lot to him. He istn deep, quiet kind."
"»'"»^'

Then she looked quizzically at Poirot and
^'But has this any bearing on the crime,
u poirot?"
m Poirot threw up his hands in a very
French fashion.
"You make me blush, mademoiselle," he
said. "You expose me as a mere gossip. But
what will you, I am interested always in
the love affairs of young people."
"Yes," said Miss Johnson with a little
sigh. "It's nice when the course of true love
runs smooth."
I Poirot gave an answering sigh. I wondered
if Miss Johnson was thinking of some love
affair of her own when she was a girl. And
I wondered if M. Poirot had a wife, and if
he went on in the way you always hear foreigners
do, with mistresses and things like
^
"lat. He looks so comic I couldn't imagine
it.
"Sheila Reilly has a lot of character," said Miss J°hnson. "She's young and she's crude, ^ she's the right sort."
-.,ta^e your word for it, mademoiselle," ^ Poirot.
me ^^ up an<^ salc^ "^ tllere any ^her
^ of the staff in the house?"
I arle Mercado is somewhere about. All

r
the men are up on the dig to-day. I thini. they wanted to get out of the house. I don't
blame them. If you'd like to go up to the
dig-'5
She came out on the verandah and said
smiling to me:
"Nurse Leatheran won't mind taking you
I dare say."
"Oh, certainly. Miss Johnson," I said.
"And you'll come back to lunch, won't
you, M. Poirot?"
"Enchanted, mademoiselle."
Miss Johnson went back into the livingroom
where she was engaged in cataloguing.
"Mrs. Mercado's on the roof," I said. "Do
you want to see her first?"
"It would be as well, I think. Let us go
up."
As we went up the stairs I said:
"I did what you told me. Did you hear
anything?"
"Not a sound."
"That will be a weight off Miss Johnson's
mind at any rate," I said. "She's been worrying
that she might have done something
about it." ^ Mrs. Mercado was sitting on the paraph her head bent down, and she was so deeplp thought that she never heard us till Pol1'0!
^^^ JflJB

, j opposite her and bade her good-mornifi^
Then she looked up with a start.
She looked ill this morning, I thought, her
small face pinched and wizened and great
dark circles under her eyes.
"Encore moi," said Poirot. "I come today
with a special object."
And he went on much in the same way as
he had done to Miss Johnson, explaining
how necessary it was that he should get a
I true picture of Mrs. Leidner.
Mrs. Mercado, however, wasn't as honest
as Miss Johnson had been. She burst into
fulsome praise which, I was pretty sure, was
quite far removed from her real feelings.
"Dear, dear Louise! It's so hard to explain
her to some one who didn't know her. She
was such an exotic creature. Quite different from any one else. You felt that, I'm sure, nurse? A martyr to nerves, of course, and u11 °f fancies, but one put up with things in her one wouldn't from any one else. And s e was so sweet to us all, wasn't she, nurse?
ndso humble about herself--I mean she
. n t know anything about archaeology, and
. Was so eager to learn. Always asking my
tre anc^ ^out the chemical processes for ^ng the metal objects and helping Miss

1 Johnson to mend pottery. Oh, we were all
all
devoted to her."
"Then it is not true, madame, what I havp
heard, that there was a certain tenseness^ an uncomfortable atmosphere--here?"
Mrs. Mercado opened her opaque black
eyes very wide. I
"Oh! who can have been telling you that?
Nurse? Dr. Leidner? I'm sure he would
never notice anything, poor man."
And she shot a thoroughly unfriendly
glance at me.
Poirot smiled easily.
"I have my spies, madame," he declared
gaily. And just for a minute I saw her eyelids
quiver and blink.
"Don't you think," asked Mrs. Mercado
with an air of great sweetness, "that after an
event of this kind, every one always pretends
a lot of things that never were? You know
--tension, atmosphere, a 'feeling that something
was going to happen?' I think people just make up these things afterwards." ^
"There is a lot in what you say, madame?
said Poirot.
"And it really wasn't true! We were a thoroughly
happy family here."
"That woman is one of the most utter lia^ 1
I've ever known," I said indignantly, w- J ^-»/\ .3^--

poirot and I were clear of the house and diking along the path to the dig. "I'm sure Mhe simply hated Mrs. Leidner really!"
"She is hardly the type to whom one
would go for the truth," Poirot agreed.
"Waste of time talking to her," I snapped.
"Hardly that--hardly that. If a person
Wells you lies with her lips she is sometimes
elling you truth with her eyes. What is she
bfraid of, little Madame Mercado? I saw fear
|n her eyes. Yes--decidedly she is afraid of
omething. It is very interesting."
"I've got something to tell you, M. ^oirot," I said.
Then I told him all about my return the
night before and my strong belief that Miss
Johnson was the writer of the anonymous
letters.
"So she's a liar too!" I said. "The cool way
she answered you this morning about these ^me letters!"
Yes," said Poirot. "It was interesting, w. For she let out the fact that she knew all vlbout those letters. So far they have not been ^Poken of in the presence of the staff. Of
tolT^3 u is qulte P08^16 tnat Dr- Leidner r. her about them yesterday. They are old
_2S?» he and she. But if he did not--

well--then it is curious and interesting ic ,„
not?" 3slt
My respect for him went up. It was clever
the way he had tricked her into mentionins the letters.
"Are you going to tackle her about them?"
I asked.
Mr. Poirot seemed quite shocked by the
idea.
"No, no, indeed. Always it is unwise to
parade one's knowledge. Until the last minute
I keep everything here." He tapped his
forehead. "At the right moment--I make
the spring--like the panther--and, mon
Dieu! the consternation!"
I couldn't help laughing to myself at little
M. Poirot in the role of a panther.
We had just reached the dig. The first
person we saw was Mr. Reiter, who was busy
photographing some walling.
It's my opinion that the men who were
digging just hacked out walls wherever they
wanted them. That's what it looked like anyway.
Mr. Carey explained to me that you
could feel the difference at once with a pi^5 and he tried to show me--but I never sa^ When the man said "Lt'&n"--mud-brick-- it was just ordinary dirt and mud as far as
could see.

^M
r. Reiter finished his photographs and
{Fnded over the camera and the plates to his
, ^id told him to take them back to the
house.
poirot asked him one or two questions
about exposures and film packs and so on
which he answered very readily. He seemed
pleased to be asked about his work.
He was just tendering his excuses for leaving
us when Poirot plunged once more into
his set speech. As a matter of fact it wasn't
quite a set speech because he varied it a little
each time to suit the person he was talking
to. But I'm not going to write it all down
every time. With sensible people like Miss
Johnson he went straight to the point, and
with some of the others he had to beat about
V
I
he bush a bit more. But it came to the same
n the end.
'Yes, yes, I see what you mean," said Mr.
eiter. "But indeed, I do not see that I can e much help to you. I am new here this sason and I did not speak much with Mrs.
eldner- I regret, but indeed I can tell you
^thing 5?
Th
^ere was something a little stiff and for^
m ^e way he spoke, though, of course,
ipo ^'t got any accent--except an Amer----^Imean.


^,
"You can at least tell me whether you liked I
or disliked her?" said Poirot with a smile ^
Mr. Reiter got quite red and stammered-
"She was a charming person--most
charming. And intellectual. She had a very fine brain--yes."
"Bien! You liked her. And she liked you?"B
Mr. Reiter got redder still.
"Oh, I--I don't know that she noticed me
much. And I was unfortunate once or twice.
I was always unlucky when I tried to do
anything for her. I'm afraid I annoyed her
by my clumsiness. It was quite unintentional ... I would have done anything--"
Poirot took pity on his flounderings.
"Perfectly--perfectly. Let us pass to another
matter. Was it a happy atmosphere in
the house?"
"Please."
"Were you all happy together? Did you
laugh and talk?"
"No--no, not exactly that. There was a
little--stiffness."
He paused, struggling with himself, an<l
then said: I
"You see, I am not very good in compa11^ I am clumsy. I am shy. Dr. Leidner alwaY^ he has been most kind to me. But--11 <
stupid--I cannot overcome my shynes_

. always the wrong thing. I upset water
sdV 4 i i »»
ues. I am unlucky.
He really looked like a large awkward
child. , , , . , "We all do these things when we are
young," said Poirot, smiling. "The poise,
the savoirfaire, it comes later." Then with a word of farewell we walked
on.
He said:
"That, ma soeur, is either an extremely
simple young man or a very remarkable actor."
I didn't answer. I was caught up once
more by the fantastic notion that one of these
people was a dangerous and cold-blooded
murderer. Somehow, on this beautiful still
sunny morning, it seemed impossible.

T
Chapter 21
Mr. Mercado, Richard Carey
"they work in two separate places, I see,"
said Poirot, halting.
Mr. Reiter had been doing his photography
on an outlying portion of the main excavation.
A little distance away from us a
second swarm of men were coming and going
with baskets.
"That's what they call the deep cut," I
explained. "They don't find much there,
nothing but rubbishy broken pottery, but
Dr. Leidner always says it's very interesting,
so I suppose it must be."
"Let us go there."
We walked together slowly for the sun was
hot.
Mr. Mercado was in command. We sa^ him below us talking to the foreman, an of
man like a tortoise who wore a tweed c(^ over his long striped cotton gown. J
It was a little difficult to get down to the I

there was only a narrow path or stair and as ^ boys were going up and down it con-
nflv and they always seemed to be as ^lind as bats and never to think of getting
out of the way.
As I followed Poirot down he said suddenly
over his shoulder:
"Is Mr. Mercado right-handed or lefthanded?"
Now
that was an extraordinary question
if you like!
I thought a minute, then:
"Right-handed," I said decisively.
Poirot didn't condescend to explain. He
just went on and I followed him.
Mr. Mercado seemed rather pleased to see
us.
His long melancholy face lit up.
M. Poirot pretended to an interest in
archaeology that I'm sure he couldn't have
really felt, but Mr. Mercado responded at
once.
Ue explained that they had already cut
^ through twelve levels of house occupation.

'tvvy
len are now definitely in the fourth mil|
t luIn^" he said with enthusiasm.
--^ys thought a millennium was in the

future--the time when everything come
right.
Mr. Mercado pointed out belts of ashes
(how his hand did shake! I wondered if he
might possibly have malaria) and he explained
how the pottery changed in character;, and about burials--and how they had
had one level almost entirely composed of
infant burials--poor little things--and
about flexed position and orientation which
seemed to mean the way the bones were
lying.
And then suddenly, just as he was stooping
down to pick up a kind of flint knife that
was lying with some pots in a corner, he leapt
into the air with a wild yell.
He spun round to find me and Poirot staring
at him in astonishment.
He clapped his hand to his left arm.
"Something stung me--like a red-hot
needle."
Immediately Poirot was galvanized into
energy.
"Quick, mon cher, let us see. Nurse Learn
eran!" I came forward. ,,
He seized Mr. Mercado's arm and deit\ rolled back the sleeve of his khaki shirt ^ the shoulder^
"There," said Mr. Mercado, pointing
About three inches below the shoulder
i. yp was a minute prick from which the
blood was oozing.
"Curious/' said Poirot. He peered into the
nlled-up sleeve. "I can see nothing. It was
an ant, perhaps?"
"Better put on a little iodine," I said.
I always carry an iodine pencil with me,
and I whipped it out and applied it. But I
was a little absent-minded as I did so, for
my attention had been caught by something
quite different. Mr. Mercado's arm, all the
way up the forearm to the elbow, was
marked all over by tiny punctures. I knew
well enough what they were—the marks of a
hypodermic needle.
Mr. Mercado rolled down his sleeve again
and recommenced his explanations. Mr.
Poirot listened, but didn't try to bring the
conversation round to the Leidners. In fact
he didn't ask Mr. Mercado anything at all.
Presently we said good-bye to Mr. Mercad0
an^ climbed up the path again.
It was neat that, did you not think so?"
"y companion asked.
| ^eat?" 1 ^ked.
1. , 1 ^fot took something from behind the
^ e ^ his coat and surveyed it affection—^Q
my surprise I saw that it was a long

sharp darning needle with a blob of sealin
wax making it into a pin.
"M. Poirot," I cried, "did you do that^5 "I was the stinging insect--yes. And very neatly I did it, too, do you not think so? You
did not see me."
That was true enough. I never saw him do it. And I'm sure Mr. Mercado hadn't
suspected. He must have been quick as lightning.

"But, M. Poirot, why?" I asked.
He answered me by another question. "Did you notice anything, sister?" he
asked.
I nodded my head slowly.
"Hypodermic marks," I said.
"So now we know something about Mr.
Mercado," said Poirot. "I suspected--but I
did not know. It is always necessary to know."
"And you don't care how you set about
it!" I thought, but didn't say.
Poirot suddenly clapped his hand to his
pocket. . r
"Alas, I have dropped my handkerchie
down there. I concealed the pin in it. ,
"I'll get it for you," I said and hurrij
back- . ^e
I'd got the feeling, you see, by this v^

~w""w
u, poirot and I were the doctor and ^rse in charge of a case. At least, it was
n nre like an opc^i011 an(^ he was the sur- ^on. Perhaps I oughtn't to say so, but in a
aueer way I was beginning to enjoy myself.
I remember just after I'd finished my
training? I went to a case in a private house
and the need for an immediate operation
arose, and the patient's husband was cranky
about nursing homes. He just wouldn't hear
of his wife being taken to one. Said it had
to be done in the house.
Well, of course it was just splendid for
me! Nobody else to have a look in! I was in
charge of everything. Of course, I was terribly nervous--I thought of everything conceivable
that doctor could want, but even
then I was afraid I might have forgotten
something. You never know with doctors.
They ask for absolutely anything sometimes! But everything went splendidly! I had each ^ng ready as he asked for it, and he actually tola me I'd done first rate after it was over ,^nd that's a thing most doctors wouldn't ^ner to do! The G.P. was very nice too.
Th ran.the whole thing mysew'
ne patient recovered, too, so everybody
was nappy
^7 li
^--13 I felt rather the same now. In a way
-» A 1

M. Poirot reminded me of that surgeon. Jf was a little man, too. Ugly little man with
face like a monkey, but a wonderful surgeon
He knew instinctively just where to go. pyp
seen a lot of surgeons and I know what a lor of difference there is.
Gradually I'd been growing a kind of con? fidence in M. Poirot. I felt that he, too, knew
exactly what he was doing. And I was getting
to feel that it was my job to help him--as
you might say--to have the forceps and the
swabs and all handy just when he wanted
them. That's why it seemed just as natural
for me to run off and look for his handkerchief
as it would have been to pick up a towel
that a doctor had thrown on the floor.
When I'd found it and got back I couldn't
see him at first. But at last I caught sight of
him. He was sitting a little way from the
mound talking to Mr. Carey. Mr. Carey's
boy was standing near with that great big
rod thing with metres marked on it, but just
at that moment he said something to the boy
and the boy took it away. It seemed he n^ finished with it for the time being. [
I'd like to get this next bit quite clear. Y01. see, I wasn't quite sure what M. Poirot d1 or didn't want me to do. He might, I ^^_
-»/i --»

sent me back for that handkerchief on
\ ^riose. To get me out of the way.
Tr was just like an operation over again.
?yg got to be careful to hand the doctor
ct what he wants and not what he doesn't want. I mean, suppose you gave him the
artery forceps at the wrong moment, and
were late with them at the right moment!
Thank goodness I know my work in the theatre
well enough. I'm not likely to make mistakes
there. But in this business I was really
the rawest of raw little probationers. And so
I had to be particularly careful not to make
any silly mistakes.
Of course, I didn't for one moment imagine
that M. Poirot didn't want me to hear
what he and Mr. Carey were saying. But he
might have thought he'd get Mr. Carey to
talk better if I wasn't there.
Now I don't want anybody to get it in^ their heads that I'm the kind of woman ^o goes about eavesdropping on private ^nversations. I wouldn't do such a thing.
' of for a moment. Not however much I ranted to.
B nd ^at I mean is if it had been a private
Id^ ^^tion I wouldn't for a moment have
i e ^at, as a matter of fact, I actually did

As I looked at it I was in a privilea^ position. After all 5 you hear many a thin
when a patient's coming round after an an
esthetic. The patient wouldn't want you tn
hear it--and usually has no idea you have heard it--but the fact remains you do hear
it. I just took it that Mr. Carey was the patient.
He'd be none the worse for what he
didn't know about. And if you think that I
was just curious, well, I'll admit that I was curious. I didn't want to miss anything I
could help.
All this is just leading up to the fact that
I turned aside and went by a roundabout
way up behind the big dump until I was a
foot from where they were, but concealed
from them by the corner of the dump. And
if any one says it was dishonourable I just
beg to disagree. Nothing ought to be hidden
from the nurse in charge of the case, though,
of course, it's the doctor to say what shall
be done. ,
I don't know, of course, what M. Poiro1 s line of approach had been, but by the nine I'd got there he was aiming straight for ^
bull's eye, so to speak. ^ ,
"Nobody appreciates Dr. Leidner's d votion to his wife more than I do," he w saying. "But it is often the case that_

rns more about a person from their ene-
than from their friends."
"You suggest that their faults are more
moortant than their virtues?" said Mr. farcy. His tone was dry and ironic.
"Undoubtedly--when it comes to murder.
It seems odd that as far as I know nobody
has yet been murdered for having too
perfect a character! And yet perfection is
undoubtedly an irritating thing."
"I'm afraid I'm hardly the right person to
help you," said Mr. Carey. "To be perfectly
honest, Mrs. Leidner and I didn't hit it off
particularly well. I don't mean that we were
in any sense of the word enemies, but we
were not exactly friends. Mrs. Leidner was,
perhaps, a shade jealous of my old friendship
with her husband. I, for my part, although
1 admired her very much and thought she
was an extremely attractive woman, was just a shade resentful of her influence over Leid^r. As a result we were quite polite to each ^r, but not intimate."
'Admirably explained," said Poirot. ^ could just see their heads, and I saw Mr.
^y s turn sharply as though something in
^oirot's detached tone struck him dispeeably

M r> ^^oirot went on:

"Was not Dr. Leidner distressed that yon
and his wife did not get on together better^'
Carey hesitated a minute before saying-
"Really--I'm not sure. He never said any>
thing. I always hoped he didn't notice it. He
was very wrapped up in his work, you
know."
"So the truth, according to you, is that
you did not really like Mrs. Leidner?"
Carey shrugged his shoulders.
"I should probably have liked her very
much if she hadn't been Leidner's wife."
He laughed as though amused by his own
statement.
Poirot was arranging a little heap of broken
potsherds. He said in a dreamy, faraway
voice:
"I talked to Miss Johnson this morning.
She admitted that she was prejudiced against
Mrs. Leidner and did not like her very
much, although she hastened to add that
Mrs. Leidner had always been charming to
her."
"All quite true, I should say," said Carey. "So I believed. Then I had a conversation
with Mrs. Mercado. She told me at gr^ length how devoted she had been to M^.
Leidner and how much she had adin^ her."

F'
" py made no answer to this, and after
'fine a minute or two Poirot went on:
w "That_I did not believe! Then I come to ,ou and that which you tell me--well,
^gain--^ d0 not believe- ' " Carey stiffened. I could hear the anger--
repressed anger--in his voice.
"I really cannot help your beliefs--or your
disbeliefs, M. Poirot. You've heard the truth
and you can take it or leave it as far as I am
concerned."
I Poirot did not grow angry. Instead he
sounded particularly meek and depressed.
"Is it my fault what I do--or do not believe?
I have a sensitive ear, you know. And
then--there are always plenty of stories
going about--rumours floating in the air.
One listens--and perhaps--one learns
something! Yes, there are stories. ..."
Carey sprang to his feet. I could see clearly a little pulse that beat in his temple. He looked simply splendid! So lean and so
brown--and that wonderful jaw, hard and
square- I don't wonder women fell for that
^an.
what stories?55' he asked savagely.
°irot looked sideways at him.
^haps you can guess. The usual sort ^b^™ ^out you and Mrs. Leidner.55

"What foul minds people have!" |
^N'est ce pas? They are like dogs. Ho^
ever deep you bury an unpleasantness a do&
will always root it up again."
"And you believe these stories?"
"I am willing to be convinced—of the
truth," said Poirot gravely.
"I doubt if you'd know the truth if you
heard it," Carey laughed rudely.
"Try me and see," said Poirot, watching
him.
"I will then! You shall have the truth! I
hated Louise Leidner—there's the truth for
you! I hated her like hell!"

Chapter 22
David Em'mott, Father Lavigny and a Discovery
turning abrt-jptly ajay, Carey strode off
with long angr-y strides,
Poirot sat loooking after him and presently
he murmured:
"Yes--I see . ..."
Without turrning his head he said in a
slightly louder voice:
"Do not come roundthe corner for a minute,
nurse. In case he turns his head. Now ^ is all right. You h^e my handkerchief? ^any thanks. You are most amiable."
He didn't s-ay anytliing at all about my ^ving been listening^-and how he knew I ^G^ listening I can't thok. He'd never once
°oked in that direction I was rather relieved e didn't say anything. I mean, Ifelt all right
^myself about it, but it might have been __ie awkwar d explaining to him. So it was

^,
a good thing he didn't seem to want exnl I
nations.
"Do you think he did hate her, ^ Poirot?" I asked.
Nodding his head slowly with a curious expression on his face, Poirot answered
"Yes--I think he did." '
Then he got up briskly and began to walk
to where the men were working on the top
of the mound. I followed him. We couldn't
see any one but Arabs at first but we finally
found Mr. Emmott lying face downwards
blowing dust off a skeleton that had just been
uncovered.
He gave his pleasant grave smile when he
saw us. j
"Have you come to see round?" he asked.
"I'll be free in a minute."
He sat up, took his knife and began daintily
cutting the earth away from round the
bones, stopping every now and then to use
either a bellows or his own breath. A very
insanitary proceeding the latter, I thought.
"You'll get all sorts of nasty germs in yo^ mouth, Mr. Emmott," I protested. „
"Nasty germs are my daily diet, nurse? he said gravely. "Germs can't do anyt^ to an archaeologist--they just get natu
discouraged trying."

T-Ie scraped a little more away round the
,.u bone. Then he spoke to the foreman
his side directing him exactly what he
wanted done.
"There," he said, rising to his feet.
"That's ready for Reiter to photograph after
lunch. Rather nice stuff she had in with
ler."
He showed us a little verdignsy copper
bowl and some pins. And a lot of gold and
blue things that had been her necklace of
beads.
The bones and all the objects were
brushed and cleaned with a knife and kept
in position ready to be photographed.
"Who is she?" asked Poirot.
"First millennium. A lady of some consequence
perhaps. Skull looks rather odd--
I must get Mercado to look at it. It suggests
death by foul play."
A Mrs. Leidner of two thousand odd
years ago?" said Poirot.
"Perhaps," said Mr. Emmott. ^ill Coleman was doing something with a plc^ to a wall face.
wh avlc^ ^mmott called something to him
I c^ I didn't catch and then started show- ^M-Poirot round.
"»ei

When the short explanatory tour was owe
Emmott looked at his watch.
"We knock off in ten minutes," he said
"Shall we walk back to the house?"
"That will suit me excellently,55 ^[a Poirot.
We walked slowly along the well-worn
path.
"I expect you are all glad to get back to
work again," said Poirot.
Emmott replied gravely:
"Yes, it's much the best thing. It's not
been any too easy loafing about the house
and making conversation."
"Knowing all the time that one of you was
a murderer."
Emmott did not answer. He made no gesture of dissent. I knew now that he had had
a suspicion of the truth from the very first
when he had questioned the house-boys.
After a few minutes he asked quietly:
"^
"Are you getting anywhere, M. Poirot.''
Poirot said gravely:
"Will you help me to get somewhere?"
. "Why, naturally."
Watching him closely, Poirot said:
"The hub of the case is Mrs. Leidner.
want to know about Mrs. Leidner.
David Emmott said slowly:

Fher?
"I
"What do you mean by knowing about
"I do not mean where she came from and
hat her maiden name was. I do not mean rhe shape of her face and the colour of her
eyes. I niean her--herself."
"You think that counts in the case?"
"I am quite sure of it." Emmott was silent for a moment or two,
then he said:
"Maybe you're right."
| "And that is where you can help me. You Lan tell me what sort of a woman she was."
"Can I? I've often wondered about it myself."

"Didn't you make up your mind on the
subject?"
t(! think I did in the end."
"Eh bien?"
But Mr. Emmott was silent for some minxes,
then he said:
"What did nurse think of her? Women are ^d to sum up other women quickly
^Qugh, and a nurse has a wide experience
01 types."
°irot didn't give me any chance of speak- geven ^1 had wanted to. He said quickly:
^ -^at I want to know is what a man Sf her?"
'><2

1
Emmott smiled a little. •
"I expect they'd all be much the same "
He paused and said, "She wasn't young hi
I think she was about the most beauufni
woman I've ever come across."
"That's hardly an answer, Mr. Emmott "
"It's not so far off one, M. Poirot." |
He was silent a minute or two and then
he went on:
"There used to be a fairy story I read when
I was a kid. A Northern fairy story about
the Snow Queen and Little Kay. I guess
Mrs. Leidner was rather like that—always
taking Little Kay for a ride."
"Ah, yes, a tale of Hans Andersen, is it
not? And there was a girl in it. Little Gerda,
was that her name?"
"Maybe. I don't remember much of it."
"Can't you go a little further, Mr. Emmott?"
David
Emmott shook his head.
"I don't even know if I've summed her
up correctly. She wasn't easy to read. She d
do a devilish thing one day, and a really ^lDe
one the next. But I think you're about ngh
when you say that she's the hub of the cas^
That's what she always wanted to be-—^
centre of things. And she liked to get at otn
people—I mean, she wasn't just satisi_
^<A

--
I with
h , .,«-<-<=>
^h being passed the toast and the peanut fitter, she wanted you to turn your mind
nd soul inside out for her to look at it."
"And if one did not give her that satisfaction?" asked Poirot.
"Then she could turn ugly!"
I saw his lips close resolutely and his jaws
set.
"I suppose, Mr. Emmott, you would not
care to express a plain unofficial opinion as
to who murdered her?"
"I don't know," said Emmott. "I really
haven't the slightest idea. I rather think that, if I'd been Carl--Carl Reiter, I mean--I
would have had a shot at murdering her. She
was a pretty fair devil to him. But, of course,
he asks for it by being so darned sensitive.
Just invites you to give him a kick in the
pants."
"And did Mrs. Leidner give him--a kick in the pants?" inquired Poirot.
Emmott gave a sudden grin.
| "No. Pretty little jabs with an embroidery needle--that was her method. He was irriiating,
of course. Just like some blubbering,
Poor-spirited kid. But a needle's a painful
.weapon.??
stole a glance at Poirot and thought I ^^--d a slight quiver of his lips.
-ȣ-r

"But you don't really believe that Carl
Reiter killed her?" he asked.
"No. I don't believe you'd kill a woman
because she persistently made you look a fool
at every meal."
Poirot shook his head thoughtfully.
Of course, Mr. Emmott made Mrs. Leidner sound quite inhuman. There was
something to be said on the other side too.
There had been something terribly irritating
about Mr. Reiter's attitude. He
jumped when she spoke to him, and did idiotic
things like passing her the marmalade
again and again when he knew she never ate
it. I'd have felt inclined to snap at him a bit
myself.
Men don't understand how their mannerisms
can get on women's nerves so that you
feel you just have to snap.
I thought I'd just mention that to Mr.
Poirot some time.
We had arrived back by now and Mr. Emmott
offered Poirot a wash and took him into
his room.
I hurried across the courtyard to mine. I came out again about the same time they
did and we were all making for the ^^ room when Father Lavigny appeared in tn doorway of his room and invited Poirot i_f"
'-»c' r

ur Enimott came on round and he and
went into the dining-room together. Miss
t hnson and Mrs. Mercado were there al-
adv an(^ a^ter a ^ew mmutes ^r- Mercado 5
ur Reiter and Bill Coleman joined us.
V^e were just sitting down and Mercado
had told the Arab boy to tell Father Lavigny
lunch was ready when we were all startled
by a faint, muffled cry.
I i suppose our nerves weren't very good
yet, for we all jumped, and Miss Johnson
got quite pale and said:
"What was that? What's happened?"
Mrs. Mercado stared at her and said:
"My dear, what is the matter with you?
It's some noise outside in the fields."
But at that minute Poirot and Father Lavigny
came in.
"We thought some one was hurt," Miss
Johnson said.
'A thousand pardons, mademoiselle,"
^ied Poirot. "The fault is mine. Father La^gny,
he explains to me some tablets, and
fake one to the window to see better—and,
aJ01' not looking where I was going, I steb
etoe3 an(! the pain is sharp for the moment
• IL^out."
^ we thought it was ano
———^rcado, laughing.
another murder " said
•^c'~i

1
"Marie!" said her husband.
His tone was reproachful and she flushed
and bit her lip.
Miss Johnson hastily turned the conversation
to the dig and what objects of interest
had turned up that morning. Conversation
all through lunch was sternly archaeological
I think we all felt it was the safest thing.
After we had had coffee we adjourned to
the living-room. Then the men, with the exception
of Father Lavigny 3 went off to the
dig again.
Father Lavigny took Poirot through into
the antika-room and I went with them. I was
getting to know the things pretty well by now
and I felt a thrill of pride--almost as though
it were my own property--when Father La- vigny took down the gold cup and I heard
Poirot's exclamation of admiration and pleasure.

"How beautiful! What a work of art!"
Father Lavigny agreed eagerly and began
to point out its beauties with real enthusiasm and knowledge.
"No wax on it to-day," I said.
"Wax?" Poirot stared at me.
"Wax?" So did Father Lavigny.
I explained my remark.

«Ah,./^ comprends," said Father Lavigny. "Yes, yes, candle grease."
That led direct to the subject of the midnight
visitor. Forgetting my presence they both dropped into French and I left them
together and went back into the living-room.
Mrs. Mercado was darning her husband's
socks and Miss Johnson was reading a book.
Rather an unusual thing for her. She usually
seemed to have something to work at.
After a while Father Lavigny and Poirot
came out, and the former excused himself
on the score of work. Poirot sat down with
us.
"A most interesting man," he said, and
asked how much work there had been for
Father Lavigny to do so far.
Miss Johnson explained that tablets had
been scarce and that there had been very few
inscribed bricks or cylinder seals. Father La- ^gny, however, had done his share of work
°n the dig and was picking up colloquial
Arabic very fast.
that led the talk to cylinder seals, and
Presently Miss Johnson fetched from a cup°ard
a sheet of impressions made by rolling ^m out on plasticine.
th rea^2ecl as we bent over them, admiring ^^{-pted designs, that these must be what
?^q

she had been working at on that fatal after
noon.
As we talked I noticed that Poirot was rolling and kneading a little ball of plasticine
between his fingers.
"You use a lot of plasticine, mademoiselle?55 he asked. B
"A fair amount. We seem to have got
through a lot already this year--though I
can5! imagine how. But half our supply
seems to have gone.55
"Where is it kept, mademoiselle?55
"Here--in this cupboard.55
As she replaced the sheet of impressions
she showed him the shelf with rolls of plasticine, Durofix, photographic paste and
other stationery supplies.
Poirot stooped down.
"And this--what is this, mademoiselle?"
He had slipped his hand right to the back
and had brought out a curious crumpled object.

As he straightened it out we could see that
it was a kind of mask, with eyes and mouth
crudely painted on in Indian ink and the
whole thing roughly smeared with plasticine
"How perfectly extraordinary,55 crle Miss Johnson. "Eve never seen it befor^ How did it get there? And what is it?55 ^^c\ ^^1

((as to how it got there, well, one hiding1
ce is as good as another, and I presume P this cupboard would not have been irned out till the end of the season. As to ,vhat it is--that, too, I think, is not difficult
ggv We have here the face that Mrs. Leidner
described. The ghostly face seen in the semidusk
outside her window--without body attached."

Mrs. Mercado gave a little shriek.
Miss Johnson was white to the lips. She
murmured:
"Then it was not fancy. It was a trick--a
wicked trick! But who played it?"
"Yes," cried Mrs. Mercado. "Who could
have done such a wicked, wicked thing?"
Poirot did not attempt a reply. His face
was very grim as he went into the next room, returned with an empty cardboard box in his
hand and put the crumpled mask into it.
'The police must see this," he explained.
"It's horrible," said Miss Johnson in a low ^ice. "Horrible!"
D0 you think everything's hidden here ^mewhere?55 cried Mrs. Mercado shrilly.
ll ^ you t^111^ P^haps the weapon--the ub she was killed with--all covered with ^od still, perhaps ... Oh! I'm frighten------|p
frightened ..."

Miss Johnson gripped her by the should? I
"Be quiet," she said fiercely. "Here's D Leidner. We mustn't upset him."
Indeed, at that very moment the car had
driven into the courtyard. Dr. Leidner gor out of it and came straight across and in ar the living-room door. His face was set in
lines of fatigue and he looked twice the age
he had three days ago.
He said in a quiet voice: m
"The funeral will be at eleven o'clock tomorrow.
Major Deane will read the service."
Mrs. Mercado faltered something, then
slipped out of the room.
Dr. Leidner said to Miss Johnson:
"You'll come, Anne?"
And she answered:
"Of course, my dear, we'll all come. Naturally."

She didn't say anything else, but her face
must have expressed what her tongue was
powerless to do, for his face lightened up
with affection and a momentary ease.
"Dear Anne," he said. "You are such a
, wonderful comfort and help to me. My d^ old friend." ,
He laid his hand on her arm and I saw ^ red colour creep up in her face as she m ^ tered, gruff as ever:

"That's all right."
But I jt^ caught a glimpse of her expres-
nn and knew that, for one short moment,
Anne Johnson was a perfectly happy
woman.
And another idea flashed across my
mind. Perhaps soon, in the natural course
of things, turning to his old friend for sympathy, a new and happy state of things might
come about. ^ „
Not that I'm really a matchmaker, and of ^ course it was indecent to think of such a
thing before the funeral even. But after all, it would be a happy solution. He was very
fond of her, and there was no doubt she was
absolutely devoted to him and would be per- -
fectly happy devoting the rest of her life to
him. That is, if she could bear to hear
Louise's perfections sung all the time. But
women can put up with a lot when they've
got what they want.
Dr. Leidner then greeted Poirot, asking w1 if he had made any progress.
Miss Johnson was standing behind Dr. ^idner and she looked hard at the box in
oirot's hand and shook her head, and I re-
t12^ ^lat sne was P^^g ^th Poirot not ^l him about the mask. She felt, I was
l^ that he had enough to bear for one day.

Poirot fell in with her wish. |
"These things march slowly, monsieur " he said.
Then, after a few desultory words, he took
his leave.
I accompanied him out to his car.
There were half a dozen things I wanted^ to ask him, but somehow, when he turned
and looked at me, I didn't ask anything after
all. I'd as soon have asked a surgeon if he
thought he'd made a good job of an operation.
I just stood meekly waiting for instructions.

Rather to my surprise he said:
"Take care of yourself, my child."
And then he added:
"I wonder if it is well for you to remain
here?"
"I must speak to Dr. Leidner about leav^ ing," I said. "But I thought I'd wait until
after the funeral."
He nodded in approval.
"In the meantime," he said, "do not try
and find out too much. You understand, 1
do not want you to be clever!" And he added
with a smile, "It is for you to hold the swa^s
and for me to do the operation." ^
Wasn't it funny, his actually saying tb^
Then he said quite irrelevantly:

An interesting man, that Father La55

"A monk being an archaeologist seems odd
to me," I said.
rilAh, yes 5 you are a Protestant. Me, I am "od Catholic. I know something of priests
and monks."
He frowned, seemed to hesitate, then said:
"Remember, he is quite clever enough to
turn you inside out if he likes."
If he was warning me against gossiping I
felt that I didn't need any such warning! ^ It annoyed me and though I didn't like to
ask him any of the things I really wanted to
know, I didn't see why I shouldn't at any
rate say one thing.
"You'll excuse me, M. Poirot," I said.
"But it's 'stubbed your toe,' not stepped or stebbed."
Ah? Thank you, ma soeur" Don't mention it. But it's just as well to g^a phrase right."
k
(c
I will remember," he said--quite meekly ^r him.
And he got in the car and was driven away, n l ^nt slowly back across the courtyard
^ering about a lot of things- About the hypodermic marks on Mr. Mer_8
arm, and what drug it was he took.
-^^ c

And about that horrid yellow smeared mask! And how odd it was that Poirot and Mis<;
Johnson hadn't heard my cry in the living- room that morning, whereas we had all heard
Poirot perfectly well in the dining-room at
lunch time--and yet Father Lavigny's room and Mrs. Leidner's were just the same dis^ tance from the living-room and the dining? room respectively.
And then I felt rather pleased that I'd
taught Doctor Poirot one English phrase correctly!

Even if he was a great detective he'd realize
he didn't know everything!

"r
Chapter 23
/ Co Psychic

the funeral was, I thought, a very affecting
affair. As well as ourselves, all the English
people in Hassanieh attended it. Even
Sheila Reilly was there looking quiet and
subdued in a dark coat and skirt. I hoped
that she was feeling a little remorseful for all
the unkind things she had said.
When we got back to the house I followed
Dr. Leidner into the office and broached Ae subject of my departure. He was very
nice about it, thanked me for what I had one (Done! I had been worse than useless)
anu "misted on my accepting an extra week's [salary. J p °
^protested because really I felt I'd done
r^ to earn it.
Indeed, Dr. Leidner, I'd rather not have
Lrav^^ at alL If you?d just refund me my celling expenses that's all I want.'

U- he wouldn't hear of that.

"You see,55 I said, "I don't feel I deserv
it. Dr. Leidner. I mean, I've--well \\ failed. She--my coming didn't save her "
"Now don't get that idea into your head
nurse," he said earnestly. "After all, I didn'? engage you as a female detective. I never
dreamt my wife's life was in danger. I \vas
convinced it was all nerves and that she'd
worked herself up into a rather curious mental
state. You did all any one could do. She
liked and trusted you. And I think in her
last days she felt happier and safer because
of your being here. There's nothing for you
to reproach yourself with."
His voice quivered a little and I knew what
he was thinking. He was the one to blame
for not having taken Mrs. Leidner's fears
seriously.
"Dr. Leidner," I said curiously. "Have
you ever come to any conclusion about those
anonymous letters?"
He said with a sigh:
"I don't know what to believe. Has^M. Poirot come to any definite conclusion?
. "He hadn't yesterday," I said, steering rather neatly, I thought, between truth an
fiction. After all, he hadn't until I told n^ about Miss Johnson. ^
It was on my mind that I'd like to g1

Leidner a hint and see if he reacted. In
he pleasure of seeing him and Miss Johnson
nsether the day before, and his affection and
-eliance on her, I'd forgotten all about the
etters. Even now I felt it was perhaps rather
nean of me to bring it up. Even if she had written them, she had had a bad time after
Mrs. Leidner's death. Yet I did want to see
whether that particular possibility had ever
entered Dr. Leidner's head.
"Anonymous letters are usually the work
lof a woman," I said. I wanted to see how
he'd take it.
"I suppose they are," he said with a sigh.
"But you seem to forget, nurse, that these
may be genuine. They may actually be written
by Frederick Bosner."
"No, I haven't forgotten," I said. "But I
can't believe somehow that that's the real explanation."
'I do," he said. "It's all nonsense his ^ing one of the expedition staff. That is just ^ingenious theory ofM. Poirot's. I believe
at the truth is much simpler. The man is
r) fr^.*. i
madman, of course. He's been hanging ^unu t^ place--perhaps in disguise of
E^ ^nd. And somehow or other he got in ^nat fatal afternoon. The servants may be
they may have been bribed."

"I suppose it's possible," I said doubt fully.
Dr. Leidner went on with a trace of irritability.

"It is all very well for M. Poirot to suspect
the members of my expedition. I am perfectly
certain none of them have anything to
do with it! I have worked with them. I knozo them!"
He stopped suddenly, then he said: m
"Is that your experience, nurse? That
anonymous letters are usually written by
women?" \
"It isn't always the case," I said. "But
there's a certain type of feminine spitefulness
that finds relief that way."
"I suppose you are thinking of Mrs. Mercado?"
he said.
Then he shook his head.
"Even if she were malicious enough to
wish to hurt Louise she would hardly have
the necessary knowledge," he said.
I remembered the earlier letters in the
attache-case. ,
If Mrs. Leidner had left that unlocked and
Mrs. Mercado had been alone in the hou^ one day pottering about, she might easily
have found them and read them. Men n^ aa seem to think of the simplest possibility'

And apart from her there is only Miss
Tohnson," I said, watching him.
"That would be quite ridiculous!" The little smile with which he said it was
uite conclusive. The idea of Miss Johnson
being the author of the letters had never
entered his head! I hesitated just for a
minute--but I didn't say anything. One
doesn't like giving away a fellow woman, and
besides, I had been a witness of Miss Johnson's
genuine and moving remorse. What
was done was done. Why expose Dr. Leidner
to a fresh disillusion on top of all his
other troubles?
It was arranged that I should leave on the
following day, and I had arranged through
Dr. Reilly to stay for a day or two with the
matron of the hospital whilst I made arrangements
for returning to England either
via Baghdad or direct via Nissibin by car and
train.
Dr. Leidner was kind enough to say that e would like me to choose a memento from ^ongst his wife's things.
°n, no, really, Dr. Leidner," I said. "I ^ouldn't. It's much too kind of you." iie insisted. But I should like you to have something.
^»Ti

^shedl
And Louise, I am sure, would have
it."
Then he went on to suggest that I should
have her tortoiseshell toilet set!
"Oh, no. Dr. Leidner! Why, that's a most
expensive set. I couldn't, really."
"She had no sisters, you know—no one^
who wants these things. There is no one else
to have them."
I could quite imagine that he wouldn't^
want them to fall into Mrs. Mercado's greedy
little hands. And I didn't think he'd want to
offer them to Miss Johnson.
He went on kindly:
"You just think it over. By the way, here
is the key of Louise's jewel case. Perhaps
you will find something there you would
rather have. And I should be very grateful
if you would pack up—all—all her clothes?
I dare say Reilly can find a use for them
amongst some of the poor Christian famili^
in Hassanieh."
I was very glad to be able to do that fo1'
him, and I expressed my willingness.
I set about it at once. ,
Mrs. Leidner had only had a very simp1
wardrobe with her and it was soon so!t^ i
and packed up into a couple of suitcases. 1
her papers had been in the small attach

I "fhe jewel case contained a few simple c nkets--a pearl ring, a diamond brooch, a
mall string of pearls and one or two plain
old bar brooches of the safety-pin type, and
a string of large amber beads.
Naturally I wasn't going to take the pearls
or the diamonds, but I hesitated a bit between
the amber beads and the toilet set. In
the end, however, I didn't see why I
shouldn't take the latter. It was a kindly
thought on Dr. Leidner's part, and I was
sure there wasn't any patronage about it. I'd
take it in the spirit it had been offered without
any false pride. After all, I had been fond
of her.
Well, that was all done and finished with.
The suitcases packed, the jewel case locked
up again and put separate to give to Dr. Leidner with the photograph of Mrs. Leidt^r's
father and one or two other personal little odds and ends. i
The room looked bare and forlorn emptied 01 all its accoutrements, when I'd finished.
^re was nothing more for me to do--and yet ^"lehow or other I shrank from leaving
so roorn' ^ seemed as though there were
ou"^1111^ still to d0 there-- something I jk, ^^ee--or something I ought to have

v
I'm not superstitious but the idea did pon
into my head that perhaps Mrs. Leidner\
spirit was hanging about the room and trying to get in touch with me.
I remember once at the hospital some of
us girls got a planchette and really it wrote
some very remarkable things. I
Perhaps, although I'd never thought of
such a thing, I might be mediumistic.
As I say, one gets all worked up to imagine
all sorts of foolishness sometimes.
I prowled round the room uneasily, touching
this and that. But, of course, there wasn't
anything in the room but bare furniture.
There was nothing slipped behind drawers
or tucked away. I couldn't hope for anything
of that kind.
In the end (it sounds rather batty, but as
I say, one gets worked up) I did rather a
queer thing.
I went and lay down on the bed and closedB
my eyes.
I deliberately tried to forget who and what
I was. I tried to think myself back to that
fatal afternoon. I was Mrs. Leidner ly111^ here resting, peaceful and unsuspicious. I
It's extraordinary how you can work voi^ self up. ^
I'm a perfectly normal matter-oi-^

. ^{vidual--not the least little bit spooky,
L ii I tell you tnat ^ter I'd I3111 there about
five minutes I began to feel spooky.
I didn't try to resist. I deliberately encouraged
the feeling.
I said to myself:
"I'm Mrs. Leidner. I'm Mrs. Leidner. pm lying here--half asleep. Presently--
very soon now--the door's going to open."
I kept on saying that--as though I were
hypnotizing myself.
It's just about half-past one . . . it's just
about the time . . . The door is going to open . . . the door is going to open ... I shall see
who comes in. ..."
I kept my eyes glued on that door. Presently
it was going to open. I should see it
open. And I should see the person who opened
it.
I must have been a little over-wrought that ^ternoon to imagine I could solve the mys- ^fy that way.
But I did believe it. A sort of chill passed j^own my back and settled in my legs. They
r^tnumb--paralyzed.
in '\1^ S^ng into a trance," I said. "And
l^t trance you'll see ..."
fc. ^ce again I repeated monotonously
^----nd again:

"The door is going to open—the door I
going to open ..." _
The cold numbed feeling grew more '
tense.
And then, slowly, I saw the door just h
ginning to open.
It was horrible. I
I've never known anything so horrih
before or since.
I was paralyzed—chilled through ari
through. I couldn't move. For the life ofn
I couldn't have moved.
And I was terrified. Sick and blind ad
dumb with terror.
That slowly opening door.
So noiseless.
In a minute I should see ...
Slowly—slowly—wider and wider.
Bill Coleman came quietly in.
He must have had the shock of his life
I bounded off the bed with a screamf
terror and hurled myself across the room
He stood stock still, his blunt pink f^
pinker and his mouth opened wide with si
prise.
"Hallo-allo-allo," he said. "What's
nurse?"
I came back to reality with a crash.

'Goodness, Mr. Coleman," I said. "How
you startled me!"
"Sorry?55 he said with a momentary grin.
t saw then that he was holding a little
hunch of scarlet ranunculus in his hand.
They were pretty little flowers and they grew
wild on the sides of the Tell. Mrs. Leidner
had been very fond of them.
He blushed and got rather red as he said:
"One can't get any flowers or things in
Hassanieh. Seemed rather rotten not to have 1 any flowers for the grave. I thought I'd just
nip in here and put a little posy in that little
pot thing she always had flowers in on her
table. Sort of show she wasn't forgotten--
eh? A bit asinine, I know, but--well--I
mean to say--"
I thought it was very nice of him. He was ^1 pink with embarrassment like Englishmen
are when they've done anything senti"^ntal.
I thought it was a very sweet Bought.
Why, I think that's a very nice idea, Mr. Pieman," I said.
| ^nd I picked up the little pot and went
. §°t some water in it and we put the
lowers in.
--^ly thought much more of Mr. Cole-

1
man for this idea of his. It showed he had
heart and nice feelings about things.
He didn't ask me again what made me ler
out such a squeal and I'm thankful he didn't
I should have felt a fool explaining.
"Stick to common sense in future
woman," I said to myself as I settled im
cuffs and smoothed my apron. "You're not
cut out for this psychic stuff."
I bustled about doing my own packing and
kept myself busy for the rest of the day.
Father Lavigny was kind enough to express
great distress at my leaving. He said
my cheerfulness and common sense had been
such a help to everybody. Common sense!
I'm glad he didn't know about my idiotic
behaviour in Mrs. Leidner's room.
"We have not seen M. Poirot to-day," he
remarked.
I told him that Poirot had said he was
going to be busy all day sending off telegrams.

Father Lavigny raised his eyebrows.
"Telegrams? To America?"
"I suppose so. He said 'All over the
world!' but I think that was rather a foreig_
exaggeration."
And then I got rather red, remember11,10 that Father Lavigny was a foreigner him^

- He didn't seem offended though, just
ahed quite pleasantly and asked me if
, p ^yere any news of the man with the
squint- I said I didn't know but I hadn't heard of
any. Father Lavigny asked me again about the
time Mrs. Leidner and I had noticed the man
and how he had seemed to be standing on
tiptoe and peering through the window.
"It seems clear the man had some overwhelming
interest in Mrs. Leidner," he said
thoughtfully. "I have wondered since
whether the man could possibly have been
a European got up to look like an Iraqi?"
That was a new idea to me and I considered
it carefully. I had taken it for granted
that the man was a native, but of course,
when I came to think of it, I was really going
by the cut of his clothes and the yellowness of his skin.
bather Lavigny declared his intention of S^ng round outside the house to the place
w ere ^rs. Leidner and I had seen the man
Ending
"Yr»
so never know, he might have dropped
,a_, etnlIlg. In the detective stories the crim- ,----^ays does."

"I expect in real life criminals are nior
careful," I said.
I fetched some socks I had just finished
darning and put them on the table in the
living-room for the men to sort out when
they came in, and then, as there was nothing much more to do, I went up on the roof.
Miss Johnson was standing there but she
didn't hear me. I got right up to her before
she noticed me.
But long before that I'd seen that there
was something very wrong.
She was standing in the middle of the roof
staring straight in front of her, and there was
the most awful look on her face. As though
she'd seen something she couldn't possibly
believe.
It gave me quite a shock.
Mind you, I'd seen her upset the other
evening, but this was quite different.
"My dear," I said, hurrying to her, "what-
ever's the matter?"
She turned her head at that and stood
looking at me--almost as if she didn't see
me.
"What is it?" I persisted, g She made a queer sort of grimace-^ though she were trying to swallow but ^ throat were too dry. She said hoarsely1

"I've just seen something."
"What have you seen? Tell me. Whatever
can it be? You look a11 m-"
She gave an effort to pull herself together,
but she still looked pretty dreadful.
She said, still in that same dreadful choked
voice.
"I've seen how some one could come in from
outside—and no one would ever guess."
I followed the direction of her eyes but I
couldn't see anything.
Mr. Reiter was standing in the door of
the photographic room and Father Lavigny
was just crossing the courtyard—but there
was nothing else.
I turned back puzzled and found her eyes
fixed on mine with the strangest expression
in them.
"Really," I said, "I don't see what you
mean. Won't you explain?"
But she shook her head.
'Not now. Later. We ought to have seen.
^n, we ought to have seen!"
If you'd only tell me—"
"^ she shook her head.
1 v^ got to think it out first."
.'nd Pushing past me, she went stumbling
1^.the stairs.
^_dn't follow her as she obviously didn't

want me with her. Instead I sat down on th
parapet and tried to puzzle things out. .Bur I didn't get anywhere. There was only the
one way into the courtyard--through the bi? arch. Just outside it I could see the waterboy
and his horse and the Indian cook talking
to him. Nobody could have passed them
and come in without their seeing him.
I shook my head in perplexity and went
downstairs again.
''('."'"
iL.!«a

Chapter 24
Murder is a Habit
we all went to bed early that night. Miss
Johnson had appeared at dinner and had behaved
more or less as usual. She had, however,
a sort of dazed look, and once or twice
quite failed to take in what other people said
to her.
It wasn't somehow a very comfortable sort
of meal. You'd say, I suppose, that that was
natural enough in a house where there'd
been a funeral that day. But I know what I
mean.
Lately our meals had been hushed and
subdued, but for all that there had been a reeling of comradeship. There had been Empathy with Dr. Leidner in his grief and a tellow feeling of being all in the same boat
_"K)ngst the others.
^t to-night I was reminded of my first
Bia^' ^ere--when Mrs. Mercado had cne(^ me and there had been that curious

feeling as though something might snap any
minute.
I'd felt the same thing--only very much
intensified--when we'd sat round the dining-room
table with Poirot at the head of n
To-night it was particularly strong. Every one was on edge--jumpy--on tenterhooks
If any one had dropped something I'm sure
somebody would have screamed.
As I say, we all separated early afterwards.
I went to bed almost at once. The last thing
I heard as I was dropping off to sleep was
Mrs. Mercado's voice saying good-night to
Miss Johnson just outside my door.
I dropped off to sleep at once--tired by
my exertions and even more by my silly experience
in Mrs. Leidner's room. I slept
heavily and dreamlessly for several hours.
I awoke when I did awake with a start and
a feeling of impending catastrophe. Some
sound had woken me, and as I sat up in bed
listening I heard it again.
An awful sort of agonized choking groan.
I had lit my candle and was out of bed u1 a twinkling. I snatched up a torch, too, ^ case the candle should blow out. I came ou of my door and stood listening. I knew t
sound wasn't far away. It came again^11--
"»0 A

he room immediately next to mine--Miss
Tohnson's room.
I hurried in. Miss Johnson was lying in bed her whole body contorted in agony. As r set down the candle and bent over her, her
lips moved and she tried to speak--but only
an awful hoarse whisper came. I saw that the
corners of her mouth and the skin of her
chin were burnt a kind of greyish white.
Her eyes went from me to a glass that lay
on the floor evidently where it had dropped
from her hand. The light rug was stained a
bright red where it had fallen. I picked it up
and ran a finger over the inside, drawing
back my hand with a sharp exclamation.
Then I examined the inside of the poor wornan's
mouth.
There wasn't the least doubt what was the matter. Somehow or other, intentionally or
otherwise, she'd swallowed a quantity of corrosive
acid--oxalic or hydrochloric, I susPected.

I ran out and called to Dr. Leidner and e woke the others, and we worked over her or all we were worth, but all the time I had ^n awful feeling it was no good. We tried a A,01^ solution of carbonate of soda--and ll_ved it with olive oil. To ease the pain I

gave her a hypodermic of morphine sul I
phate. , 3
David Emmott had gone off to Hassanieh
to fetch Dr. Reilly, but before he came iri was over.
I won't dwell on the details. Poisoning by
a strong solution of hydrochloric acid (which
is what it proved to be) is one of the most
painful deaths possible.
It was when I was bending over her to give
her the morphia that she made one ghastly effort to speak. It was only a horrible strangled
whisper when it came.
"The window . . " she said. "Nurse . . .
the window . . ."
But that was all--she couldn't go on. She
collapsed completely.
I shall never forget that night. The arrival
of Dr. Reilly. The arrival of Captain Maitland.
And finally with the dawn, Hercule
Poirot.
He it was who took me gently by the arm
and steered me into the dining-room where
he made me sit down and have a cup of go0"
strong tea.
"There, mon enfant;' he said, "that is bet.
ter. You are worn out." J Upon that, I burst into tears, rire "It's too awful," I sobbed. "It's been 1_
^Q£.

^ghtmare. Such awful suffering. And her yes . Oh, M. Poirot--her eyes ..."
ye patted me on the shoulder. A woman
couldn't have been kinder.
"Yes, yes--do not think of it. You did all
you could."
"It was one of the corrosive acids." "It was a strong solution of hydrochloric
acid." "The stuff they use on the pots?"
"Yes. Miss Johnson probably drank it off
before she was fully awake. That is--unless
she took it on purpose."
"Oh, M. Poirot, what an awful idea!"
"It is a possibility, after all. What do you
think?"
I considered for a moment and then shook
my head decisively.
"I don't believe it. No, I don't believe it for a moment." I hesitated and then said, "I
think she found out something yesterday afternoon."

"What is that you say? She found out ^mething?",
1 ^peated to him the curious conversation _W had together.
I -olrot S3^ a low soft whistle.
^ Pauvrefemme!" he said. "She said she anted to think it over--eh? That is what
")0'7

signed her death warrant. If she had only
spoken out--then--at once."
He said:
"Tell me again her exact words?"
I repeated them.
"She saw how some one could have come
in from outside without any of you knowing?! Come, ma soeur, let us go up to the roof and
you shall show me just where she was stand-B ing."
We went up to the roof together and I
showed Poirot the exact spot where Miss
Johnson had stood.
"Like this?" said Poirot. "Now what do
I see? I see half the courtyard--and the
archway--and the doors of the drawingoffice
and the photographic room and the
laboratory. Was there any one in the courtyard?"

"Father Lavigny was just going towards
the archway and Mr. Reiter was standing in
the door of the photographic room."
"And still I do not see in the least how
any one could come in from outside and none
of you know about it. ... But she saw .
He gave it up at last, shaking his head^
"Sacre nom d'un chien--va! What did ^i
see?"
The sun was just rising. The whole east_

kv was a riot of rose and orange and pale,
yearly grey.
"What a beautiful sunrise," said Poirot
gently.
The river wound away to our left and the
Tell stood up outlined in gold colour. To
the south were the blossoming trees and the
peaceful cultivation. The water-wheel groaned
in the distance—a faint unearthly sound. In
the north were the slender minarets and the
clustering fairy whiteness of Hassanieh.
It was all incredibly beautiful.
And then, close at my elbow, I heard
Poirot give a long deep sigh.
"Fool that I have been," he murmured.
"When the truth is so clear—so clear."
^»on

i*
Chapter 25
Suicide or Murder?
I hadn't time to ask Poirot what he meant,
for Captain Maitland was calling up to us
and asking us to come down.
We hurried down the stairs.
"Look here, Poirot," he said. "Here's another
complication. The monk fellow is
missing."
"Father Lavigny?"
"Yes. Nobody noticed it till just now.
Then it dawned on somebody that he was
the only one of the party not around, and
we went to his room. His bed's not been
slept in and there's no sign of him."
The whole thing was like a bad dream- First Miss Johnson's death and then the disappearance
of Father Lavigny. ,
The servants were called and questioned
but they couldn't throw any light on the my^ terv. He had last been seen at about eig
o'clock the night before. Then he had _
^f\f\

he was going out for a stroll before going to
bed. Nobody had seen him come back from
that stroll.
I The big doors had been closed and barred
at nine o'clock as usual. Nobody, however, remembered unbarring them in the morning.
The two house-boys each thought the
other one must have done the unfastening.
Had Father Lavigny ever returned the
night before? Had he, in the course of his
earlier walk, discovered anything of a suspicious
nature, gone out to investigate it
later, and perhaps fallen a third victim?
Captain Maitland swung round as Dr.
Reilly came up with Mr. Mercado behind
him.
"Hallo, Reilly. Got anything?"
"Yes. The stuff came from the laboratory
here. I've just been checking up the quantities
with Mercado. It's H. C. L. from the
lab."
B"The laboratory--eh? Was it locked up?"
w. Mercado shook his head. His hands ^e shaking and his face was twitching. He ^oked a wreck of a man.
w never been the custom," he stamniered
"v i
.u' You see--just now--we re using it
^ne time. I--nobody ever dreamt--"
L ">m

"Is the place locked up at night?"
"Yes--all the rooms are locked. The keys
are hung up just inside the living-room."
"So if any one had a key to that they could
get the lot."
"Yes."
"And it's a perfectly ordinary key, I sup.
pose?"
"Oh, yes."
"Nothing to show whether she took it herself
from the laboratory?" asked Captain
Maitland.
"She didn't," I said loudly and positively.
I felt a warning touch on my arm. Poirot
was standing close behind me.
And then something rather ghastly happened.

Not ghastly in itself--in fact it was just
the incongruousness that made it seem worse
than anything else.
A car drove into the courtyard and a little
man jumped out. He was wearing a sun helmet
and a short thick trench coat.
He came straight to Dr. Leidner, who was
standing by Dr. Reilly, and shook him
warmly by the hand.
"Vous voild, mon cher," he cried. '<L)^ lighted to see you. I passed this way on S3 |
urday afternoon--en route to the Italian5 ^

c-uginia. I went to the dig but there wasn't
single European about and alas! I cannot
speak Arabic. I had not time to come to
rhe house. This morning I leave Fugima at
r.yg._two hours here with you--and then I
catch the convoy on. Eh bien, and how is the
season going?"
It was ghastly.
The cheery voice, the matter-of-fact manner, all the pleasant sanity of an everyday
.world now left far behind. He just bustled
in, knowing nothing and noticing nothing--
full of cheerful bonhomie.
No wonder Dr. Leidner gave an inarticulate
gasp and looked in mute appeal at Dr.
Reilly.
The doctor rose to the occasion.
He took the little man (he was a French
archaeologist called Verrier who dug in the Greek islands, I heard later) aside and explained
to him what had occurred.
Verrier was horrified. He himself had een baying at an Italian dig right away from ^ilization for the last few days and had
E'^d nothing.
ri^ was profuse in condolences and apol- les? finally striding over to Dr. Leidner
clasping him warmly by both hands.

"What a tragedy! My God, what a tra?,l
edy! I have no words. Mon pauvre collegue >)
And shaking his head in one last ineffec, tual effort to express his feelings, the little
man climbed into his car and left us.
As I say, that momentary introduction of
comic relief into tragedy seemed really morel gruesome than anything else that had happened.

"The next thing," said Dr. Reilly firmly,
"is breakfast. Yes, I insist. Come, Leidner,
you must eat."
Poor Dr. Leidner was almost a complete
wreck. He came with us to the dining-room
and there a funereal meal was served. I think
the hot coffee and fried eggs did us all good,
though no one actually felt they wanted to
eat. Dr. Leidner drank some coffee and sat
twiddling his bread. His face was greyP drawn with pain and bewilderment.
After breakfast. Captain Maitland got
down to things.
I explained how I had woken up, heard a
queer sound and had gone into Miss Johnson's
room. „
"You say there was a glass on the floor.
"Yes. She must have dropped it a^ drinking."
"Was it broken?"

"No, it had fallen on the rug. (I'm afraid rhe acid's ruined the rug, by the way.) I
nicked the glass up and put it back on the
table."
"I'm glad you've told us that. There are
only tw0 sets °^ fingerprints on it, and
one set is certainly Miss Johnson's own. The
other must be yours."
He was silent for a moment, then he said:
"Please go on."
I described carefully what I'd done and
the methods I had tried, looking rather anxiously
at Dr. Reilly for approval. He gave it
with a nod.
"You tried everything that could possibly
have done any good," he said. And though
I was pretty sure I had done so, it was a relief
to have my belief confirmed.
"Did you know exactly what she had
taken?" Captain Maitland asked.
"No--but I could see, of course, that it
was a corrosive acid."
Captain Maitland asked gravely:
«T -- is
it your opinion, nurse, that Miss John-
^n deliberately administered this stuff to
herself?"
Oh, no," I exclaimed. "I never thought
|01 such a thing!"
^on't know why I was so sure. Partly, I
'^f\C'

think, because of M. Poirot's hints. H,o
"murder is a habit" had impressed itself on
my mind. And then one doesn't readily believe
that any one's going to commit suicide
in such a terribly painful way.
I said as much and Captain Maitland nodded
thoughtfully. I
"I agree that it isn't what one would
choose," he said. "But if any one were in
great distress of mind and this stuff were
easily available it might be taken for that
S1
reason."
"Was she in great distress of mind?" I
asked doubtfully.
"Mrs. Mercado says so. She says that Miss
Johnson was quite unlike herself at dinner
last night--that she hardly replied to anything
that was said to her. Mrs. Mercado is
quite sure that Miss Johnson was in terrible
distress over something and that the idea of
making away with herself had already occurred
to her."
"Well, I don't believe it for a moment;
I said bluntly.
Mrs. Mercado indeed! Nasty slinking li1'
tie cat!
"Then what do you think?"
"I think she was murdered," I sal( bluntly.

He rapped out his next question sharply.
T felt rather that I was in the orderly room.
"Any reasons?"
"It seems to me by far and away the most
possible solution."
"That's just your private opinion. There
was no reason why the lady should be murdered?"

"Excuse me," I said, "there was. She
found out something."
"Found out something? What did she find
out?"
I repeated our conversation on the roof
word for word.
"She refused to tell you what her discovery
was?"
"Yes. She said she must have time to think
it over."
"But she was very excited by it?"
"Yes."
"A way of getting in from outside." Captain
Maitland puzzled over it, his brows knit.
Had you no idea at all of what she was ynying at?55
N01 in the least. I puzzled and puzzled
^r^it but I couldn't even get a glimmer-
r1?*
^Ptain Maitland said:
yhat do you think, M. Poirot?"

1^
Poirot said:
"I think you have there a possible motive."

"For murder?"
"For murder."
Captain Maitland frowned.
"She wasn't able to speak before she^ died?"
"Yes, she just managed to get out two
words."
"What were they?"
"The window ..."
"The window?" repeated Captain Maitland.
"Did you understand to what she was
referring?"
I shook my head.
"How many windows were there in her
bedroom?"
"Just the one."
"Giving on the courtyard?"
"Yes."
"Was it open or shut? Open, I seem to^ remember. But perhaps one of you opene<
it?"
i. "No, it was open all the time.
wondered--"
I stopped.
"Go on, nurse."
"I examined the window, of course, b--

t couldn't see anything unusual about it. I
pondered whether, perhaps, somebody
changed the glasses that way."
"Changed the glasses?"
"Yes. You see. Miss Johnson always takes
a glass of water to bed with her. I think that
glass must have been tampered with and a
glass of acid put there in its place."
"What do you say, Reilly?"
"If it's murder, that was probably the way
it was done," said Dr. Reilly promptly. "No
ordinary moderately observant human being
would drink a glass of acid in mistake for
one of water—if they were in full possession
of their waking faculties. But if any one's
accustomed to drinking off a glass of water
in the middle of the night, that person might
easily stretch out an arm, find the glass in
the accustomed place, and still half asleep,
toss off enough of the stuff to be fatal before
realizing what had happened."
Captain Maitland reflected a minute.
I'll have to go back and look at that win^w.
How far is it from the head of the bed?"
| [ thought.
wltn a very long stretch you could just
^ch the little table that stands by the head
—^ bed."
L

"The table on which the glass of water
was?55
"Yes.55
"Was the door locked?55
"No.55
"So whoever it was could have come in
that way and made the substitution?55 I
"Oh, yes.'5
"There would be more risk that way," said Dr. Reilly. "A person who is sleeping
quite soundly will often wake up at the sound
of a footfall. If the table could be reached
from the window it would be the safer way."
"I'm not only thinking of the glass,55 said
Captain Maitland absentmindedly.
Rousing himself, he addressed me once
again.
"It^ your opinion that when the poor lady
felt she was dying she was anxious to let you
know that somebody had substituted acid for
water through the open window? Surely the
person's name would have been more to the
point?55
"She mayn^ have known the name,"
pointed out.
"Or it would have been more to the poi^ if she'd managed to hint what it was that sn^ had discovered the day before?55
Dr. Reilly said:

"V^hen you're dying, Maitland 5 you
haven't always got a sense of proportion.
One particular fact very likely obsesses your
mind. That a murderous hand had come
through the window may have been the principal
fact obsessing her at the minute. It may
have seemed to her important that she
should let people know that. In my opinion
she wasn't far wrong either. It was important!
She probably jumped to the fact that
you'd think it was suicide. If she could have
I used her tongue freely, she'd probably have
said 'It wasn't suicide. I didn't take it myself.
Somebody else must have put it near my bed through the window."9
Captain Maitland drummed with his fingers
for a minute or two without replying.
Then he said:
"There are certainly two ways of looking a^ it. It's either suicide or murder. Which ^ you think. Dr. Leidner?"
AJr- Leidner was silent for a minute or ^o? then he said quietly and decisively:
Murder. Anne Johnson wasn't the sort 01 woman to kill herself."
^o^ allowed Captain Maitland. "Not in ^e normal run of things. But there might
^circumstances in which it would be quite --ural thing to do."

"Such as?" '
Captain Maitland stooped to a bundle
which I had previously noticed him place by
the side of his chair. He swung it on to the
table with something of an effort.
"There's something here that none of you
know about 5" he said. "We found it under ^ her bed."
He fumbled with the knot of the covering
then threw it back revealing a heavy great
quern or grinder.
That was nothing in itself--there were a
dozen or so already found in the course of
the excavations.
What riveted our attention on this particular
specimen was a dull 5 dark stain and a
fragment of something that looked like hair.
"That'll be your job, Reilly," said CaptainB Maitland. "But I shouldn't say that there's" much doubt about this being the instrument
with which Mrs. Leidner was killed!"

Chapter 26
Next it Will be Me!
it was rather horrible. Dr. Leidner looked
as though he were going to faint and I felt a
Ibit sick myself.
Dr. Reilly examined it with professional
gusto.
"No fingerprints 5 I presume?" he threw
out.
"No fingerprints."
gDr. Reilly took out a pair of forceps and
investigated delicately.
'H'm—a fragment of human tissue—and
halr—fair blonde hair. That's the unofficial
^rdict. Of course, I'll have to make a proper
tes^ blood group, etc., but there's not much
^t. Found under Miss Johnson's bed?
we11' well—so thafs the big idea. She did
murder, and then. God rest her, remorse
^e to her and she finished herself off. It's
——^j-a pretty theory."

Dr. Leidner could only shake his head
helplessly.
"Not Anne--not Anne," he murmured
"I don't know where she hid this to begin
with," said Captain Maitland. "Every room
was searched after the first crime."
Something jumped into my mind and I
thought, "In the stationery cupboard," but
I didn't say anything.
"Wherever it was, she became dissatisfied
with its hiding-place and took it into her own
room, which had been searched with all the
rest. Or perhaps she did that after making
up her mind to commit suicide."
"I don't believe it," I said aloud.
And I couldn't somehow believe that kind
nice Miss Johnson had battered out Mrs.
Leidner's brains. I just couldn't see it happening! And yet it did fit in with some
things--her fit of weeping that night, for
instance. After all, I'd said "remorse"
myself--only I'd never thought it was remorse
for anything but the smaller more insignificant
crime. .,
"I don't know what to believe," s<u I
Captain Maitland. "There's the French F3. ther's disappearance to be cleared up too'\ My men are out hunting around in case n_

been knocked on the head and his body
rolled into a convenient irrigation ditch."
"Oh! I remember now--" I began.
Every one looked towards me inquiringly.
"It was yesterday afternoon," I said.
"He'd been cross-questioning me about the
man with a squint who was looking in at
the window that day. He asked me just
where he'd stood on the path and then he
said he was going out to have a look round.
He said in detective stories the criminal always dropped a convenient clue."
"Damned if any of my criminals ever do,"
said Captain Maitland. "So that's what he
was after, was it? By jove, I wonder if he did find anything. A bit of a coincidence if both
he and Miss Johnson discovered a clue to
the identity of the murderer at practically
the same time."
He added irritably, "Man with a squint?
Man with a squint? There's more in this tale
°t that fellow with a squint than meets the ^e. I don't know why the devil my fellows Wt lay hold of him?"
I ^obably because he hasn't got a squint," ^dPoirot quietly.
Do you mean he faked it? Didn't know m could fake an actual squint." ^rot merely said:

"A squint can be a very useful thing."
"The devil it can! I'd give a lot to know where that fellow is now, squint or no
squint!"
"At a guess," said Poirot, "he has already passed the Syrian frontier."
"We've warned Tell Kotchek and Abu
Kemal--all the frontier posts, in fact."
"I should imagine that he took the route
through the hills. The route lorries sometimes
take when running contraband."
Captain Maitland grunted.
"Then we'd better telegraph Deir ez
Zor?"
"I did so yesterday--warning them to
look out for a car with two men in it whose
passports will be in the most impeccable order."

Captain Maitland favoured him with a
stare.
"You did, did you? Two men--eh?"
Poirot nodded.
"There are two men in this."
"It strikes me, M. Poirot, that you've been
keeping quite a lot of things up your sleev^
Poirot shook his head. .
"No," he said. "Not really. The trutP
came to me only this morning when I _

catching the sun rise. A very beautiful sun?5
rise. \ don't think that any of us had noticed
that Mrs. Mercado was in the room. She
must have crept in when we were all taken
aback by the production of that horrible
great blood-stained stone.
But now, without the least warning, she
set up a noise like a pig having its throat cut.
"Oh, my God!" she cried. "I see it all. I
see it all now. It was Father Lavigny. He's
I mad--religious mania. He thinks women are
sinful. He's killing them all. First Mrs.
Leidner--then Miss Johnson. And next it
will be me. . . /'
With a scream of frenzy she flung herself
across the room and clutched at Dr. Reilly's
coat.
"I won't stay here, I tell you! I won't stay ^re a day longer. There's danger. There's ^nger all round. He's hiding somewhere--
waiting his time. He'll spring out on me!"
. Her mouth opened and she began scream^ again.
^ I hurried over to Dr. Reilly, who had ^ht her by the wrists. I gave her a sharp ^P on each cheek and with Dr. Reilly's
ly^ I sat her down in a chair.
-Nobody's going to kill you," I said.

"We'll see to that. Sit down and behave
yourself."
She didn't scream any more. Her mouth
closed and she sat looking at me with startled, stupid eyes.
Then there was another interruption. The
door opened and Sheila Reilly came in. I
Her face was pale and serious. She came
straight to Poirot.
"I was at the post office early, M. Poirot,"
,she said, "and there was a telegram there for
you--so I brought it along."
"Thank you, mademoiselle."
He took it from her and tore it open while
she watched his face.
It did not change, that face. He read the
telegram, smoothed it out, folded it up
neatly and put it in his pocket.
Mrs. Mercado was watching him. She said
in a choked voice:
"Is that--from America?"
He shook his head.
"No, madame," he said. "It is from
Tunis." ,
, She stared at him for a moment as thougHj she did not understand, then with a lo^ sigh, she leant back in her seat. \
"Father Lavigny," she said. "I was rig^t
I've always thought there was soine1^--

nueer about him. He said things to me once
I suppose he's mad. ..." She paused
and then said, "I'll be quiet. But I must leave
this place. Joseph and I can go in and sleep
at the Rest House."
"Patience, madame," said Poirot. "I will
explain everything."
Captain Maitland was looking at him curiously.

"Do you consider you've definitely got the
hang of this business?" he demanded.
I Poirot bowed.
It was a most theatrical bow. I think it
| rather annoyed Captain Maitland.
"Well," he barked. "Out with it, man."
But that wasn't the way Hercule Poirot
did things. I saw perfectly well that he meant
to make a song and dance of it. I wondered
if he really did know the truth, or if he was Just showing off.
He turned to Dr. Reilly.
"Will you be so good. Dr. Reilly, as to ^^ummon the others?"
. °^' Reilly jumped up and went off oblig^gly.
In a minute or two the other members
w expedition began to file into the room. ^irst Reiter and Emmott. Then Bill Cole"x^11'
^^n Richard Carey and finally Mr. ^rcado.

Poor man, he really looked like death. I
suppose he was mortally afraid that he'd get
hauled over the coals for carelessness in leaving
dangerous chemicals about.
Every one seated themselves round the table
very much as we had done on the day M. Poirot arrived. Both Bill Coleman and^ David Emmott hesitated before they sat
down, glancing towards Sheila Reilly. She
had her back to them and was standing looking
out of the window.
"Chair, Sheila?" said Bill.
David Emmott said in his low pleasant
drawl, "Won't you sit down?"
She turned then and stood for a minute
looking at them. Each was indicating a chair,
pushing it forward. I wondered whose chair
she would accept.
In the end she accepted neither.
"I'll sit here," she said brusquely. And
she sat down on the edge of a table quite
close to the window.
"That is," she added, "if Captain Mait-
land doesn't mind my staying?"
, I'm not qv te sure what Captain Maitland
would have said. Poirot forestalled him.
"Stay by all means, mademoiselle,' n{ said. "It is, indeed, necessary that y°
should."

She raised her eyebrows.
"Necessary?"
"That is the word I used, mademoiselle. There are some questions I shall have to ask
5?
you.
Again her eyebrows went up but she said
nothing further. She turned her face to the
window as though determined to ignore what
went on in the room behind her.
"And now," said Captain Maitland, _perhaps we shall get at the truth!"
He spoke rather impatiently. He was essentially
a man of action. At this very moment
I feel sure that he was fretting to be
out and doing things--directing the search
for Father Lavigny's body, or alternatively
sending out parties for his capture and arrest.

He looked at Poirot with something akin
to dislike.
If the beggar's got anything to say, why wesn't he say it?"
I could see the words on the tip of his
^ngue.
1 oirot gave a slow appraising glance at us au. then rose to his feet.
1 don't know what I expected him to say ^mething dramatic certainly. He was that
dof Person.

But I certainly didn't expect him to start
off with a phrase in Arabic.
Yet that is what happened. He said the
words slowly and solemnly—and really quite
religiously, if you know what I mean.
"Bismillahi ar rahman ar rahim"
And then he gave the translation in English.
"In
the name of Allah, the Merciful, the
Compassionate."

Chapter 27
Beginning of a journey
"bismillahi ar rahman ar rahim. That is
the Arab phrase used before starting out on
a journey. Eh bien, we too, start on a journey.
A journey into the past. A journey into the
strange places of the human soul."
I don't think that up till that moment I'd
ever felt any of the so-called "glamour of the
East." Frankly, what had struck me was the
mess everywhere. But suddenly, with M.
Poirot's words, a queer sort of vision seemed
to grow up before my eyes. I thought of
words like Samarkand and Ispahan—and of
"merchants with long beards—and kneeling
camels—and staggering porters carrying
^reat bales on their backs held by a rope
^und the forehead—and women with
^nna-stained hair and tattooed faces kneeln^
"y the Tigris and washing clothes, and
heard their queer, wailing chants and the
——off groaning of the water-wheel. . . .

T
They were mostly things I'd seen and
heard and thought nothing much of. Bur
now, somehow they seemed different— \[^
a piece of fusty old stuff you take into the
light and suddenly see the rich colours of an
old embroidery. . . .
Then I looked round the room we were
sitting in and I got a queer feeling that what
M. Poirot said was true—we were all starting
on a journey. We were here together now,
but we were all going our different ways.
And I looked at every one as though, in a
sort of way, I were seeing them for the first
time—and for the last time—which sounds
stupid, but it was what I felt all the same.
Mr. Mercado was twisting his fingers
nervously—his queer light eyes with their
dilated pupils were staring at Poirot. Mrs.
Mercado was looking at her husband. She
had a strange watchful look like a tigress
waiting to spring. Dr. Leidner seemed to
have shrunk in some curious fashion. This
last blow had just crumpled him up. You
might almost say he wasn't in the room at
all. He was somewhere far away in a pl^6
of his own. Mr. Coleman was looking |
straight at Poirot. His mouth was slight
open and his eyes protruded. He looked a
most idiotic. Mr. Emmott was looking do_

at his feet and I couldn't see his face properly- ^r- Reiter looked bewildered. His mouth was pushed out in a pout and that made him look more like a nice clean pig
than ever. Miss Reilly was looking steadily
out of the window. I don't know what she
was thinking or feeling. Then I looked at
Mr. Carey, and somehow his face hurt me
and I looked away. There we were, all of us.
And somehow I felt that when M. Poirot had
finished we'd all be somewhere quite different.
. . .
It was a queer feeling. . . .
iPoirot's voice went quietly on. It was like
river running evenly between its banks . . .
unning to the sea. . . .
"From the very beginning, I have felt that
to understand this case one must seek not
for external signs or clues, but for the truer
clues of the clash of personalities and the
secrets of the heart.
"And I may say that though I have now
arrived at what I believe to be the true so- ^Ution of the case, I ham no material proof of lt' I know it is so, because it must be so,
^cause in no other way can every single fact
^into its ordered and recognized place.
. And that, to my mind, is the most sat- ^tying solution there can be."
01 C

He paused and then went on:
"I will start my journey at the moment
when I myself was brought into the case- when I had it presented to me as an accomplished
happening. Now, every case, in my
opinion, has a definite shape and form. The
pattern of this case, to my mind, all revolved
round the personality of Mrs. Leidner. Until
I knew exactly what kind of a woman Mrs.
Leidner was I should not be able to know
why she was murdered and who murdered
her.
"That, then, was my starting point--the
personality of Mrs. Leidner.
"There was also one other psychological
point of interest--the curious state of tension
described as existing amongst the members
of the expedition. This was attested to
by several different witnesses--some of
them outsiders--and I made a note that although
hardly a starting point, it should
nevertheless be borne in mind during my
investigations.
"The accepted idea seemed to be that it
was directly the result of Mrs. Leidner's influence
on the members of the expedition but for reasons which I will outline to yo11^ later this did not seem to me entirely ac ceptable.

"To start with, as I say 5 I concentrated
solely and entirely on the personality of Mrs.
Leidner. I had various means of assessing
that personality. There were the reactions
she produced in a number of people, all varying
widely in character and temperament, and there was what I could glean by my own
observation. The scope of the latter was naturally
limited. But I did learn certain facts.
"Mrs. Leidner's tastes were simple and
even on the austere side. She was clearly not
a luxurious woman. On the other hand, some
embroidery she had been doing was of an
extreme fineness and beauty. That indicated
a woman of fastidious and artistic taste.
From the observation of the books in her
bedroom I formed a further estimate. She
had brains, and I also fancied that she was, essentially, an egoist.
"It had been suggested to me that Mrs.
Leidner was a woman whose main preoc^pation
was to attract the opposite sex-- ^hat she was, in fact, a sensual woman. This 1 did not believe to be the case.
'In her bedroom I noticed the following ^oks on a shelf: Who Were the Greeks? Induction
to Relativity, Life of Lady Hester
^nhope, Back to Methuselah, Linda Condon, Lr^ Train.
217

"She had, to begin with, an interest in
culture and in modern science--that is a
distinct intellectual side. Of the novels Linda
Condon, and in a lesser degree Crewe Train seemed to show that Mrs. Leidner had a
sympathy and interest in the independent
woman--unencumbered or entrapped by
man. She was also obviously interested by
the personality of Lady Hester Stanhope. Linda Condon is an exquisite study of the
worship of her own beauty by a woman. Crewe Train is a study of a passionate individualist.
Back to Methuselah is in sympathy
with the intellectual rather than the emotional
attitude to life. I felt that I was beginning
to understand the dead woman.
"I next studied the reactions of those who
had formed Mrs. Leidner's immediate
circle--and my picture of the dead woman
grew more and more complete.
"It was quite clear to me from the accounts
of Dr. Reilly and others that Mrs. Leidner
was one of those women who are endowed by Nature not only with beauty but with the
kind of calamitous magic which sometimes
accompanies beauty and can, indeed, exi
independently of it. Such women usu aL
leave a trail of violent happenings behi^J

then1' They bring disaster--sometimes on
others--sometimes on themselves.
"I was convinced that Mrs. Leidner was
a woman who essentially worshipped herself and who enjoyed more than anything else
the sense of power. Wherever she was, she must be the centre of the universe. And every
one round her, man or woman, had got to
acknowledge her sway. With some people
that was easy. Nurse Leatheran, for instance, a generous-natured woman with a ^ romantic imagination, was captured in
stantly and gave in ungrudging manner full
appreciation. But there was a second way in
which Mrs. Leidner exercised her sway--
the way of fear. Where conquest was too easy
she indulged a more cruel side to her
nature--but I wish to reiterate emphatically
that it was not what you might call conscious cruelty. It was as natural and unthinking as
is the conduct of a cat with a mouse. Where eonsciousness came in, she was essentially
1 . J J
^nd and would often go out of her way to
d0 kind and thoughtful actions for other people.

Now of course the first and most im- ^tant problem to solve was the problem of ne anonymous letters. Who had written
^10

them and why? I asked myself: Had Mrs
Leidner written them herself? r
"To answer this problem it was necessary to go back a long way--to go back, in fact
to the date of Mrs. Leidner's first marriage!
It is here we start on our journey proper.
The journey of Mrs. Leidner "s life.
"First of all we must realize that the
Louise Leidner of all those years ago is essentially
the same Louise Leidner of the
present time.
"She was young then, of remarkable
beauty--that same haunting beauty that affects
a man's spirit and senses as no mere
material beauty can--and she was already
essentially an egoist.
"Such women naturally revolt from the
idea of marriage. They may be attracted by
men, but they prefer to belong to themselves.
They are truly La Belle Dame sans
Merci of the legend. Nevertheless Mrs. Leid- I
ner did marry--and we can assume, I think,
that her husband must have been a man of
a certain force of character.
. "Then the revelation of his traitorous activities
occurs and Mrs. Leidner acts in the way she told Nurse Leatheran. She gave n_
formation to the Government.
"Now I submit that there was a psyche

logical significance in her action. She told ^urse Leatheran that she was a very patriotic
idealistic girl and that that feeling was
the cause of her action. But it is a well-known
fact that we all tend to deceive ourselves as
to the motives for our own actions. Instinctively
we select the best-sounding motive!
Mrs. Leidner may have believed herself that
it was patriotism that inspired her action, but I believe myself that it was really the
outcome of an unacknowledged desire to get
rid of her husband! She disliked domina-tion--she
disliked the feeling of belonging ^o some one else--in fact she disliked playing
second fiddle. She took a patriotic way
of regaining her freedom.
"But underneath her consciousness was a
gnawing sense of guilt which was to play its
part in her future destiny.
"We now come directly to the question of
the letters. Mrs. Leidner was highly attractive
to the male sex. On several occasions
she was attracted by them--but in each case a threatening letter played its part and the affair came to nothing.
I "Who wrote those letters? Frederick BosIner
°r his brother William or Mrs. Leidner herself?
'There is a perfectly good case for either
^i

^
theory. It seems clear to me that Mrs. Leidner
was one of those women who do inspire
devouring devotions in men, the type of devotion
which can become an obsession. I find it quite possible to believe in a Frederick
Bosner to whom Louise, his wife, mattered
more than anything in the world! She had
betrayed him once and he dared not approach
her openly, but he was determined
at least that she should be his or no one's.
He preferred her death to her belonging to
another man.
"On the other hand, if Mrs. Leidner had,
deep down, a dislike of entering into the
marriage bond, it is possible that she took
this way of extricating herself from difficult
positions. She was a huntress who, the prey
once attained, had no further use for it! Craving
drama in her life, she invented a highly
satisfactory drama--a resurrected husband
forbidding the banns! It satisfied her deepest
instincts. It made her a romantic figure, a
tragic heroine, and it enabled her not to
marry again.
"This state of affairs continued over a
number of years. Every time there was any
likelihood of marriage--a threatening letter
arrived.
"But now we come to a really interesWSl
i^^

point. Dr. Leidner came upon the scene--
and no forbidding letter arrived! Nothing
stood in the way of her becoming Mrs. Leidner.
Not until after her marriage did a letter
arrive.
"At once we ask ourselves--why? "Let us take each theory in turn.
"J/Mrs. Leidner wrote the letters herself
the problem is easily explained. Mrs. Leidner
really wanted to marry Dr. Leidner. And
so she did marry him. But in that case, why
did she write herself a letter afterwards? Was
her craving for drama too strong to be suppressed?
And why only those two letters?
After that no other letter was received until
a year and a half later.
"Now take the other theory, that the letters
were written by her first husband, Frederick
Bosner (or his brother). Why did the
threatening letter arrive after the marriage?
Presumably Frederick could not have wanted her to marry Leidner. Why, then, did he not ^op the marriage? He had done so successfully
on former occasions. And why, having waited till the marriage had taken place, did ^ then resume his threats?
The answer, an unsatisfactory one, is ^at he was somehow or other unable to pro^?^

test sooner. He may have been in prison or
he may have been abroad.
"There is next the attempted gas poisoning
to consider. It seems extremely unlikely that it was brought about by an outside
agency. The likely persons to have staged it
were Dr. and Mrs. Leidner themselves.
There seems no conceivable reason why Dr.
Leidner should do such a thing, so we are
brought to the conclusion that Mrs. Leidner
planned and carried it out herself.
"Why? More drama?
"After that Dr. and Mrs. Leidner go
abroad and for eighteen months they lead a
happy, peaceful life with no threats of death
to disturb it. They put that down to having
successfully covered their traces, but such
an explanation is quite absurd. In these days
going abroad is quite inadequate for that
purpose. And especially was that so in the
case of the Leidners. He was the director of
a museum expedition. By inquiry at the museum, Frederick Bosner could at once have
obtained his correct address. Even granting
that he was in too reduced circumstances to
pursue the couple himself, there would be
no bar to his continuing his threatening I61! ters. And it seems to me that a man with his
obsession would certainly have done so.

"Instead nothing is heard of him until
nearly two years later when the letters are
resumed.
"Why were the letters resumed?
"A very difficult question—most easily
answered by saying that Mrs. Leidner was
bored and wanted more drama. But I was
not quite satisfied with that. This particular
form of drama seemed to me a shade too
vulgar and too crude to accord well with her
fastidious personality.
9 "The only thing to do was to keep an open
mind on the question.
"There were three definite possibilities:
(1) the letters were written by Mrs. Leidner
herself; (2) they were written by Frederick
Bosner (or young William Bosner); (3) they
might have been written originally by either
Mrs. Leidner or her first husband 5 but they
were now forgeries—that is, they were being
written by a third person who was aware of
^e earlier letters.
"I now come to direct consideration of
Mrs. Leidner's entourage.
~B I examined first the actual opportunities
^at each member of the staff had had for
^°nimitting the murder.
, roughly, on the face of it, any one might
->">c

have committed it (as far as opportunity went), with the exception of three persons
"Dr. Leidner, by overwhelming testimony, had never left the roof. Mr. Carev
was on duty at the mound. Mr. Coleman was
in Hassanieh.
"But those alibis, my friends, were not quite as good as they looked. I except Dr.
Leidner's. There is absolutely no doubt that
he was on the roof all the time and did not
come down until quite an hour and a quarter
after the murder had happened.
"But was it quite certain that Mr. Carey
was on the mound all the time?
"And had Mr. Coleman actually been in
Hassanieh at the time the murder took
place?"
Bill Coleman reddened, opened his
mouth, shut it and looked round uneasily.
Mr. Carey's expression did not change.
Poirot went on smoothly. B
"I also considered one other person who,
I satisfied myself, would be perfectly capable
of committing murder if she felt strongly
enough. Miss Reilly has courage and brains
and a certain quality ofruthlessness. When
Miss Reilly was speaking to me on the subject
of the dead woman, I said to her, jokingly, that I hoped she had an alibi. I thin^B
")-»/- ^^1

Uiss Reilly was conscious then that she had
had in her heart the desire, at least, to kill. ^t any rate she immediately uttered a very
silly and purposeless lie. She said she had
been playing tennis on that afternoon. The
next day I learned from a casual conversation
_h:
A
with Miss Johnson that far from playing tennis, Miss Reilly had actually been near this
house at the time of the murder. It occurred to
me that Miss Reilly, if not guilty of the
m
^<->f
*crime, might be able to tell me something
useful.55
He stopped and then said quietly:
"Will you tell us. Miss Reilly, what you did see that afternoon?55
The girl did not answer at once. She still
looked out of the window without turning
her head, and when she spoke it was in a
detached and measured voice.
"I rode out to the dig after lunch. It must
have been about a quarter to two when I got
there."
"Did you find any of your friends on the
dig?"
"No, there seemed to be no one there but Jthe Arab foreman."
"You did not see Mr. Carey?"
"No."
"Curious," said Poirot. "No more did M.
3")'7

Verrier when he went there that same afternoon."
He looked invitingly at Carey, but the latter
neither moved nor spoke.
"Have you any explanation, Mr. Carey?"
"I went for a walk. There was nothing of
interest turning up."
"In which direction did you go for a
walk?"
"Down by the river."
"Not back towards the house?"
"No."
"I suppose," said Miss Reilly, "that you
were waiting for some one who didn't
come."
He looked at her but didn't answer.
Poirot did not press the point. He spoke
once more to the girl.
"Did you see anything else, mademoiselle?"

"Yes. I was not far from the expedition
house when I noticed the expedition lorry
drawn up in a wadi. I thought it was rather
queer. Then I saw Mr. Coleman. He was
walking along with his head down as though
he were searching for something."
"Look here," burst out Mr. Coleinai
'I--"

poirot stopped him with an authoritative
gesture.
"Wait. Did you speak to him 5 Miss
Reilly?" "No, I didn't."
"Why?"
The girl said slowly:
"Because, from time to time, he started
and looked round with an extraordinary furtive
look. It--gave me an unpleasant feeling.
I turned my horse's head and rode away. I
don't think he saw me. I was not very near
and he was absorbed in what he was doing."
"Look here," Mr. Coleman was not to be
hushed any longer. "I've got a perfectly good
explanation for what--I admit--looks a bit
fishy. As a matter of fact, the day before I
had slipped a jolly fine cylinder seal into my
coat pocket instead of putting it in the antika-room--forgot
all about it. And then I
discovered I'd been and lost it out of my
pocket--dropped it somewhere. I didn't want to get into a row about it so I decided
1 d have a jolly good search on the quiet. I ^s pretty sure I'd dropped it on the way to or from the dig. I rushed over my business in Hassanieh. Sent a walad to do some of the -Upping and got back early. I stuck the bus
_^ere it wouldn't show and had a jolly good

hunt for over an hour. And didn't find the
damned thing at that! Then I got into the
bus and drove on to the house. Naturally
every one thought I'd just got back."
"And you did not undeceive them?" asked
Poirot sweetly.
"Well, that was pretty natural under the
circumstances, don't you think?"
"I hardly agree," said Poirot.
"Oh, come now--don't go looking for
trouble--that's my motto 1 But you can't fasten
anything on me. I never went into the
courtyard, and you can't find any one who'll
say I did."
"That, of course, has been the difficulty,"
said Poirot. "The evidence of the servants
that no one entered the courtyard from outside. But it occurred to me, upon reflection, that
that was really not what they had said. They
had sworn that no stranger had entered the
premises. They had not been asked if a member
of the expedition had done so."
"Well, you ask them," said Coleman. "I'll |
eat my hat if they saw me or Carey either. |
"Ah! but that raises rather an interesting a
question. They would notice a strange ^ undoubtedly--but would they have even no' J ticed a member of the expedition? The meitt, I hers of the staff are passing in and out all

Jay. The servants would hardly notice their
going and coming. It is possible, I think,
that either Mr. Carey or Mr. Coleman might
have entered and the servants' minds would
have no remembrance of such an event."
"Bunkum!" said Mr. Coleman.
Poirot went on calmly:
"Of the two, I think Mr. Carey was the
least likely to be noticed going or coming.
Mr. Coleman had started to Hassanieh in the
car that morning and he would be expected
to return in it. His arrival on foot would
therefore be noticeable."
"Of course it would!" said Coleman.
Richard Carey raised his head. His deepblue
eyes looked straight at Poirot.
"Are you accusing me of murder, M.
Poirot?" he asked.
His manner was quite quiet but his voice
had a dangerous undertone.
Poirot bowed to him.
"As yet I am only taking you all on a
journey—my journey towards the truth. I
had now established one fact—that all the
Members of the expedition staff, and also
Nurse Leatheran, could in actual fact have
^onimitted the murder. That there was very
^tie likelihood of some of them having com-
^ted it was a secondary matter.

"I had examined means and opportunity. \ next passed to motive. I discovered that one
and all of you could be credited with a motive!"
"Oh! M. Poirot,55 I cried. "Not me! Why,
I was a stranger. I'd only just come."
"Eh bien, ma soeur, and was not that just
what Mrs. Leidner had been fearing? A stranger from outside?"
"But--but-- Why, Dr. Reilly knew all
about me! He suggested my coming!55
"How much did he really know about
you? Mostly what you yourself had told him. Impostors have passed themselves off as hospital
nurses before now.55
"You can write to St. Christopher ^y5 I
began.
"For the moment will you silence yourself.
Impossible to proceed while you conduct
this argument. I do not say I suspect
you now. All I say is that, keeping the open
mind, you might quite easily be me one
other than you pretended to be. There are
many successful female impersonators, yo11 know. Young William Bosner might be
something of that kind.55
I was about to give him a further piece 01
my mind. Female impersonator indeed! But
he raised his voice and hurried on with sucn

an air of determination that I thought better
of it. (<I am going now to be frank--brutally so.
It is necessary. I am going to lay bare the
underlying structure of this place.
"I examined and considered every single
soul here. To begin with Dr. Leidner, I soon
convinced myself that his love for his wife
was the mainspring of his existence. He was
a man torn and ravaged with grief. Nurse
Leatheran I have already mentioned. If she
were a female impersonator she was a most
amazingly successful one, and I inclined to
the belief that she was exactly what she said
she was-- a thoroughly competent hospital
nurse."
"Thank you for nothing," I interposed.
"My attention was immediately attracted
towards Mr. and Mrs. Mercado, who were
both of them clearly in a state of great agitation
and unrest. I considered first Mrs.
Mercado. Was she capable of murder and if
so for what reasons?
"Mrs. Mercado's physique was frail. At ^rst sight it did not seem possible that she ^uld have had the physical strength to strike down a woman like Mrs. Leidner with a heavy stone implement. If, however, Mrs. ^^idner had been on her knees at the time,

the thing would at least be physically possible, There are ways in which one woman can
induce another to go down on her knees. Oh!
not emotional ways! For instance, a woman
might be turning up the hem of a skirt and
ask another woman to put in the pins for
her. The second woman would kneel on the
ground quite unsuspectingly.
"But the motive? Nurse Leatheran had
told me of the angry glances she had seen
Mrs. Mercado direct at Mrs. Leidner. Mr.
Mercado had evidently succumbed easily to
Mrs. Leidner's spell. But I did not think the
solution was to be found in mere jealousy. I
was sure Mrs. Leidner was not in the least
interested really in Mr. Mercado--and
doubtless Mrs. Mercado was aware of the
fact. She might be furious with her for the
moment, but for murder there would have to
be greater provocation. But Mrs. Mercado
was essentially a fiercely maternal type.
From the way she looked at her husband I
realized, not only that she loved him, but
that she would fight for him tooth and nail
--and more than that--that she envisaged the
possibility of having to do so. She was constantly
on her guard and uneasy. The unease iness was for him--not for herself. And
when I studied Mr. Mercado I could rnak^^

a fairly easy guess at what the trouble was.
] took means to assure myself of the truth
of rny guess. Mr. Mercado was a drug
addict--in an advanced stage of the craving.
"Now I need probably not tell you all that
the taking of drugs over a long period has
the result of considerably blunting the moral
sense.
"Under the influence of drugs a man commits
actions that he would not have dreamed
of committing a few years earlier before he
began the practice. In some cases a man has
committed murder--and it has been difficult
to say whether he was wholly responsible
for his actions or not. The law of
different countries varies slightly on that
point. The chief characteristic of the drugfiend
criminal is overweening confidence in
his own cleverness.
"I thought it possible that there was some
discreditable incident., perhaps a criminal incident
5 in Mr. Mercado5 s past which his wife had somehow or other succeeded in hushing ^ Nevertheless his career hung on a Aread. If anything of this past incident were Fruited about, Mr. Mercado would be ru- ^d. His wife was always on the watch. But ^ere was Mrs. Leidner to be reckoned with. ^he had a sharp intelligence and a love of

power. She might even induce the wretched
man to confide in her. It would just have
suited her peculiar temperament to feel she
knew a secret which she could reveal at any minute with disastrous effects.
"Here 5 then, was a possible motive for
murder on the part of the Mercados. To protect
her mate, Mrs. Mercado, I felt sure,
would stick at nothing! Both she and her
husband had had the opportunity--during
that ten minutes when the courtyard was
empty."
Mrs. Mercado cried out, "It's not true!"
Poirot paid no attention.
"I next considered Miss Johnson. Was she capable of murder? )
"I thought she was. She was a person of
strong will and iron self-control. Such people
are constantly repressing themselves--and |
one day the dam bursts! But if Miss Johnson
had committed the crime it could only bel for some reason connected with Dr. Leidner. |
If in any way she felt convinced that Mrs. Leidner was spoiling her husband's life, then
the deep unacknowledged jealousy far down
in her would leap at the chance of a plausible
motive and give itself full rein.
"Yes, Miss Johnson was distinctly a p0^ sibility.

-- I "Then there were the three young men.
tt First Carl Reiter. If, by any chance, one
of the expedition staff was William Bosner,
then Reiter was by far the most likely person.
But if he was William Bosner, then he was
certainly a most accomplished actor! If he
were merely himself, had he any reason for
murder?
"Regarded from Mrs. Leidner's point of
view, Carl Reiter was far too easy a victim
for good sport. He was prepared to fall on _his face and worship immediately. Mrs.
Leidner despised undiscriminating adoration--and
the door-mat attitude nearly always
brings out the worst side of a woman.
In her treatment of Carl Reiter Mrs. Leidner
displayed really deliberate cruelty. She inserted
a gibe here--a prick there. She made
I the poor young man's life a hell to him."
Poirot broke off suddenly and addressed Ae young man in a personal, highly confidential
manner.
^Mon ami, let this be a lesson to you. You ^e a man. Behave, then, like a man! It is gainst Nature for a man to grovel. Women ^nd Nature have almost exactly the same factions! Remember it is better to take the ^gest plate within reach and fling it at a
227

woman's head than it is to wriggle like a
worm whenever she looks at you!"
He dropped his private manner and reverted
to his lecture style.
"Could Carl Reiter have been goaded to
such a pitch of torment that he turned on
his tormentor and killed her? Suffering does
queer things to a man. I could not be sure that it was not so!
"Next, William Coleman. His behaviour,
as reported by Miss Reilly, is certainly suspicious.
If he was the criminal it could only
be because his cheerful personality concealed
the hidden one of William Bosner. I do not
think William Coleman, as William Coleman,
has the temperament of a murderer.
His faults might lie in another direction. Ah!
perhaps Nurse Leatheran can guess what
they would be?"
How did the man do it? I'm sure I didn't
look as though I was thinking anything
at all.
"It's nothing really," I said, hesitating.
"Only if it's to be all truth, Mr. Coleman did say once himself that he would have made
a good forger."
"A good point," said Poirot. "Therefore
if he had come across some of the old threa_
T»0

ening letters, he could have copied them
without difficulty."
"Oy, oy, oy!" called out Mr. Coleman.
"This is what they call a frame-up."
Poirot swept on.
"As to his being or not being William Bosner
such a matter is difficult of verification.
But Mr. Coleman has spoken of a guardian
--not of a father--and there is nothing definitely
to veto the idea."
"Tommyrot," said Mr. Coleman. "Why
all of you listen to this chap beats me."
"Of the three young men there remains
Mr. Emmott," went on Poirot. "He again
might be a possible shield for the identity of
William Bosner. Whatever personal reasons
he might have for the removal of Mrs. Leidner
I soon realized that I should have no
means of learning them from him. He could keep his own counsel remarkably well, and
there was not the least chance of provoking
him nor of tricking him into betraying him- ^If on any point. Of all the expedition he
seemed to be the best and most dispassionate
)udge of Mrs. Leidner's personality. I think ^at he always knew her for exactly what she
Was--but what impression her personality
-pade on him I was unable to discover. I
'»"»<»

fancy that Mrs. Leidner herself must have
been provoked and angered by his attitude.
"I may say that of all the expedition, as
far as character and capability were concerned Mr. Emmott seemed to me the most fitted
to bring a clever and well-timed crime off
satisfactorily."
For the first time Mr. Emmott raised his
eyes from the toes of his boots.
"Thank you," he said.
There seemed to be just a trace of amusement
in his voice.
"The last two people on my list were Richard
Carey and Father Lavigny.
"According to the testimony of Nurse
Leatheran and others, Mr. Carey and Mrs.
Leidner disliked each other. They were both
civil with an effort. Another person. Miss
Reilly, propounded a totally different theory
to account for their attitude of frigid politeness.

"I soon had very little doubt that Miss
Reilly's explanation was the correct one. I
acquired my certitude by the simple expedient
of provoking Mr. Carey into reckless
and unguarded speech. It was not difficult.
As I soon saw, he was in a state of higb1 nervous tension. In fact he was--and is-" very near a complete nervous breakdown. A

man who is suffering up to the limit of his
capacity can seldom put up much of a fight.
"Mr. Carey's barriers came down almost
immediately. He told me, with a sincerity
that I did not for a moment doubt, that he
hated Mrs. Leidner.
"And he was undoubtedly speaking the
truth. He did hate Mrs. Leidner. But why did he hate her?
"I have spoken of women who have a calamitous
magic. But men have that magic
too. There are men who are able without the
least effort to attract women. What they call
in these days Ie sex appeal! Mr. Carey had
this quality very strongly. He was to begin
with devoted to his friend and employer, and
indifferent to his employer's wife. That did
not suit Mrs. Leidner. She must dominate--
and she set herself out to capture Richard
Carey. But here, I believe, something entirely
unforeseen took place. She herself, for
perhaps the first time in her life, fell a victim
to an overmastering passion. She fell in
love--really in love--with Richard Carey.
"And he--was unable to resist her. Here ^ the truth of the terrible state of nervous ^nsion that he has been enduring. He has ^een a man torn by two opposing passions. ^Ie loved Louise Leidner--yes, but he also
-5 A 1

hated her. He hated her for undermining his
loyalty to his friend. There is no hatred so
great as that of a man who has been made
to love a woman against his will.
"I had here all the motive that I needed.
I was convinced that at certain moments the
most natural thing for Richard Carey to do
would have been to strike with all the force
of his arm at the beautiful face that had cast
a spell over him.
"All along I had felt sure that the murder
of Louise Leidner was a crime passionnel. In
Mr. Carey I had found an ideal murderer for
that type of crime.
"There remains one other candidate for
the title of murderer--Father Lavigny. My
attention was attracted to the good Father
straightaway by a certain discrepancy between
his description of the strange man who
had been seen peering in at the window and
the one given by Nurse Leatheran. In all
accounts given by different witnesses there
is usually some discrepancy, but this was
absolutely glaring. Moreover, Father Lavigny
insisted on a certain characteristic--a squint--which ought to make identification
much easier.
"But very soon it became apparent that while Nurse Leatheran's description was sub
I
stantially accurate. Father Lavigny's wvas nothing of the kind. It looked almost as thouxgh
Father Lavigny was deliberately mislead! xng
us--as though he did not want the msian
caught.
"But in that case he must know somethising
about this curious person. He had been se^en
talking to the man but we had only his woord
for what they had been talking about.
"What had the Iraqi been doing whxen
Nurse Leatheran and Mrs. Leidner ssaw
him? Trying to peer through the window-"--
Mrs. Leidner's window, so they thougUht, but I realized when I went and stood whesre
they had been, that it might equally haave
been the antika-room window.
"The night after that an alarm was give^n.
Some one was in the antika-room. Nothing
proved to have been taken, however. T^he
interesting point to me is that when EOr.
Leidner got there he found Father Lavig^ny
there before him. Father Lavigny tells Idhis
story of seeing a light. But again we have orally
his word for it.
<<I begin to get curious about Father I^avigny.
The other day when I make the sung- ^estion that Father Lavigny may the
|Prederick Bosner Dr. Leidner pooh-poolfths
-he suggestion. He says Father Lavigny is% a
> A »

1
well-known man. I advance the supposition
that Frederick Bosner, who has had nearly
twenty years to make a career for himself,
under a new name, may very possibly be a
well-known man by this time! All the same, I do not think that he has spent the intervening
time in a religious community. A very
much simpler solution presents itself.
"Did any one at the expedition know Father
Lavigny by sight before he came? Apparently
not. Why then should not it be some
one impersonating the good Father? I found
out that a telegram had been sent to Carthage
on the sudden illness of Dr. Byrd, who was
to have accompanied the expedition. To intercept
a telegram, what could be easier? As
to the work, there was no other epigraphist
attached to the expedition. With a smattering
of knowledge a clever man might bluff
his way through. There had been very few
tablets and inscriptions so far, and already I
gathered that Father Lavigny's pronouncements
had been felt to be somewhat unusual.
"It looked very much as though Father
Lavigny were an impostor.
"But was he Frederick Bosner?
"Somehow affairs did not seem to be shap*^ ing themselves that way. The truth seemed likely to lie in quite a different direction.

"I had a lengthy conversation with Father
Lavigny. I am a practising Catholic and I
know many priests and members of religious
communities. Father Lavigny struck me as
not ringing quite true to his role. But he
struck me, on the other hand, as familiar in
quite a different capacity. I had met men of
his type quite frequently--but they were not
members of a religious community. Far from
it!
"I began to send off telegrams.
"And then, unwittingly. Nurse Leatheran
gave me a valuable clue. We were examining
the gold ornaments in the antika-room and
she mentioned a trace of wax having been
found adhering to a gold cup. Me, I say, 'Wax?' and Father Lavigny, he said 'Wax?' and his tone was enough! I knew in a flash
exactly what he was doing here."
Poirot paused and addressed himself directly
to Dr. Leidner.
"I regret to tell you, monsieur, that the
gold cup in the antika-room, the gold dagger, the hair ornaments and several other
things are not the genuine articles found by you. They are very clever electrotypes. Father
Lavigny, I have just learned by this last an- ^er to my telegrams, is none other than Raoul Menier, one of the cleverest thieves

known to the French police. He specializes
in thefts from museums of objects d'art and
such like. Associated with him is Ah Yusuf,
a semi-Turk, who is a first-class working
jeweller. Our first knowledge of Menier was
when certain objects in the Louvre were
found not to be genuine--in every case it
was discovered that a distinguished
archaeologist not known previously by sight to
the director had recently had the handling of
the spurious articles when paying a visit to
the Louvre. On inquiry all these distinguished
gentlemen denied having paid a visit
to the Louvre at the times stated!
"I have learned that Menier was in Tunis
preparing the way for a theft from the Holy
Fathers when your telegram arrived. Father
Lavigny, who was in ill-health, was forced
to refuse, but Menier managed to get hold
of the telegram and substitute one of acceptance.
He was quite safe in doing so. Even
if the monks should read in some paper (in
itself an unlikely thing) that Father Lavigny
was in Iraq they would only think that the
newspapers had got hold of a half truth as
so often happens.
"Menier and his accomplice arrived. The
latter is seen when he is reconnoitering the antika-room from outside. The plan is t0^

Father Lavigny to take wax impressions. Alt then makes clever duplicates. There are always
certain collectors who are willing to pay
a good price for genuine antiques and will
ask no embarrassing questions. Father Lavigny
will effect the substitution of the fake
for the genuine article--preferably at night.
"And that is doubtless what he was doing
when Mrs. Leidner heard him and gave the
alarm. What can he do? He hurriedly makes
up a story of having seen a light in the antikaroom.
"That
'went down 3? as you say, very well.
But Mrs. Leidner was no fool. She may have
remembered the trace of wax she had noticed
and then put two and two together. And if
she did, what will she do then? Would it not
be clans son caractere to do nothing at once, but to enjoy herself by letting hints slip to
the discomfiture of Father Lavigny. She will
let him see that she suspects--but not that
she knows. It is, perhaps, a dangerous game, but she enjoys a dangerous game.
"And perhaps she plays that game too
long. Father Lavigny sees the truth, and
strikes before she realizes what he means to
do.
"Father Lavigny is Raoul Menier--a ^ief. Is he also--a murderer?"

Poirot paced the room. He took out a
handkerchief, wiped his forehead and went
on:
"That was my position this morning.
There were eight distinct possibilities and I
did not know which of these possibilities was
the right one. I still did not know who was
the murderer.
"But murder is a habit. The man or
woman who kills once will kill again.
"And by the second murder, the murderer
was delivered into my hands.
"All along it was ever present in the back
of my mind that some one of these people
might have knowledge that they had kept
back--knowledge incriminating the murderer.

"If so, that person would be in danger.
"My solicitude was mainly on account of
Nurse Leatheran. She had an energetic personality
and a brisk inquisitive mind. I was
terrified of her finding out more than it was
safe for her to know.
"As you all know, a second murder did
take place. But the victim was not Nurse
Leatheran--it was Miss Johnson.
"I like to think that I should have reached
the correct solution anyway by pure reason
ing, but it is certain that Miss Johnson's
murder helped me to it much quicker.
"To begin with, one suspect was
eliminated--Miss Johnson herself--for I
did not for a moment entertain the theory
of suicide.
"Let us examine now the facts of this second
murder.
"Fact one: On Sunday evening Nurse
Leatheran finds Miss Johnson in tears, and
that same evening Miss Johnson burns a
fragment of a letter which nurse believes to
be in the same handwriting as that of the
anonymous letters.
"Fact two: The evening before her death
Miss Johnson is found by Nurse Leatheran
standing on the roof in a state that nurse
describes as one of incredulous horror.
When nurse questions her she says, 'I've
seen how some one could come in from
outside--and no one would ever guess." She
won't say any more. Father Lavigny is crossing
the courtyard and Mr. Reiter is at the
door of the photographic room.
"Fact three: Miss Johnson is found dying.
The only words she can manage to articulate are 'the window--the window--5
B "Those are the facts, and these are the [problems with which we are faced:

"What is the truth of the letters?
"What did Miss Johnson see from the
roof?
"What did she mean by 'the window--
the window'?
"Eh bien, let us take the second problem
first as the easiest of solution. I went up with
Nurse Leatheran and I stood where Miss
Johnson had stood. From there she could
see the courtyard and the archway and the
north side of the building and two members
of the staff. Had her words anything to do
with either Mr. Reiter or Father Lavigny?
"Almost at once a possible explanation
leaped to my brain. If a stranger came in
from outside he could only do so in disguise. And there was only one person whose general
appearance lent itself to such an impersonation.
Father Lavigny! With a sun helmet, sun glasses, black beard and a monk's long
woollen robe, a stranger could pass in without
the servants realizing that a stranger had
entered.
"Was that Miss Johnson's meaning? Or
had she gone further? Did she realize that
Father Lavigny's whole personality was a disguise.
That he was some one other than he
pretended to be?
"Knowing what I did know about Father

Lavigny I was inclined to call the mystery
solved. Raoul Menier was the murderer. He
had killed Mrs. Leidner to silence her before
she could give him away. Now another person
lets him see that she has penetrated his secret. She, too, must be removed.
"And so everything is explained! The second
murder. Father Lavigny's flight--minus
robe and beard. (He and his friend are
doubtless careering through Syria with excellent
passports as two commercial travellers.)
His action in placing the bloodstained
quern under Miss Johnson's bed.
"As I say, I was almost satisfied--but not
quite. For the perfect solution must explain everything--and this does not do so.
"It does not explain, for instance, why
Miss Johnson should say 'the window--the
window,' as she was dying. It does not explain
her fit of weeping over the letter. It
does not explain her mental attitude on the
roof--her incredulous horror and her refusal
to tell Nurse Leatheran what it was that she
now suspected or knew.
"It was a solution that fitted the outer facts, but it did not satisfy the psychological requirements.

"And then, as I stood on the roof, going
over in my mind those three points: the let-
"»c i

ters, the roof, the window, I saw--just as
Miss Johnson had seen!
"And this time what I saw explained everything!"


Chapter 28
Journey's End
poirot looked round. Every eye was now
fixed upon him. There had been a certain
relaxation--a slackening of tension. Now
the tension suddenly returned.
There was something coming . . . something
...
Poirot's voice, quiet and unimpassioned, went on:
"The letters, the roof, 'the window5 . . .
Yes, everything was explained--everything
fell into place.
"I said just now that three men had alibis
for the time of the crime. Two of those alibis
I have shown to be worthless. I saw now my
great--my amazing mistake. The third alibi
was worthless too. Not only could Dr. Leidner
have committed the murder--but I was
convinced that he had committed it."
There was a silence, a bewildered uncomprehending
silence. Dr. Leidner said noth-

ing. He seemed lost in his far-away world
still. David Emmott, however, stirred uneasily
and spoke.
"I don't know what you mean to imply, M. Poirot. I told you that Dr. Leidner never
left the roof until at least a quarter to three.
That is the absolute truth. I swear it solemnly.
I am not lying. And it would have
been quite impossible for him to have done
so without my seeing him."
Poirot nodded.
"Oh, I believe you. Dr. Leidner did not
leave the roof. That is an undisputed fact.
But what I saw--and what Miss Johnson had
seen--was that Dr. Leidner could murder his
wife from the roof without leaving it."
We all stared.
"The window," cried Poirot. "Her window!
That is what I realized--just as Miss
Johnson realized it. Her window was directly
underneath, on the side away from the courtyard.
And Dr. Leidner was alone up there
with no one to witness his actions. And those
heavy stone querns and grinders were up
there all ready to his hand. So simple, so
very simple, granted one thing--that the
murderer had the opportunity to move the body
before any one else saw it. . . . Oh, it is
beautiful--of an unbelievable simplicity!

"Listen--it went like this:
"Dr. Leidner is on the roof working with
the pottery. He calls you up, Mr. Emmott, and while he holds you in talk he notices
that, as usually happens, the small boy takes
advantage of your absence to leave his work
and go outside the courtyard. He keeps you
with him ten minutes, then he lets you go
and as soon as you are down below shouting
to the boy he sets his plan in operation.
"He takes from his pocket the plasticinesmeared
mask with which he has already
scared his wife on a former occasion and
dangles it over the edge of the parapet till it
taps on his wife's window.
"That, remember, is the window giving
on the countryside facing the opposite direction
to the courtyard.
"Mrs. Leidner is lying on her bed half
asleep. She is peaceful and happy. Suddenly
the mask begins tapping on the window and
attracts her attention. But it is not dusk
now--it is broad daylight--there is nothing
terrifying about it. She recognizes it for what
it is--a crude form of trickery! She is not
frightened but indignant. She does what any
other woman would do in her place. Jumps
off the bed, opens the window, passes her
head through the bars and turns her face
?€<

upwards to see who is playing the trick on
her.
"Dr. Leidner is waiting. He has in his
hands, poised and ready, a heavy quern. At
the psychological moment he drops it. . . .
"With a faint cry (heard by Miss Johnson)
Mrs. Leidner collapses on the rug underneath
the window.
"Now there is a hole in this quern, and
through that Dr. Leidner had previously
passed a cord. He has now only to haul in
the cord and bring up the quern. He replaces
the latter neatly, blood-stained side down, amongst the other objects of that kind on
the roof.
"Then he continues his work for an hour
or more till he judges the moment has come
for the second act. He descends the stairs, speaks to Mr. Emmott and Nurse Leatheran, crosses the courtyard and enters his
wife's room. This is the explanation he himself
gives of his movements there.
<(<I saw my wife's body in a heap by the
bed. For a moment or two I felt paralyzed as
though I couldn't mom. Then at last I went
and knelt down by her and lifted up her head.
I saw she was dead. . . . At last I got up. I
felt dazed and as though I were drunk. I managed to get to the door and call out.'
1C' r

I; "A perfectly possible account of the actions
of a grief-dazed man. Now listen to
what I believe to be the truth. Dr. Leidner
enters the room, hurries to the window, and
having pulled on a pair of gloves, closes
and fastens it, then picks up his wife's body
and transports it to a position between the
bed and the door. Then he notices a slight
stain on the window-side rug. He cannot
change it with the other rug, they are a different
size, but he does the next best thing.
He puts the stained rug in front of the washstand
and the rug from the wash-stand under
the window. // the stain is noticed, it will i
be connected with the wash-stand--not with
the window--a very important point. There
must be no suggestion that the window
played any part in the business. Then he
comes to the door and acts the part of the ;
overcome husband, and that, I imagine, is
not difficult. For he did love his wife."
"My good man," cried Dr. Reilly impa- ^ tiently, "if he loved her, why did he kill her?
Where's the motive? Can't you speak, Leidner?
Tell him he's mad."
Dr. Leidner neither spoke nor moved.
Poirot said:
"Did I not tell you all along that this was
a crime passionnel? Why did her first hus-

band, Frederick Bosner, threaten to kill her?
Because he loved her. . . . And in the end,
you see, he made his boast good. . . .
"Mais oui--mais out--once I realize that it
is Dr. Leidner who did the killing everything
falls into place. . . .
"For the second time I recommence my
journey from the beginning--Mrs. Leidner's
first marriage--the threatening letters
--her second marriage. The letters prevented
her marrying any other man--but
they did not prevent her marrying Dr. Leidner.
How simple that is--if Dr. Leidner is
actually Frederick Bosner.
"Once more let us start our journey--
from the point of view this time of young
Frederick Bosner.
"To begin with he loves his wife Louise
with an overpowering passion such as only
a woman of her kind can evoke. She betrays
him. He is sentenced to death. He escapes.
He is involved in a railway accident but he
manages to emerge with a second personality--that
of a young Swedish archaeologist,
Eric Leidner, whose body is badly disfigured
and who will be conveniently buried as Frederick
Bosner.
"What is the new Eric Leidner's attitude
to the woman who was willing to send him

to his death? First and most important, he
still loves her. He sets to work to build up
his new life. He is a man of great ability, his
profession is congenial to him and he makes
a success of it. But he never forgets the ruling
passion of his life. He keeps himself informed
of his wife's movements. Of one thing he is
cold-bloodedly determined (remember Mrs.
Leidner's own description of him to Nurse
Leatheran--gentle and kind but ruthless), j she shall belong to no other man. Whenever he |
I judges it necessary he despatches a letter. ^ I He imitates some of the peculiarities of her ; s handwriting in case she should think of taking
his letters to the police. Women who , write sensational anonymous letters to them- ,
selves are such a common phenomenon that r;
the police will be sure to jump to that so- j lution given the likeness of the handwriting, i |
At the same time he leaves her in doubt as
to whether he is really alive or not.
"At last, after many years, he judges that
the time has arrived; he re-enters her life.
All goes well. His wife never dreams of his
real identity. He is a well-known man. The
upstanding, good-looking young fellow is i now a middle-aged man with a beard and
stooping shoulders. And so we see history
repeating itself. As before, Frederick is able ,

to dominate Louise. For the second time she
consents to marry him. And no letter comes
to forbid the banns.
"But afterwards a letter does come. Why?
"I think that Dr. Leidner was taking no
chances. The intimacy of marriage might awaken a memory. He wishes to impress on
his wife, once and for all, that Eric Leidner
and Frederick Bosner are two different people.
So much so that a threatening letter comes
from the former on account of the latter. The
rather puerile gas poisoning business follows--arranged
by Dr. Leidner 3 of course.
Still with the same object in view.
"After that he is satisfied. No more letters
need come. They can settle down to happy
married life together.
"And then, after nearly two years, the letters
recommence.
"Why? Eh bien, I think I know. Because
the threat underlying the letters was always a
genuine threat. (That is why Mrs. Leidner
has always been frightened. She knew her
Frederick's gentle but ruthless nature.) If
she belongs to any other man but him he would
kill her. And she has given herself to Richard
Carey.
"And so, having discovered this, cold
bloodedly, calmly. Dr. Leidner prepares the
scene for murder.
^ i
"You see now the important part played j by Nurse Leatheran? Dr. Leidner's rather
curious conduct (it puzzled me at the very
first) in securing her services for his wife is
explained. It was vital that a reliable professional
witness should be able to state incontrovertibly
that Mrs. Leidner had been dead over an hour when her body was found--that
is, that she had been killed at a time when m
everybody could swear her husband was on the
roof. A suspicion might have arisen that he
had killed her when he entered the room and
found the body--but that was out of the
question when a trained hospital nurse
would assert positively that she had already r been dead an hour. I
"Another thing that is explained is the
curious state of tension and strain that had
come over the expedition this year. I never
from the first thought that that could be attributed
solely to Mrs. Leidner's influence.
For several years this particular expedition
had had a reputation for happy good-fellowship.
In my opinion the state of mind of a
community is always directly due to the influence
of the man at the top. Dr. Leidner 5
quiet though he was, was a man of great
3^:1

personality. It was due to his tact, to his
judgment, to his sympathetic manipulation
of human beings that the atmosphere had
always been such a happy one.
"If there was a change, therefore, the
change must be due to the man at the top
--in other words, to Dr. Leidner. It was Dr.
Leidner, not Mrs. Leidner, who was responsible
for the tension and uneasiness. No
wonder the staff felt the change without understanding
it. The kindly genial Dr. Leidner, outwardly the same, was only playing
the part of himself. The real man was an
obsessed fanatic plotting to kill.
"And now we will pass on to the second
murder--that of Miss Johnson. In tidying
up Dr. Leidner's papers in the office (a job
she took on herself unasked, craving for
something to do) she must have come on
some unfinished draft of one of the anonymous
letters.
"It must have been both incomprehensible
and extremely upsetting to her! Dr. Leidner has been deliberately terrorizing his
wife! She cannot understand it--but it upsets
her badly. It is in this mood that Nurse
Leatheran discovers her crying.
"I do not think at the moment that she
suspected Dr. Leidner of being the mur-

derer, but my experiments with sounds in
Mrs. Leidner's and Father Lavigny's rooms
are- not lost upon her. She realizes that if it was Mrs. Leidner's cry she heard, the windotv
in her room must have been open, not shut. At the moment that conveys nothing vital to
hef? but she remembers it.
6 'Her mind goes on working--ferreting its
way towards the truth. Perhaps she makes
some reference to the letters which Dr. Leidnef understands and his manner changes.
She may see that he is, suddenly, afraid.
"But Dr. Leidner cannot have killed his
wife! He was on the roo/all the time.
"And then, one evening, as she herself
is on the roof puzzling about it, the truth
comes to her in a flash. Mrs. Leidner has
been killed from up here, through the open
window.
"It was at that minute that Nurse Leatheran
found her.
"And immediately, her old affection
reasserting itself, she puts up a quick camouflage.
Nurse Leatheran must not guess the
horrifying discovery she has just made.
"She looks deliberately in the opposite direction
(towards the courtyard) and makes a
remark suggested to her by Father Lavigny's
appearance as he crosses the courtyard.
->z">

"She refuses to say more. She has got to 'think things out.'
"And Dr. Leidner, who has been watching
her anxiously, realizes that she knows the
truth. She is not the kind of woman to conceal
her horror and distress from him.
"It is true that as yet she has not given
him away--but how long can he depend
upon her?
"Murder is a habit. That night he substitutes
a glass of acid for her glass of water.
There is just a chance she may be believed
to have deliberately poisoned herself. There
is even a chance she may be considered to
have done the first murder and has now been
overcome with remorse. To strengthen the
latter idea he takes the quern from the roof
and puts it under her bed.
"No wonder that poor Miss Johnson, in
her death agony, could only try desperately
to impart her hard-won information.
Through 'the window,5 that is how Mrs.
Leidner was killed, not through the
door--through the window. . . .
"And so thus, everything is explained, everything falls into place. . . . Psychologically
perfect.
"But there is no proof. No proof at
all. . . ."

None of us spoke. We were lost in a sea of
horror. . . . Yes 5 and not only horror. Pity, too.
Dr. Leidner had neither moved nor spoken.
He sat just as he had done all along. A
tired, worn, elderly man.
At last he stirred slightly and looked at
Poirot with gentle tired eyes.
"No," he said, "there is no proof. But
that does not matter. You knew that I would
not deny truth. ... I have never denied
truth. . . . I think--really--I am rather glad
. . . I'm so tired . . ."
Then he said simply:
"I'm sorry about Anne. That was bad--
senseless--it wasn't me! And she suffered, too, poor soul. Yes, that wasn't me It was
fear. ..."
A little smile just hovered on his paintwisted
lips.
"You would have made a good archaeologist,
M. Poirot. You have the gift of
re-creating the past.
"It was all very much as you said.
"I loved Louise and I killed her ... If
you'd known Louise you'd have understood.
. . . No, I think you understand anyway.
..."
365

Chapter 29
L'envoi
there isn't really any more to say about
things.
They got "Father" Lavigny and the other
man just as they were going on board a
steamer at Beyrouth.
Sheila Reilly married young Emmott. I
think that will be good for her. He's no
door-mat—he'll keep her in her place. She'd
have ridden roughshod over poor Bill Coleman.
I
nursed him 5 by the way, when he had
appendicitis a year ago. I got quite fond of
him. His people were sending him out to
farm in South Africa.
I've never been out East again. It's
funny—sometimes I wish I could. I think
of the noise the water-wheel made and the
women washing, and that queer haughty
look that camels give you—and I get quite
a homesick feeling. After all, perhaps dirt

isn't really so unhealthy as one is brought
up to believe!
Dr. Reilly usually looks me up when he's
in England, and as I said, it's he who's got
me into this. "Take it or leave it," I said to
him. "I know the grammar's all wrong and
it's not properly written or anything like
that--but there it is."
And he took it. Made no bones about it.
It will give me a queer feeling if it's ever
printed.
M. Poirot went back to Syria and about a
week later he went home on the Orient Express
and got himself mixed up in another 11
murder. He was clever, I don't deny it, but | ]
I shan't forgive him in a hurry for pulling
my leg the way he did. Pretending to think
I might be mixed up in the crime and not a
real hospital nurse at all!
Doctors are like that sometimes. Will have
their joke, some of them will, and never
think of your feelings!
I've thought and thought about Mrs.
Leidner and what she was really like. . . .
Sometimes it seems to me she was just a
terrible woman--and other times I remember
how nice she was to me and how soft
her voice was--and her lovely fair hair and everything--and I feel that perhaps, after
ety

 
 

 

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رواية (5)

agatha christie - endless night

BOOK I



CHAFFER I


In my end is my beginning..,. That's a quotation I've often
heard people say. It sounds all rightmbut what does it
really mean?

Is there ever any particular spot where one can put one's
finger and say: "It all began that day, at such a time and
such a place, with such an incident?"

Did my story begin, perhaps, when I noticed the Sale
Bill hanging on the wall of the George and Dragon, an-nouncing
Sale by Auction of that valuable property "The
Towers," and giving particulars of the acreage, the miles
and furlongs, and the highly idealised portrait of "The
Towers" as it might.have been perhaps in its prime, any-thing
from eighty to a hundred years ago.

I was doing nothing particular, just strolling along the
main street of Kingston Bishop, a place of no importance
whatever, killing time. I noticed the Sale Bill. Why?
Fate up to its dirty work? Or dealing out its golden hand-shake
of good fortune? You can look at it either way.

Or you could say, perhaps, that it all had its beginnings
when I met Santonix, during the talks I had with him; I
can close my eyes and see: his flushed cheeks, the over
brilliant eyes, and the movement of the strong yet delicate
hand that sketched and drew plans and elevations of homes.
One house in particular, a beautiful house, a home that
would be wonderful to own!

My longing for a home, a fine and beautiful home, such a
house as I could never hope to have, flowered into life then,
1



ENDLESS NIGHT

It was a happy fantasy shared between us, the house that
$antonix would build for me--if he lasted long enough ....
A house that in my dreams I would live in with the girl
that I loved, a house in which just like a child's silly fairy
story we should live together "happy ever afterwards." All
?ute fantasy, all nonsense, but it started that tide of longg
in me. Longing for something I was never likely to lave.
Or if this is a love story--and it/, a love story, I swear--then
why not begin where I first caught sight of Ellie
standing in the dark fir trees of Gipsy's Acre ?
Gipsy's Acre. Yes, perhaps I'd better begin there, at the
fnoment when I turned away from the Sale board with
little shiver because a black cloud had come over the
fun, and asked a question carelessly enough of one of the
locals, who was clipping a hedge in a desultory fashion
aearby.
"What's this house, The Towers, like?"
I can still see the queer face of the old man, as he looked
at me sideways and said:
"That's not what us calls it here. What sort of a name is
that?" He snorted disapproval. "It's many a year now
since folks lived in it and called it The Towers." He snorted
again.
I asked him then what b called k, and again his eyes
shifted away from me in his old wrinkled face in that queer
way country folk have of not speaking to you direct, looking
over your shoulder or round the corner, aa it were, as though
they saw something you didn't; and he said:
"It's called hereabouts Gipsy's Acre."
"why is it called that?" I asked.
"Some sort of a tale. I durmo rightly. One says one
thing, one says another." And then he went on, "Anyway, it's where the accidents take place."
"Car accidents?"
2



ENDLESS NIGHT

"All kinds of accidents. Car accidents mainly nowadays.
It's a nasty corner there, you see."
"Well," I said, "if it's nasty curve, I can well see there
might be accidents."
"Rural Council put up .a Danger sign, but it don't do no
good, that don't. There are accidents just the same."
"Why Gipsy?" I asked him.
Again his eyes slipped past me and his answer was vague.
"Some tale or other. It was gipsies' land once, they say,
and they were turned off, and they put a curse on it."
I laughed.
"Aye," he said, "you can laugh but there's places as/s
cursed. You smart-Alecks in town don't know about them.
But there's places as is cursed all right, and there's a curse
on this place. People got killed here in the quarry when
uhey got the stone out to build. Old Gcordie be fell over the
edge there one night and broke his neck."
"Drunk?" I suggested.
"He may have been. He liked his drop, he did. But
there's many drunks as fall--nasty falls--but it don't do
them no lasting harm. But Geordie, he got his neck broke.
In there," he pointed up behind him to the pine covered
hill, "in Gipsy's Acre."
Yes, I suppose that's how it began. Not that I paid much
attention to it at the time. I just happened to remember it.
That's all. I think--that is when I think properly--that I
built it up a bit in my mind. I don't know if it was before
or later that I asked if there were still any gipsies about
there. He said there weren't many anywhere nowadays.
The police were always moving them on, he said. I
asked:
"Why doesn't anybody like gipsies?"
"They're a thieving lot," he said, disapprovingly. Then
he peered more closely at me. "Happen you've got gipsy
blood yourself?." he suggested, looking hard at me.
3



ENDLESS NIGHT

I said not that I knew of. It's true, I do look a bit like a

gipsy, lerhaps that's what fascinated me about the name of

Gipsy'S Acre. I thought to myself as I was standing there

smiling back at him, amused by our conversation, that per
haps had a bit of gipsy blood.

GipSy'S Acre. I went up the winding road that led out of

the village and wound up through the dark trees and came

at last to the top of the hill so that I could see out to sea and

the ships. It was a marvellous view and I thought, just as

one does think things: I wonder how it would be if Gipsy'a
Acre was my acre Just
like that It was
only a
ridiculous thought.
When I passed my hedge clipper again,
he said:
,,if you
want gipsies, there's old Mrs. Lee of course. The
Major, he
gives her a cottage to live in."
,,Who's
the Major?" I asked.
He
said, in a shocked voice, "Major Phillpot, of course." '
He seemed quite upset that I should ask! I gathered that Major: Phillpot was God locally. Mrs. Lee was some kind of deper
dant of his, I suppose, whom he'd provided for.
The lhillpotS seemed to have lived there all their
lives and more
or less to have
run the place.
As I wished my old boy good day and
turned
away he said,
"she's got the last cottage at the end of
the street. You'll see her outside, maybe. Doesn't like the
inside of houses. Them as has got
gipsy blood don't."
So there I was, wandering down the
road, whistling and thinking about Gipsy's Acre. I'd almost
forgotten what I'd been told when I saw a tall
black-haired old woman staring at me over a garden hedge. I knew
at once it must be Mrs. Lee. I stopped
and spoke to her.
"I hear you can tell me all about
Gipsy's Acre
up
there,"
I
said.
4



ENDLESS NIGHT


She stared at me through a tangled fringe of black hair
and she said,

"Don't have nought to do with it, young man. You listen
to me. Forget about it. You're a good-looking lad. Nothing

good comes out of Gipsy's Acre and never will."

"I see it's up for sale," I said.

"Aye, that's so, and more fool he who buys it."
"Who's likely to buy it?"

"There's a builder after it. More than one. It'll go cheap.
You'll see."

"Why should it go cheap?" I asked curiously. "It's a
fmc site."

She wouldn't answer that.

"Supposing a builder buys it cheap, what will he do with
it?"

She chuckled to herself. It was malicious, unpleasant
laughter.

"Pull down the old ruined house and build, of course.
Twenty--thirty houses, maybe--and all with a curse on
them."

I ignored the last part of the sentence. I said, speaking
before I could stop myself,

"That would be a shame. A great shame."

"Ah, you needn't worry. They'll get no joy of it, not those
who buys and not those who lays the bricks and mortar.
There'll be a foot that slips on the ladder, and there'll be
the lorry that crashes with a load, and the slate that falls
from the roof of a house and finds its mark. And the trees,
too. Crashing, maybe, in a sudden gale. Ah, you'll see!
There's none that'll get any good out of Gipsy's Acre.
They'd do best to leave it alone. You'll see. You'll see."
She nodded vigorously and then she repeated softly to her-self,
"There's no luck for them as meddles with Gipsy's Acre.
There never has been."

I laughed. She spoke sharply.

5



ENDLESS NIGHT


"Don't laugh, young man. It comes to me as may be one
of these days you'll laugh on the wrong side of your mouth.
There's never been no luck there, not in the house nor yet in
the land."

"What happened in the house?" I asked. "Why has it
been empty so long? Why was it left to fall down?"

"The last people that lived there died, all of them."
"How did they die?" I asked out of curiosity.

"Best not to speak of it again. But no one cared to come
and live in it afterwards. It was left to moulder and decay.
It's forgot by now and best that it should be."

"But you could tell me the story," I said, wheedllngly.
"You know all about it."

"I don't gossip about Gipsy's Acre." Then she let her
voice drop to akind of phoney beggar's whine. "I'll tell your
fortune now, my pretty lad, if you like. Cross my palm with
silver and I'll tell your fortune. You're one of those that'll
go far one of these days."

"I don't believe nonsense about fortune telling," I said,
"and I haven't any silver. Not to spare, anyway."

She came nearer to me and went on in a wheedling voice.
"Sixpence now. Sixpence now. I'll do it for sixpence.
What's that? Nothing at all. I'll do it for sixpence because
you're a handsome lad with a ready tongue and a way with
you. It could be that you'll go far."

I fished a sixpence out of my pocket, not because I
believed in any of her foolish superstitions but because for
some reason I liked the old fraud even if I did see through

her. She grabbed the coin from me, and said,

"Give me your hand then. Both hands."

She took my hands in her withered claw and stared down
at the open palms. She was silent for a minute or two,
staring. Then she dropped my hands abruptly, almost
pushing them away from her. She retreated a step and
spoke harshly.

6



ENDLESS NIGHT

"If you know what's good for you, you'll get out of Gipsy's
Acre here and now and you won't come back! That's the
best advice I can give you. Don't come back."
"Why not? Why shouldn't I come back?"
"Because if you do you'll come back to sorrow and loss
and danger maybe. There's trouble, black trouble waiting
for you. Forget you ever saw this place. I'm warning you."
"Well ofall the "
But she had turned away and was retreating to the cottage.
She went in and slammed the door. I'm not superstitious.
I believe in luck, of course, who doesn't? But not a lot of
superstitious nonsense about ruined homes with curses on
them. And yet I had an uneasy feeling that the sinister old
creature had seen something in my hands. I looked down at
my two palms spread out in front of me. What could anyone
see in the palms of anyone's hands? Fortune telling was
arrant nonsense--just a trick to get money out of you--money
out of your silly credulity. I looked up at the sky. The
sun had gone in, the day seemed different now. A sort of
shadow, a kind of menace. Just an approaching storm, I
thought. The wind was beginning to blow, the backs of the
leaves were showing on the trees. I whistled to 'keep my
spirits up and walked along the road through the village.
I looked again at the pasted-up bill advertising the
auction of The Towers. I even made a note of the date. I
had never attended a property sale in my life but I thought
to myself that I'd come and attend this one. It would be
interesting to see who bought The Towers. That is to say
interesting to see who became the owner of Gipsy's Acre.
Yes, I think that's really where it all began .... A fantastic
notion occurred to me. I'd come and pretend to myself that
I was the man who was going to bid for Gipsy's Acre! I'd
bid against the local builders! They'd drop out, disappointed
in their hopes ofbuylng it cheap. /'d buy it and I'd go to
7



ENDLESS NIGHT


Rudolf Santonlx and say "Build me a house. I've bought
the site for you." And I'd find a girl, a wonderful girl and
we'd live in it together happy ever after.

I often had dreams of that kind. Naturally they never
came to anything but they were fun. That's what I thought
then. Funl Fun, my God? If I'd only knownl



CHAPTER II

It was pure chance that had brought me to the neighbourhood
of Gipsy's Acre that day. I was driving a hire car,
taking ome people down from London to attend a sale, a
sale not of a house but of its *******s. It was a big house just
at the outskirts of the town, a particularly ugly one. I drove
an elderly couple there who were interested, from what I
"Could overhear of their conversation, in a collection of papier mdcht, whatever papier m&M was. The only time I
ever heard it mentioned before was by my mother in connection
with washing-up bowls. She'd said that a papier
ra&M washing-up bowl was far better than a plastic one any
day I It seemed an odd thing for rich people to want to come
down and buy a collection of the stuff.
' However I stored the fact away in my mind and I thought
• I would look in a dictionary or read up somewhere what papier mdctd really was. Something that people thought
worth while to hire a car for, and go down to a country sale
and bid for. I liked knowing about things. I was twenty-two
years of age at that time and I had picked up a fair
amount of knowledge one way and another. I knew a good
deal about cars, was a fair mechanic and a careful driver.
Once I'd worked with horses in Ireland. I nearly got entangled
with a dope gang but I got wise and quit in time. A
job aa a chauffeur to a classy car hire firm isn't bad at all.
Good money to be made with tips. And not usually too
strenuous. But the work itself was boring.
Once I'd gone fruit picking in summer time. That didn't
pay much, but I enjoyed myself. I'd tried a lot of things.
9



ENDLESS NIGHT

I'd been a waiter in a third class hotel, life gUard on a summer
beach, I'd sold encyclopaedias and vacuum cleaners
and a few other things. I'd once done horticultural work in
a botanical garden and had learnt a little about flowers.
I never stuck to anything. Why should I? I'd found
nearly everything I did interesting. Some things were
harder work than others but I didn't really mind that. I'm
• ,ot really lazy. I suppose what I really am is restless.
I want to go everywhere, see everything, do everything. I want to find something. Yes, that's it. I want to find
something.
From the time I left school I wanted to find something,
but I didn't yet know what that something was going to be.
It was just something I was looking for in a vague, unsatisfied
sort of way. It was somewhere. Sooner or later I'd know all
about it. It might perhaps be a girl I
like girls, but no
girl
I'd met so far had been important You liked
them
all right
but then you went on to the next one quite gladly. They were
like the jobs I took. All right for a bit and then you
got fed up with them and you wanted to move on to the next
one. I'd gone from one thing to another ever since I'd left
school.
A
lot of people disapproved of my way of life. I suppose they
were what you might call my well-wishers. That was because
they didn't understand the first thing about me. They
wanted me to go steady with a nice girl, save money, get
married to her and then settle down to a nice steady job.
Day after day, year after year, world without end, amen.
Not for yours truly! There must be something better than
that. Not just all this tame security, the good old welfare
state limping along in its half-baked way! Surely, I thought,
in a world where man has been able to put satellites
in the sky and where men talk big about visiting the stars,
there must be something that rouses you, that makes your
heart beat, that's worth while searching all over the 10



ENDLESS NIGHT

world to find! One day, I remember, I was walking down
Bond Street. It was during my waiter period and I was due
on duty. I'd been strolling looking at some shoes in a shop
window. Very natty they were. l.lke they say in the
advertisements in newspapers: 'What rmart mtn art wearing
to-day' and there's usually a picture of the smart man in
qution. My word, he usually looks a twerp l Used to
make me laugh, advertisements like that did.
I passed on from the shoes to the next window. It was
a picture shop. Just three pictures in the window artily
arranged with a drape of limp velvet in some neutral colour
arranged over a corner of a gilt frame. Cissy, if you know
what I mean. I'm not much of a one for Art. I dropped in
to the National Gallery once out of curiosity. Fair gave me
the pip, it did. Great big shiny coloured pictures of battles
in rocky glens, or emaciated saints getting themselves stuck
with arrow. Portraits of simpering great ladies sitting
smirking in silks and velvets and lace. I decided then and
there that Art wasn't for me. But the picture I was looking
at now was somehow different. There were three pictures
in the window. One a landscape, nice bit of country for
what I call everyday. One of a woman drawn in such a
funny way, so much out of proportion, that you could hardly
see she was a woman. I suppose that's what they call art
nouveau. I don't know what it was about. The third picture
was my picture. There wasn't really much to it, if you know
what I mean. It wasthow can I describe it? It was kind of
• /mp/e. A lot of space in it and a few great widening circles
all round each other if you can put it that way. All in
different colours, odd colours that you wouldn't expect.
And here and there, there were sketchy bits of colour that
didn't seem to mean anything. Only somehow they dfi/
mean something! I'm no good at description. All I can say
is that one wanted terribly to go on looking at it.
I just stood there, feeling queer as though something very ll



ENDLESS NIGHT

unusual had happened to me. Those fancy shoes now, I'd

have liked them to wear. I mean I take quite a bit of trouble

about my clothes. I like to dress well so as to make an

impression, but I never seriously thought in my life of

buying a pair of shoes in Bond Street. I know the kind of

fancy prices they ask there. Fifteen pounds a pair those

shoes might be. Hand made or something, they call it, mak
ing it more worthwhile for some reason. Sheer waste of

money that would be. A classy line in shoes, yes, but you

can pay too much for class. I've got my head screwed on

the right way.

But this picture, what would that cost, I wondered?

Suppose I were to buy that picture? You're crazy, I said to

myself. You don't go for pictures, not in a general way.
That was true enough. But I wanted this picture I'd
like
it to be mine. I'd like to be able to hang it and sit and look
at it as long as I liked and know that I owned it! Me! Buying
pictures. It seemed a crazy idea. I took a look at the
picture again. Me wanting that picture didn't make sense,
and anyway I probably couldn't afford it. Actually I
was in funds at just that moment. A lucky tip on a horse. This
picture would probably cost a packet. Twenty pounds ? Twenty-five?
Anyway, there would be no harm in asking. They
couldn't eat me, could they? I went in, feeling rather aggressive
and on the defensive.
The
inside of the place was all very hushed and grand. There
was a sort of muted atmosphere with neutral colour walls
and a velvet settee on which you could sit and look at the pictures.
A man who looked a little like the model for the perfectly
dressed man in advertisements came and attended to
me, speaking in a rather hushed voice to match the scenery.
Funnily, he didn't look superior as they usually do in
high grade Bond Street shops. He listened to what I said and
then he took the picture out of the window and displayed it
for me against a wall, holding it there for me to 12



ENDLESS NIGHT

look at as long as I wanted. It came to me thenmin the way
you sometimes know just exactly how things are, that the
same rules didn't apply over pictures as they do about
other things. Someone might come into a place like this
dressed in shabby old clothes and a frayed shirt and turn
out to be a millionaire who wanted to add to his collection.
Or he could come in looking cheap and flashy, rather like
me perhaps, but somehow or other he'd got such a yen for a
picture that he managed to get the money together by some
kind of sharp practice.
"A very fine example of the artist's work," said the man
who was holding the picture.
"How much?" I said briskly.
The answer took my breath away.
"Twenty-five thousand," he said in his gentle voice.
I'm quite good at keeping a poker face. I didn't show
anything. At least I don't think I did. He added some
name that sounded foreign. The artist's name, I suppose
and that it had just come on the market from a house in the
country, where the people who lived there had had no idea
what it was. I kept my end up and sighed.
"It's a lot of money but it's worth it, I suppose," I said.
Twenty-five thousand pounds. What a laugh!
"Yes," he said and sighed. "Yes indeed." He lowered the picture very gently and carried it back to the window.
He looked at me and smiled. "You have good taste," he
said.
I felt that in some way he and I understood each other. I
thanked him and went out into Bond Street.

13



CHAPTER Ill

I don't know much about writing things down--not, I
mean, in the way a proper writer would do. The bit about
that picture I saw, for instance. It doesn't really have anything
to do with anything. I mean, nothing came of it, it
didn't lead to anything and yet I feel somehow that it is
important, that it has a place somewhere. It was one of the
things that happened to me that meant something. Just like
Gipsy's Acre meant something to me. Like Santonix meant
something to me.
I haven't really said much about him. He was an architect.
Of course you'll have gathered that. Architects are
another thing I'd never had much to do with, though I
knew a few things about the building trade. I came across
Santonix in the course of my wanderings. It was when I
was working as a chauffeur, driving the rich around places.
Once or twice I drove abroad, twice to Germany--I knew
a bit of German--and once or twice to France--I had a
smattering of French too--and once to Portugal. They
were usually elderly people, who had money and bad
health in about equal quantities.
When you drive people like that around, you begin to
*]fink that money isn't so hot after all. What with incipient
heart attacks, lots of bottles of little pills you have to take
all the time, and losing your temper over the food or the
service in hotels. Most of the rich people I've known have
been fairly miserable. They've got their worries, too.
Taxation and investments. You hear them talking together
or to friends. Worry! That's what's killing half of them.
14



ENDLESS NIGHT


And their sex life's not so hot either. They've either got long-legged
blonde sexy wives who are playing them up with boy-friends
somewhere, or they're married to the complaining
kind of woman, hideous aa hell, who keeps telling .them
where they get off. No. I'd rather be myself. Michael
Rogers, seeing the world, and getting off with good-looking
girls when he feels like it!

Everything a bit hand-to-mouth, of course, but I put up
with that. Life was good fun, and I'd been ******* to go on
with fife being fun. But I suppose I would have in any case.
That attitude goes with youth. When youth begins to pass
fun isn't fun any longer.

Behind it, I think, was always the other thing--wanting
someone and something .... However, to go on with what
I was saying, there was one old boy I used to drive down to
the Riviera. He'd got a house being built there. He went
down to look how it was getting on. Santonix was the
architect. I don't really know what nationality Santonix
was. English I thought at first, though it was a funny sort
of name I'd never heard before. But I don't think he was
English. Scandinavian of some kind I guess. He was an ill
man. I could see that at once. He was young and very fair
and thin with an odd face, a face that was askew somehow.
The two sides of it didn't match. He could be quite bad-tempered
to his clients. You'd have thought aa they were
paying the money that they'd call the tune and do the
bullying. That wasn't so. Santonix bullied them and he
was always quite sure of himself although they weren't.

This particular old boy of mine was frothing with rage, I
remember, aa soon aa he arrived and had seen how things
were going. I used to catch snatches here and there when I
was standing by ready to assist in my chauffeurly and handy-man
way. It was always on the cards that Mr. Constantine
would have a heart attack or a stroke.

"You have not done as I said," he half screamed. "You
15



ENDLESS NIGHT

have spent too much money. Much too much money. It
is not as we agreed. It is going to cost me more than
thought?"
"You're absolutely fight," said Santonix. "But the
money's got to be spent."
"It shall not be spent! It shall not be spent. You have
got to keep within the limits I laid down. You understand?"
"Then you won't get the kind of house you want,"
said $antonix. "I Imozo what you want. The house I build
you will be the house you want. I'm quite sure of that and
you're quite sure of it, too. Don't give me any of your
pettifogging middle-class economies. You want a house of
quality and you're going to get it, and you'll boast about it
to your friends and they'll envy you. I don't build a house
for anyone, I've told you that. There's more to it than
money. This house isn't going to be like other people's
houses
"It is going to be terrible. Terrible."
"Oh no it isn't. The trouble with you is that.you don't
know what you want. Or at least so anyone might think.
But you do know what you want really, only you can't bring
it out into your nind. You can't see it clearly. But I know. That's the one thing I always know. ghat people are after
and what they want. There's a feeling in you for quality.
I'm going to give you quality."
He used to say things like that. And I'd stand by and
listen. Somehow or other I could see for myself that this
house that was being built there amongst pine trees looking
over the sea, wasn't going to be the usual house. Half of it
didn't look out towards the sea in a conventional way. It
looked inland, up to a certain curve of mountains, up to
a glimpse of sky between hills. It was odd and unusual and
very exciting.
Santonix used to talk to me sometimes when I was off
duty. He said,
16



ENDLESS NIGHT

"I only build h{:uses for people I want to build for."
"Rich people, you mean?"
"They have to be rich or they couldn't pay for the houses.
But it's not the money I'm going to make out of it I care
about. My clients have to be rich because I want to make
the kind of houses that cost money. The house only isn't
enough, you see. It has to have the setting. That's just as
important. It's like a ruby or an. emerald. A beautiful stone
is only a beautiful stone. It doesn't lead you anywhere
further. It doesn't mean anything, it has no form or significance
until it has its setting. And the setting has to have
a beautiful jewel to be worthy of it. I take the setting, you
see, out of the landscape, where it exists only in its own
right. It has no meaning until there is my house sitting
proudly like a jewel within its grasp." lie looked at me and
laughed. "You don't understand?"
"I suppose not," I said slowly, "and yet--in a way--I
think I do .... "
"That may be." He looked at me curiously.
We came down to the 1Liviera again later. By then the
house was nearly finished. I won't describe it because I
couldn't do it properly, but it was--well---something
special--and it was beautiful. I could see that. It was a
house you'd be proud of, proud to show to people, proud
to look at yourself, pr.oud to be in with the fight person
perhaps. And then suddenly one day Santonix said to ITle,
"I could build a house fory0u, you know. I'd know the
kind of house you'd want."
I shook my head.
"I shouldn't know myself," I said, honestly.
"Perhaps you wouldn't. I'd know for you." Then he
added, "It's a thousand pities you haven't got the money."
"And never shall have," I said.
"You can't say that," said Santonix. "Born poor doesn't
17



ENDLESS NIGHT

mean you've got to stay poor. Money's queer.
It goes
where it's wanted."

"I'm not sharp enough," I said.
"You're not ambitious enough. Ambition hasn't woken
up in you, but it's there, you know."
"Oh well," I said, "some day when I've woken up
ambition and I've made money, then I'll come to you and
say 'build me a house'."
He sighed then. He said,
"I can't wait .... No, I can't afibrd to wait. I've only a
short time to go now. One housewtwo houses more. Not
more than that. One doesn't want to die young .... Sometimes
one has to .... It doesn't really matter, I suppose."
"I'll have to wake up my ambition quick."
"No," said Santonix. "You're healthy, you're having fun,
don't change your way of life."
I said: "I couldn't if I tried."
I thought that was true then. I liked my way of life and I
was having fun and there was never anything wrong with
my health. I've driven a lot of people who've made money,
who've worked hard and who've got ulcers and coronary
thrombosis and many other things as a result of working
hard. I didn't want to work hard. I could do a job as well as
another but that was all there was to it. And I hadn't got
ambition, or I didn't think I had ambition. Santouix had
had ambition, I suppose. I could see that designing houses
and building them, the planning of the drawing and something
else that I couldn't quite get hold of, all that had taken
it out of him. He hadn't been a strong man to begin with. I
had a fanciful idea sometimes that he was killing himself
before his time by the work he had put out to drive his
ambition. I didn't want to work. It was as simple as that.
I distrusted work, disliked it. I thought it was a very bad
thing, that the human race had unfortunately invented for
itself.
18



ENDLESS NIGHT

I thought about Santonix quite often. He intrigued me
almost more than anyone I knew. One of the oddest things
in life, I think, is the things one remembers. One chooses
to remember, I suppose. Something in one must choose.
Santonix and his house were one of the things and the picture
in Bond Street and visiting that ruined house, The
Towers and hearing the story of Gipsy's Acre, all those were
the things that I'd chosen to remember! Sometimes girls
that I met, and journeys to the foreign places in the course
of driving clients about. The clients were all the same. Dull.
They always stayed at the same kind of hotels and ate the
same kind of unimaginative food.
I still had that queer feeling in me of waiting for something,
waiting for something to be offered to me, or to
happen to me, I don't quite know which way describes it
best. I suppose really I was looking for a girl, the right sort
of girlmby which I don't mean a nice, suitable girl to settle
down with, which is what my mother would have meant or
my Uncle Joshua or some of my friends. I didn't know at
that time anything about love. All I knew about was sex.
That was all anybody of my generation seemed to know
about. We talked about it too much, I think, and heard too
much about it and took it too seriously. We didn't know--any
of my friends or myself what it was really going to be
when it happened. Love I mean. We were young and virile
and we looked the girls over we met and we appreciated
their curves and their legs and the kind of eye they gave you,
and you thought to yourself: 'will they or won't they?
Should I be wasting my time?' And the more girls you
. made the more you boasted and the finer fellow you were
thought to be, and the finer fellow you thought yourself.
I'd no real idea that that wasn't all there was to it. I
suppose it happens to everyone sooner or later and it
happens suddenly. You don't think as you imagine you're
going to think: 'This might be the girl for me This
is
19



ENDLESS NIGHT

the girl who is going to be mine.' At least, I didn't feel it
that way. I didn't know that when it happened it would
happen quite suddenly. That I would say: 'That's the girl
I belong to. I'm hers. I belong to hr, utterly, for always.'
No. I never dreamed it would be like that. Didn't one of
the old comedians say once--wasn't it one of his stock
jokes? "I've been in love once and if I felt it coming on
again I tell you I'd emigrate." It was the same with me. If
I had known, if I had only known what it could all come to
mean I'd have emigrated too I If I'd been wise. that is.

2O



CHAPTER IV

I hadn't forgotten my plan of going to the auction.
There was three weeks to go. I'd had two more trips to
the Gontinent, one to France and the other to Germany. It
was when I was in Hamburg that things came to a crisis.
For one thing I took a violent dislike to the man and his wife
I was driving. They represented everything I disliked most.
They were rude, inconsiderate, unpleasant to look at, and I
suppose they developed in me a feeling of being unable to
stand this life ofsycophancy any longer. I was careful, mind
you. I thought I couldn't stand them another day but I
didn't tell them so. N'o good running yourself in bad with
the firm that employs you. So I telephoned up their hotel,
said I was ill and I wired London saying the same thing. I
said I might be in quarantine and it would be advisable it
they sent out a driver to replace me. Nobody could blame
me for that. They wouldn't care enough about me to make
further inquiries and they'd merely think that I was too
feverish to send them any more news. Later, I'd turn up in
London again, spinning them a yarn of how ill I'd been!
But I didn't think I should do that. I was fed up with the
driving racket.
That rebellion of mine was an important turning point
in my life. Becanse of that and of other things, I turned up
at the auction rooms on the appointed date.
'Unless sold before by private treaty' had been pasted
across the original board. But it was still there, so it hadn't
been sold by private treaty. I was so excited I hardly knew
what I was doing.
21



ENDLESS NIGHT


As I say, I had never been to a public auction of property
before. I was imbued with the idea that it would be exciting
but it wasn't exciting. Not in the least. It was one of the
most moribund performances I have ever attended. It took
place in a semi-gloomy atmosphere and there were only
about six or seven people there. The auctioneer was quite
different from those auctioneers that I had seen presiding at
furniture sales or things of that kind; men with facetious
voices and very hearty and full of jokes. This one, in a dead
and alive voice, praised the property and described the
acreage and a few things like that and then he went half-heartedly
into the bidding. Somebody made a bid of5,ooo.
The auctioneer gave a tired smile rather as one who hears a
joke that isn't really funny. He made a few remarks and
there were a few more bids. They were mostly country
types standing around. Someone who looked like a farmer,
someone who I guessed to be one of the competitive builders,
a couple of lawyers, I think, one a man who looked as though
he was a stranger from London, well dressed and professional
looking. I don't know if he made an actual bid, he may have
done. If so it was very quietly and done more by gesture.
Anyway the bidding petered to an end, the auctioneer an-nounced
in a melancholy voice that the reserve price had
not been reached and the thing broke up.

"That was a dull business," I said to one of the country-loo.king
fellows whom I was next to as I went out.

"Much the same usual," he said. "Been to many of
these?"

"No," I said, "actually it's the first."

"Come out of curiosity did you? I didn't notice you
doing any bidding."

"No fear," I said. "I just wanted to see hoTM it would go."

"Well, it's the way it runs very often. They just want to
see who's interested, you know."

I looked at him inquiringly.

22



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Only three of 'em in it, I should say," said my friend.
"Whcthcrby from Hclminster. He's the builder, you know.
Then Dakham and Coombe, bidding on behalf of some
Liverpool firm, I understand, and a dark horse from
London, too, I should say a lawyer. Of course there may be
more in it than that, but those seemed the main ones to me.
It'll go cheap. That's what everyone says."
"Because of the place's reputation?" I asked.
"Oh, you've heard about Gipsy's Acre, have you? That's
only what the country people say. Rural council ought to
have altered that road years ago--it's a death trap."
"But the place has got a bad reputation?"
"I tell you that's just superstition. Anyway, as I say, the
real business'Il happen now behind the scenes, you know.
They'll go and make offers. I'd say the Liverpool people
might get it. I don't think Whetherby'll go high enough.
He likes buying cheap. Plenty of properties coming into the
market nowadays for development. After all, it's not many
people who could afford to buy the place, pull that ruined
house down and put up another house there, could they?"
"Doesn't seem to happen very oRen nowadays," I said.
"Too difficult. What with taxation and one thing and
another, and you can't get domestic help in the country.
No, people would rather pay thousands for a luxury flat in
a town nowadays up on the sixteenth floor of a modem
building. Big unwieldy country houses are a drag in the
market."
"But you could build a modem home," I argued.
"Labour saving."
"You could, but it's an expensive business and people
aren't so fond of living lonely."
"Some people might be," I said.
Pie laughed and we parted. I walked along, frowning,
puzzling to myself. My feet took me without my really
noticing where I was going along the road between the
23



ENDLESS NIGHT

trees and up, up to the curving road that led between the
trees to the moorlands.
And so I came to the spot in the road where I first saw
Ellie. As I said, she was standing just by a tall fir tree and
she had the look, if I eon so explain it, of someone who
hadn't been there a moment before but had just materialed,
as it were, out of the tree. She was wearing a sort of dark
green tweed and her hair was the soft brown colour of an
autumn leaf and there was something a bit unsubstantial
about her. I saw her and I stopped. She was looking at me,
her lips just parted, looking slightly startled. I suppose I
looked starfied too. I wanted to say something and I didn't
quite know what to say. Then I said,
"Sorry. I--I didn't mean to starde you. I didn't know
there was anyone here."
She said, and her voice was very soft and gentle, it might
have been a little girl's voice but not quite. She said,
"It's quite all right. I mean, I didn't think anyone would
be here either." She looked round her and said "It--it's
a lonely spot." And she shivered just a little.
There was rather a chilly wind that afternoon. But perhaps
it wasn't the wind. I don't know. I came a step or
two nearer.
"It is a sort of scary place rather, isn't it?" I said. mean , the house being a ruin the way it is."
"The Towers," she said thoughtfully. "That was the
name of it, wasn't it, only--I mean, there don't seem to
have been any towers."
"I expect that was just a name," I said. "People call
their houses names like The Towers to make them sound
grandcr than they are."
She laughed just a little. "I suppose that was it," she said.
"This--perhaps you know, I'm not sm-e--this is the place
that they're selling to-day or putting up for auction?"
"Yes," I said. "I've come from the auction now."
24



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Oh." She sounded startled. "Were you--are you--interested ?"
"I'm not llkcly to buy a rulncd house with a few hundred
acres of woodland land," I said. "I'm not in that class."
"Was it sold?" she asked.
"No, it didn't come up to the reserve."
"Oh. I see." She sounded relieved.
"You didn't want to buy it either, did you?" I said.
"Oh no," she said, "of course not." She sounded ncrvoua
about it.
I hesitated and then I blurted out the words that came to
my lips.
"I'm pretending," I said. "I can't buy it, of course,
becauae I haven't got any money, but I'm interested. I'd li];e to buy it. I want to buy it. Open your mouth and laugh
at me if you like but that's the way it is."
"But isn't it rather too decrepit, too "
"Oh yes," I said. "I don't mean I want it like it is now. I want to pull this down, cart it all away. It's an ugly house
and I think it must have been a sad house. But this plate isn't sad or ugly. It's beautiful. Look here. Come a little
this way, through the trees. Look out at the view that way
where it goes to the hills and the moors. D'you see? Clear
away a vista/tire--and then you come this way "
I took her by the arm and led her to a second point of the
compass. If we were behaving unconventionally she did
not notice it. Anyway, it wasn't that kind of way I was
holding her. I wanted to show her what I saw.
"Here," I said, "here you see where it sweeps down to
the sca and where the rocks show out fire. There's a town
between ua and that but we can't see it becauae of the hills
bulging out farther down the slope. And then you can look a third way, to a vague forcsty valley. Do you sec now if you
cut down trees and make big vistas and clear this space
round the houae, do you see what a beautiful house you

25



ENDLESS NIGHT

could have here? You wouldn't site it where the old one is.
You'd go about fifty--a hundred yards to the right, here.
This is where you could have a house, a wonderful house.
A house built by an architect who's a genius."
"Do you know any architects who are geniuses?" She
sounded doubtful.
"I know one," I said.
Then I started telling her about Santonix. We sat down
side by side on a fallen tree and I talked. Yes, I talked to
that slender woodland girl whom I'd never seen before and
I put. all I had into what I was telling her. I told her the
dream that one could build up.
"It won't happen," I said, "I know that. It couldn't
happen. But think. Think into it just like I'm thinking into
it. There we'd cut the trees and there we'd open up, and
we'd plant things, rhododendrons and azaieas, and my
friend Santonix would come. He'd cough a good deal
because I think he's dying of consumption or something but
he could do it. He could do it before he died. He could
build the most wonderful house. You don't know what his
houses are like. He builds them for very rich people and
they have to be people who want the right thing. I don't
mean the right thing in the conventional sense. Things
people who want a dream come true want. Something
wonderful."
"I'd want a house like that," said Ellie. "You make me
see it, feel it .... Yes, this would be a lovely place to live.
Everything one has dreamed of come true. One could live
here and be free, not hampered, not tied round by people
pushing you into doing everything you don't want, keeping
you from doing anything you do want. OiL I am so sick of my
life and the people who are round me and everything I"
That's the way it began, Ellie and I together. Me with
my dreams and she with her revolt against her life. We
stopped talking and looked at each other.
26



ENDLESS NIGHT


"What's your name?" she said.

"Mike Rogers," I said. "Michael Rogers," I amended.
"What's yours?"

"Fenella." She hesitated and then said, "Fenella Good-man,"
looking at me with a rather troubled expression.

This didn't seem to take us much farther but we went on
looking at each other. We both wanted to ee ear. h other
again--but just for the moment we didn't know how to set
about it.


27



CHAPTER V


Well, that's how it began between Ellie and myself. It
didn't really go along so very quickly, I suppose, became
we both had our secrets. Both had things we wanted to keep
from the other and so we couldn't tell each other as much
about ourselves as we nfight have done, and that kept
bringing us up sharp, as it were, against a kind of barrier. We
couldn't bring things into the open and say "When shall we
meet again? Where can I find you? Where do you live?"
Became, you see, if you ask the other person that, they'd
expect you to tell the same.

Fenella looked apprehensive when she gave me her name.
So much so that I thought for a moment that it mightn't be
her real name. I almost thought that she might have made
it up! But of course I knew that that was impossible. I'd
given her my real name.

We didn't know quite how to take leave of each other
that day. It was awkward. It had become cold and we
wanted to wander down from The Towers-but what then?

Rather awkwardly, I said tentatively:

"Are you staying round here?"

She said she was staying in Market Chadwell. That was
a market town not very far away. It had, I knew, a large
hotel, three-starred. She'd be staying there, I guessed. She

said, with something of the same awkwardness, to me:
"Do you llve here?"

"No," I said, "I don't live here. I'm only here for the
day."

28



ENDLESS NIGHT

Then a rather awkward silence fell again. She gave a
faint shiver. A cold tittle wind had come up.
"We'd better walk," I said, "and keep ourselves warm.
Are you--have you got a car or are you going by bus or
train?"
She said she'd left a car in the village.
"But I'll be quite all right," she said.
She seemed a little nervous. I thought perhaps she
wanted to get rid of me but didn't quite know how to
manage it. I said:
"We'll walk down, shall we, just as far as the village."
She gave me a quick grateful look then. We walked
slowly down the winding road on which so many car
accidents had happened. As we came round a corner, a
figure stepped suddenly from beneath the shelter of the fir
tree. It appeared so suddenly that Ellie gave a start and said
"Oh I" It was the old woman I had seen the other day in
her own cottage garden. Mrs. Lee. She looked a great deal
wilder to-day with a tangle of black hair blowing in the wind
and a scarlet cloak round her shoulders; the commanding
stance she took up made her look taller.
"And what would you be doing, my dears?" she said.
"What brings you to Gipsy's Acre?"
"Oh," Ellie said, "we aren't trespassing, are we?"
"That's as may be. Gipsies' land this used to be. Gipsies'
land and they drove us off it. You'll do no good here, and
no good will come to you prowling about Gipsy's Acre."
There was no fight in Ellie, she wasn't that kind. She said gently and politely,
"I'm very sorry if we shouldn't have come here.
thought this place was being sold today."
"And bad luck it will be to anyone who buys it!" said the
old woman. "You listen, my pretty, for you're pretty
enough, bad luck will come to whoever buys it. There's a
curse on this land, a curse put on it long ago, many years
29



ENDLESS NIGHT


ago. You keep clear of it. Don't have naught to do with
Gipsy's Acre. Death it will bring you and danger. Go away
home across the sea and don't come back to Gipsy's Acre.
Don't say I didn't warn you."

With a faint spark of resentment Ellie said,

"We're doing no harm."

"Come now, Mrs. Lee," I said, "don't frighten this young
lady."

I turned in an explanatory way to Ellie.

"Mrs. Ia.'e lives in the village. She's got a cottage there.
She tells fortunes and prophesies the future. All that, don't
you, Mrs. Lee?" I spoke to her in a jocular way.

"I've got the gift," she said simply, drawing her gipsy-like
figure up straighter still. "I've got the gift. It's born in
me. We all have it. I'll tell your fortune, young lady.
Cross my palm with silver and I'll tell your fortune for

y

OU?'


"I don't think I want my fortune told."

"It'd be a wise thing to do. Know something about the
future. Know what to avoid, know what's coming to you if
you don't take care. Come now, there's plenty of money in
your pocket. Plenty of money. I know things it would be
wise for you to know."

I believe the urge to have one's fortune told is almost
invariable in women. I've noticed it before with girls I
knew. I nearly always had to pay for them to go into the
fortune tellers' booths if I took them to a fair. Ellie opened
her bag and laid two half-crowns in the old woman's
hand.

"Ah, my pretty, that's right now. You hear what old
Mother Lee will tell you."

Ellie drew off her glove and laid her small delicate palm
in the old woman's hand. She looked down at it, muttering
to herself. "What do I see now? What do 1 see?"

Suddenly she dropped Ellie's hand abruptly.

3O



I

ENDLESS NIGHT

"I'd go away from here if I were you. Go-and don't come back! That's what 1 told you just now and it's true.
I've seen it again in your palm. Forget Gipsy's Acre, forget
you ever saw it. And it's not just the ruined house up there,
it's the land itself that's cursed."
"You've got a mania about that," I said roughly. "Anyway
the young lady has nothing to do with the land here.
She's only here for a walk to-day, she's nothing to do with
this neighbourhood."
The old woman paid no attention to me. She said dourly,
"I'm telling you, my pretty. I'm warning you. You can have a happy life--but you must avoid danger. Don't come
to a place where there's danger or where there's a curse.
Go away where you're loved and taken care of and looked
after. You've got to keep yourself safe. Remember that.
Otherwise--otherwise "she gave a short shiver.
don't like to see it, I don't like to see what's in your hand."
Suddenly, with a queer, brisk gesture she pushed back
the two half-crowns into Ellie's palm, mumbling something
we could hardly hear. It sounded like "It's cruel. It's
• cruel, what's going to happen." Turning, she stalked away
at a rapid pace.
"What a--what a frightening woman," said Ellie.
"Pay no attention to her," I said, gruffly. "I think she's
half off her head anyway. She just wants to frighten you
off. They've got a sort of feeling, I think, about this particular
piece of land."
"Have there been accidents here? Have bad things happened?''
"Bound to be accidents. Look at the curve and the narrowness
of the road. The town council ought to be shot for
not doing something about it. Of course there'll be accidents
here. There aren't enough signs warning you."
"Only accidents--or other things?"
"Look here," I said, "people like to collect disasters.
31



ENDLESS NIGHT

There are plenty of disasters always to collect. That's the

way stories build themselves up about a place."

"Is that one of the reasons why they say this property

which is being sold will go cheap?"

"Well, it may be, I suppose. Locally, that is. But I

don't suppose it'll be sold locally. I expect it'll be bought

for developing. You're shivering," I said. "Don't shiver.

Come on, we'll walk fast." I added, "Would you rathcr I

left you before you got back into the town?"

"No. Of course not. Why should I?"

I made a desperate plunge.

"Look here," I said, "I shall be in Market Chadwcll to
morrow. I---I sui?pose--I don't know whether you'll still
be there I
mean, would there be any chance of--seeing
you?"
I shuffled my feet and turned my head away. I got rather
red, I think. But if I didn't say something now, how was
I going to go on with this?
"Oh yes," she said, "I shan't be going back to London until
the evening."
"Then
perhaps--would you--I mean, I suppose it's
rather
cheek "
"No,
it isn't."
"Well, perhaps you'd come and have tea at a cafd the
Blue Dog I think it's called. It's quite nice," I said. "Ir'sI
mean, it's "I couldn't get hold of the word I wanted
and I used the word that I'd heard my mother use once or
twice--"it's quite ladylike," I said anxiously.
Then Ellie laughed. I suppose it sounded rather peculiar
nowadays.
"I'm sure it'll be very nice," she said. "Yes. I'll come.
About half past four, will that be right?"
"I'll be there waiting for you," I said. "I--I'm glad."
I didn't say what I was glad about.
We had come to the last turn of the road where the home
began.
32



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Good-bye, then," I said, "till to-morrow. /knd--don't
think again about what that old hag said. She just likes
scaring people, I think. She's not all there," I added.
"Do you feel it's a frightening place?" Ellie asked.
"Gipsy's Acre? No, I don't," I said. I said it perhaps a
trifle too decidedly, but I didn't think it was frightening. I
thought as I'd thought before, that it was a beautiful place,
a beautiful setting for a beautiful house ....
Well, that's how my first meeting with Ellie went. I was
in Market Chadwell the next day waiting in the Blue Dog
and she came. We had tea together and we talked. We still
didn't say much about ourselves, not about our lives, I mean.
We talked mostly about things we thought, and felt; and
then Ellie glanced at her wrist watch and said she must be
going because her train to London left at 5.3o
"I thought you had a car down here," I said.
She looked slightly embarrassed then and she said no, no,
that hadn't been her car yesterday. She didn't say whose it
had been. That shadow of embarrassment came over us
again. I raised a finger to the waitress and paid the bill,
then 1 said straight out to Ellie,
"Am I--am I ever going to see you again?"
She didn't look at me, she looked down at the table. She
said,
"I shall be in London for another fortnight."
I said,
"Where? How?"
We made a date to meet in Regent's Park in three days'
time. It was a fine day. We had some food in the open air
restaurant and we walked in Queen Mary's garden and we
sat there in two deck-chairs and we talked. From that time
on, we began to talk about ourselves. I'd had some good
schooling, I told her, but otherwise I didn't amount to
much. I told her about the jobs I'd had, some of them at any
rate, and how I'd never stuck to things and how I'd been
33



ENDLESS NIGHT

restless and wandered about trying this and that. Funnily
enough, she was entranced to hear all this.
"So different," she said, "so wonderfully different."
"Different from what?"
"From me."
"You're a rich girl?" I said teasingly--"A poor little rich
girl."
"Yes," she said, "I'm a poor little rich girl."
She talked then in a fragmentary way about her background
of riches, of stifling comfort, of boredom, of not really
choosing your own friends, of never doing what you wanted.
Sometimes looking at people who seemed to be enjoying
themselves, when she wasn't. Her mother had died when
she was a baby and her father had married again. And then,
not many years after, he had died, she said. I gathered she
didn't care much for her stepmother. She'd lived mostly in
America but also travelling abroad a fair amount.
It seemed fantastic to me listening to her that any girl in
this age and time could live this sheltered, confined existence.
True, she went to parties and entertainments, but it
might have been fifty years ago it seemed to me from the
way she talked. There didn't seem to be any intimacy, any
fun! Her life was as different from mine as chalk from
cheese. In a way it was fascinating to hear about it but it
sounded stultifying to me.
"You haven't really got any friends of your own then?"
I said, incredulously. "What about boy friends?"
"They're chosen for me," she said rather bitterly.
"They're deadly dull."
"It's like being in prison," I said.
"That's what it seems like."
"And really no friends of your own?"
"I have now. I've got Greta."
"Who's Greta?" I said.
"She came first as an au pair girl--no, not quite that,
34



ENDLESS NIGHT


perhaps. But anyway I'd had a French girl who lived with
us for a year, for French, and then Greta came from Ger-many,
for German. Greta was different. Everything was
different once Greta came."

"You're very fond of her?" I asked.

"She helps me," said Ellie. "She's on my side. She
arranges so that I can do things and go places. She'll tell
lies for me. I couldn't have got away to come down to
Gipsy's Acre if it hadn't been for Greta. She's keeping me
company and looking after me in London while my step-mother's
in Paris. I write two or three letters and if I go off
anywhere Greta posts them every three or four days so that
they have a London postmark."

"Why did you want to go down to Gipsy's Acre though?"
I asked. "What for?"

She didn't answer at once.

"Greta and I arranged it," she said. "She's rather
wonderful," she went on. "She thinks of things, you know.
She suggests ideas."

"What's this Greta look like?" I asked.

"Oh, Greta's beautiful," she said.
"Tall and blonde.

She can do anything."

"I don't think I'd like her," I said.

Ellie laughed.

"Oh yes you would. I'm sure you would. She's very
clever, too."

"I don't like clever girls," I said. "And I don't like tall

blonde girls. I like small girls with hair like autumn leaves."
"I believe you're jealous of Greta," said Ellie.
"Perhaps I am. You're very fond of her, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am very fond ofher. She's made all the difference
in my life."

"And it was she who suggested you went down there.
Why, I wonder? There's not much to see or do in that part
of the world. I find it rather mysterious."

35



ENDLESS NIGHT

"It's our secret," said Ellie and looked embarrassed.
"Yours and Greta's? Tell me."
She shook her head. "I must have some secrets of my
own," she said.
"Does your Greta know you're meeting me?"
"She knows I'm meeting someone. That's all. She
doesn't ask questions. She knows I'm happy."
After that there was a week when I didn't sec Ellie. Her
stepmother had come back from Paris, also someone whom
she called Uncle Frank and she expl,ined almost casually
that she was having a birthday, and that they were giving a
big party for her in London.
"I shan't be able to get away," she said. "Not for the
next week. But after that--a£tcr that, it'll be different."
"Why will it be different after that?" "I shall be able to do what I like then."
"With Greta's help as usual?" I skid.
It used to make Ellie laugh the way I talked about
Greta. She'd say "You're so silly to be jealous of her. One
day you must meet her. You'll like her."
"I don't like bossy girls," I said obstinately.
"Why do you think she's bossy?"
"By the way you talk about her. She's always busy
arranging something."
"She's very efficient," said Ellie. "She arranges things
very well. That's why my stepmother relies on her so
much."
I asked what her Uncle Frank was like.
She said, "I don't know him really so very well. He was
my father's sister's husband, not a real relation. I think
he's always been rather a rolling stone and got into trouble
once or twice. You know the way people talk about someone
and sort of hint things."
"Not socially acceptable?" I asked. "Bad lot?"
"Oh, nothing really bad I think, but he used to get into
36



ENDLESS NIGHT

scrapes, 1 believe. Financial ones. And trustees and lawyers
and people used to have to get him out of them. Pay up for

"That's it," I said. "He's the bad hat of the family. I
expect I'd get on better with him than I would with the
paragon Greta."
"He can make himself very agreeable when he likes,"
said Ellie. "He's good company."
"But you don't really like him?" I asked sharply.
"I think I do .... It's just that sometimes, oh I can't
explain it. I just feel I don't know what he's thinking or
planning."
"One of our planners, is he ?"
"I don't know what he's really like," said Ellie again.
She didn't ever suggest that I should meet any of her
family. I wondered sometimes if I ought to say something
about it myself. I didn't know how she felt about the
subject. I asked her straight out at last.
"Look here, Ellie," I said, "do you think I ought to--meet
your family or would you rather I didn't?"
"I don't want you to meet them," she said at once.
"I know I'm not much "I said.
"I don't mean it that way, not a bit! I mean they'd make
a fuss. I can't stand a fuss."
"I sometimes feel," I said, "that this is rather a hole and
corner business. It puts me in a rather bad light, don't you
think?"
"I'm old enough to have my own friends," said Ellie. "I'm nearly twenty-one. When I am twenty-one I can have
my own friends and nobody can stop me. But now you see--well,
as I say there'd be a terrible fuss and they'd cart me
off somewhere so that I couldn't meet you. Thcre'd be--oh
do, do let's go on as we are now."
"Suits me if it suits you," I said. "I just didn't want to
be, well, too underhand about everything."
37



ENDLESS NIGHT

"It's. not being underhand. It's just having a friend one
can talk to and say things to. It's Someone one can"
she smiled suddenly, "one can make-believe with. You don't
know lOw wonderful that is.".
Yes, there was a lot of hat--make-believe! More and
more our times together were to turn out that way. Sometimes
it was me. More often it was Ellie who'd say, "Let's
suppose that we've bought Gipsy's Acre and that we're building
a house there."
I had told her a lot about Santonix and about the houses
he'd built. I tried to describe to her the kind of houses they
were and the way he thought about things. I don't think I
described it very well because I'm not good at describing
things. Ellie no doubt had her own picture of the house--our
house. We didn't sa. "our house" but we knew that's
what we meant ....
So for over a week I wasn't to see Ellie. I had taken out
what savings I had (there weren't many), and I'd bought
her a little green shamrock ring made of some Irish bog
stone. I'd given it to her for a birthday present and she'd
loved it and looked very happy.
"It's beautiful," she said.
She didn't wear much jcwellery and when she did I had
no doubt it was real diamonds and emeralds and things like
that but she liked my Irish green ting.
"It will be the birthday present I like best," she said.
Then I got a hurried note from her. She was going abroad
with her family to the South of France immediately after
her birthday.
"But don't worry," she wrote, "we shall be back again in
two or three weeks' time, on our way to America this time.
But anyway we'll meet again then.
I've got something
special I want to talk to you about."
I felt restless and ill at ease not seeing Ellie and knowing
she'd gone abroad to France. I had a bit of news about the
38



ENDLESS NIGHT

Gipsy's Acre property too. Apparently it had been sold by
private treaty but there wasn't much information about
who'd bought it. Some firm of London solicitors apparently
were named as the purchasers. I tried to get more information
about it, but I couldn't. The firm in question were very
cagey. Naturally I didn't approach the principals. I palled
up to one of their clerks and so got a little vague information.
It had been bought for a very rich client who was
going to hold it as a good investment capable of appreciation
when the land in that part of the country was becoming
more developed.
It's very hard to find out about things when you're
dealing with really exclusive firms. Everything is as much
of a deadly secret as though they were M.I.5 or something!
Everyone is always acting on behalf of someone else who
can't be named or spoken of! Take-over bids aren't in it!
I got into a terrible state of restlessness. I stopped thinking
about it all and I went and saw my mother.
I hadn't been to see her for a good long time.

39



CHAPTER VI

My mother lived in the same street she had lived in for
the last twenty years, a street of drab houses all highly
respectable and devoid of any kind of beauty or interest.
The front doorstep was nicely whitened and it looked just
the same as usual. It was No. 46. I pressed the front-door
bell. My mother opened the door and stood there looking at
me. She looked just the same as usual, too. Tall and angular,
grey hair parted in the middle, mouth like a rat-trap,
and eyes that were eternally suspicious. She looked hard as
nails. But where I was concerned there was a core of softness
somewhere in her. She never showed it, not if she could
help it, but I'd found out that it was there. She'd never stopped for a moment wanting me to be different but her
wishes were never going to come true. There was a perpetual
state of stalemate between us.
"Oh," she said, "so it's you."
"Yes," I said, "it's me."
She drew back a little to let me pass and I came into the
house and went on past the sitting-room door and into the
kitchen. She followed me and stood looking at me.
"It's been quite a long time," she said. "What have you
been doing?"
I shrugged my shoulders.
"Tiffs and that," I said.
"Ah," said my mother, "as usual, eh?"
"As usual," I agreed.
"How many jobs have you had since I saw you last?"
40



ENDLESS NIGHT

I thought a minute. "Five," I said.
"I wish you'd grow up."
"I'm fully adult," I said. "I have chosen my way of life.
How have things been with you?" I added. "Also as usual," said my mother.
"Quite well and all that?"
"I've no time to waste being ill," said my mother. Then
she said abruptly, "What have you come for?"
"Should I have come for anything in particular?"
"You usually do."
"I don't see why you should disapprove so strongly of my
seeing the world," I said.
"Driving luxurious cars all over the Continent! Is that
your idea of seeing the world?"
"Certainly."
"You won't make much of a success in that. Not if you
throw up the job at a day's notice and go sick, dumping
your clients in some heathen town."
"How did you know about that?"
"Your firm rang up. They wanted to know if I knew
your address."
"What did they want me for?"
"They wanted to re-employ you I suppose," said my
mother. "I can't think why."
"Because I'm a good driver and the clients like me.
Anyway, I couldn't help it if I went sick, could I?"
"I don't know," said my mother.
Her view clearly was that I could have helped it.
"Why didn't you report to them when you got back to
England?"
"Because I had other fish to fry," I said.
She raised her eyebrows. "More notions in your head?
More wild ideas? What jobs have you been doing since?"
"Petrol pump. Mechanic in a garage. Temporary clerk
washer-up in a sleazy night-club restaurant."
41



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Going down the hill in fact," said my mother with a kind of grim satisfaction.
"Not at all," I said. "It's all part of the pln. My
plan I"
She sighed. "What would you like, tea or coffee? I've
got both."
I plumped for coffee. I've grown out of the tea drinking
habit. We sat there with our cups in front of us and she
took a home-made cake out of a tin and cut us each a slice.
"You're different," she said, suddenly.
"Me, how?"
"I don't know, but you're different. What's happened?"
"Nothing's happened. What should have happened?"
"You're excited," she said.
"I'm going to rob a bank," I said.
She was not in the mood to be amused. She merely said,
"No, I'm not afraid of your doing that."
"Why not? Seems a very easy way of getting rich
quickly nowadays."
"It would need too much work," she said. "And a lot of
planning. More brainwork than you'd like to have to do.
Not safe enough, either."
"You think you know all about me," I said.
"No, I don't. 1 don't really know anything about you,
because you and I are as different as chalk and cheese. But
I know when you're up to something. You're up to something
now. What is it, Micky? Is it a girl?"
"Why should you think it's a girl?"
"I've always known it would happen some day."
"What do you mean by 'some day'? I've had lots of
girls."
"Not the way I mean. It's only been the way of a young
man with nothing to do. You've kept your hand in with
girls but you've never been really serious till now."
"But you thini I'm serious now?"
42



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Is it a girl, Micky?"
I didn't meet her eyes. I looked away and said, "In a
way."
"What kind of a girl is she?" '
"The right kind for me," I said.
"Are you going to bring her to sec me?"
"No," I said.
"It's like that, is it?"
"No, it isn't. I don't want to hurt your feelings but
"You're not hurting my feelings. You don't want me to
See her in case I should say to you 'Don't'. Is that it?"
"I wouldn't pay any attention if you did."
"Maybe not, but it would shake you. It- would shake you
somewhere inside because you take notice of what I say and
think. There axe things I've guessed about youmand
maybe I've guessed right and you know it. I'm the only
person in the world who can shake your confidence in yourself.
Is this girl a bad lot who's got hold of you?"
"Bad lot?" I said and laughed. "If you only saw herl
You make me laugh."
"What do you want from me? You want something. You
always do."
"I want some money," I said.
"You won't get it from me. What do you want it for--to
spend on this girl?"
"No," I said, "I want to buy a tint-ciasa suit to get married
i
l,'
"You're going to marry her?"
"If she'll have me."
That shook her.
"If you'd only tell me something!" she said. "You'vo
gotit badly, I can see that. It's the thing I always feared,
that you'd choose the wrong girl."
"Wrong girl! Hell?' I shouted. I was angry.
I went out of the house and I banged the door.
43



CHAPTER VII

When I got home there was a telegram waiting for me--it
had been sent from Antibes.
Meet me tomorrow four-thirty usual place.
Ellie was different. I saw it at once. We met as always in
Regent's Park and at first we were a bit strange and awkward
with each other. I had something I was going to say
to her and I Was in a bit of a state as to how to put it. I
suppose any man is when he comes to the point of proposing
marriage.
And she was strange about something too. Perhaps she
was considering the nicest and kindest way of saying No to
me. But somehow I didn't think that. My whole belief in life was based on the fact that Ellie loved me. But there
was a new independence about her, a new confidence in herself
which I could hardly feel was simply because she was a
year older. One more birthday can't make that difference
to a girl. She and her family-had been in the South of France
and she told me a little about it. And then rather shyly she
said:
"I--! saw that house there, the one you told me about.
The one that architect friend of yours had built."
"What--Santonix?"
"Yes. We went there to lunch one day."
"How did you do that? Does your stepmother know the
man who lives there?"
"Dmitri Gonstantine? Well--not exactly but she met
him and--well---Greta fixed it up for us to go there as a
matter of fact."

44



ENDLESS NIGHT


"Greta again," I said, allowing the usual exasperation to
come into my voice.

"I told you," she said, "Greta is very good at arranging
things."

"Oh all right. So she arranged that you and your step-mother
"

"And Uncle Frank," said Ellie.

"Quite a family party," I said, "and Greta too, I sup-pose."

"Well, no, Greta didn't come because, well--" Ellie
hesitated, "--Cora, my stepmother, doesn't treat Greta
exactly like that."

"She's not one of the family, she's a poor relation, is she?"
I said. "Just the au pair girl, in fact. Greta must resent
being treated that way sometimes."

"She's not an au pair girl, she's a kind of companion to
me."

"A chaperon," I said, "a cicerone, a duenna, a governess.
There are lots of words."

"Oh do be quiet," said Ellie, "I want to tell you. I know
now what you mean about your friend Santonix. It's
a wonderful house. It's--it's quite different. I can see
that if he built a house for us it would be a wonderful
house."

She had used the word quite unconsciously. Us, she had
said. She had gone to the Riviera and had made Greta
arrange things so as to see the house I had described,
because she wanted to visualise more clearly the house that
we would, in the dream world we'd built ourselves, have built
for us by Rudolf Santonix.

"I'm glad you felt like that about it," I said.

She said: "What have you been doing?"

"Just my dull job," I said, "and I've been to a race meet-ing
and I put some money on an outsider. 3°to . I put

45



ENDLESS NIGHT

every penny I had on it and it won by a length. Who says
my luck isn't in?"
"I'm glad you won," said Ellie, but she said it without
excitement, because putting all you had in the world on
an outsider and the outsider winning, didn't mean anything
in IF. llie's world. Not the kind of thing it meant in
mine.
"And I went to see my mother," I added.
"You've never spoken much of your mother."
"Why should I ?" I said.
"Aren't you fond of her?"
I considered. "I don't know," I said. "Sometimes I
don't think I am. After all, one grows up and---outgrows
parents. Mothers and fathers."
"I think you do care about her," said FAlie. "You
wouldn't be so uncertain when you talk about her other-

"I'm afraid of her in a way," I said. "She knows me too
well. She knows the worst of me, I mean."
"Somebody has to," said Ellie.
"What do you mean?"
"There's a saying by some great writer or other that no
man is a hero to his valet. Perhaps everyone ought to have
a valet. It must be so hard otherwise, always living up to
people's good opinion of one."
"Well, you certainly have ideas, Ellie," I said. I took her
hand. "Do you know all about me?" I said.
"I think so," said Ellie. She said it quite calmly and
simply.
"I never told you much."
"You mean you never told me anything at all, you
always clammed up. That's different. But I know quite
well what you are like, you yourself."
"I wonder if you do" I said. I went on, "It sounds
rather silly saying I love you. It seems too late for that,
46



ENDLESS NIGHT

doesn't it? I mean, you've known about it a long time,
practically from the beginning, haven't you?"
"Yes," said Ellie, "and you knew, to% didn't you, about
me?"
"The thing is," I said, "what are we going to do about
it? It's not going to be easy, Ellie. You know pretty well
what I am, what I've done, the sort of life I've led. I went
back to see my mother and the grim respectable little street
she lives in. It's not the same world as yours, Ellie. I don't
know that we can ever make them meet."
"You could take me to see your mother."
"Yes, I could," I said, "but I'd rather not. I expect that
sounds very harsh to you, perhaps cruel, but you see we've
got to lead a queer life together, you and I. It's not going
to be the life that you've led and it's not going to be the life
that I've led either. It's got to be a new life where we have
a sort of meeting ground between my poverty and ignorance
and your money and culture and social knowledge. My
friends will think you're stuck up and your fi'iends will
think I'm socially unpresentable. So what are we going to
do?"
"I'll tell you," said Ellie, "exactly what we're going to do.
We're going to live on Gipsy's Acre in a house--s dream
house--that your friend Santonix will build for us. That's
what we're going to do." She added, "We'll get married
first. That's what you mean, isn't it?"
"Yes," I said, "that's what I mean. Ifyou're sure it's all
right for you."
"It's quite easy," said Ellie, "we can get married next
week. I'm of age, you see. I can do what I like now. That
makes all the difference. I think perhaps you're right about
relations. I shan't tell my people and you won't tell your
mother, not until it's all over and then they can throw fits
and it won't matter."
"That's wonderful," I said, "wonderful, Ellie. But there's
47



ENDLESS NIGHT


one thing. I hate telling you about it. We can't live at
Gipsy's Acre, Ellie. Wherever we build our house it can't
be there because it's sold."

"I know it's sold," said Ellie. She was laughing. "You
don't understand, Mike. I'm the person who's bought
it."


48



CHAPTER VIII


I sat there, on the grass by the stream among the water
flowers with the little paths and the stepping stones all round
us. A good many other people were sitting round about us,
but we didn't notice them or even see they were there, because
we were like all the others. Young couples, talking about
their future. I stared at her and stared at her. I just couldn't
speak.

"Mike," she said. "There's something, something I've
got to tell you. Something about me, I mean."

"You don't need to," I said, "no need to tell me anything."
"Yes, but I must. I ought to have told you long ago but
I didn't want to because--because I thought it might drive

you away. But it explains in a way, about Gipsy's Acre."
"You bought it?" I said, "but how did you buy it?"
"Through lawyers," she said, "the usual way. It's a
perfectly good investment, you know. The land will ap-preciate.
My lawyers were quite happy about it."

It was odd suddenly to hear Ellie, the gentle and timid
Ellie, speaking with such knowledge and confidence of the

business world of buying and selling.

"You bought it for us?"

"Yes. I went to a lawyer of my own, not the family one.
I told him what I wanted to do, I got him to look into it,
I got everything set up and in train. There were two other
people after it but they were not really desperate and they
wouldn't go very high. The important thing was that the
whole thing had to be set up and arranged ready for me to
sign as soon as I came of age. It's signed and finished."

49



ENDLESS NIGHT

"But you must have made some deposit or something
beforehand. Had you enough money to do that?"
"No," said Ellie, "no, I hadn't control of much money
beforehand, but of course there are people who will advance
you money. And if you go to a new firm of legal advisers,
they will want you to go on employing them for business
deals once you've come into what money you're going to have
so they're willing to take the risk that you might drop down
dead before your birthday comes."
"You sound so businesslike," I said, "you take my breath
away I"
"Never mind business," said Ellie, "I've got to get back
to what I'm telling you. In a way I've told it you already,
but I don't suppose really you realise it."
"I don't want to know," I said. My voice rose, I was
almost shouting. "Don't tell me anything. I don't want to
know anything about what you've done or who you've been
fond of or what has happened to you."
"It's nothing of that kind," she said. "I didn't realise
that that was what you were fearing it might be. No, there's
nothing of that kind. No sex secrets. There's nobody but
you. The thing is that I'm--well--I'm rich."
"I know that," I said, "you've told me already."
"Yes," said Ellie with a faint smile, "and you said to
me, 'poor little rich girl'. But in a way it's more than that.
My grandfather, you see, was enormously rich. Oil. Mostly
oil. And other things. The wives he paid alimony to
are dead, there was only my father and myself left because
his two other sons were killed. One in Korea and one
in a car accident. And so it was all left in a great big
huge trust and when my father died suddenly, it all
came to rat. My father had made provision for my stepmother
before, so she didn't get anything more. It was all
m/ne. I'm -- actually one of the richest women in America,

50



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Good Lord," I said. "I didn't know Yes,
you're
right,
I didn't know it was like that."
"I
didn't want you to know. I didn't want to tell you. That
was why I was afraid when I said my name---Fenella Goodman.
We spell it G-u-t-e-m-a-n, and I thought you might
know the name of Guteman so I slurred over it and made
it into Goodman."
"Yes,"
I said, "I've seen the name of Guteman vaguely. But
I don't think I'd have recognised it even then. Lots of people
are called names rather like that."
"That's
why," she said, "I've been so hedged around all the
time and fenced in, and imprisoned. I've had detectives guarding
me and young men being vetted before they're allowed
even to speak to me. Whenever I've made a friend they've
had to be quite sure it wasn't an unsuitable one. You
don't know what a terrible, terrible prisoner's life it is! But now
that's all over, and if you don't mind"
"Of course I don't mind," I said, "we shall have lots of
fun. In fact," I said, "you couldn't be too rich a girl for me
We both laughed. She said: "What I like about you is
that you can be natural about things."
"Besides," I said, "I expect you pay a lot of tax on it, don't you? That's one of the few nice things about being
like me. Any money I make goes into my pocket and nobody
can take it away from me."
"We'll have our house," said Ellie, "our house on Gipsy's
Acre." Just for a moment she gave a sudden little shiver.
"You're not cold, darling," I said. I looked up at the
sunshine.
"No," she said.
It was really very hot. We'd been basking. It might
almost have been the South of France.
"No," said Ellie, "it was just that--that woman, that
gipsy that day."
"Oh don't think of her," I said, "she was crazy anyway."
51



ENDLESS NIGHT


"Do you think she really thinks there's a curse on the
land?"

"I think gipsies are like that. You know--always wanting

to make a song and dance about some curse or something."
"Do you know much about gipsies?"

"Absolutely nothing," I said truthfully. "If you don't
want Gipsy's Acre, Ellie, we'll buy a house somewhere else.
On the top of a mountain in Wales, on the coast of Spain
or an Italian hillside, and Santonix can build us a house
there just as well."

"No," said Ellie, "that's how I want it to be. It's where
I first saw you walking up the road, coming round the
corner very suddenly, and then you saw me and stopped and

stared at me. I'll never forget that."

"Nor will I," I said.

"So that's where it's going to be. And your friend
Santonix will build it."

"I hope he's still alive," I said with an uneasy pang.
"He was a sick man."

"Oh yes," said Ellie, "he's alive. I went to see him."
"You went to see him?"

"Yes. When I was in the South of France. He was in a
sanitorium there."

"Every minute, Ellie, you seem to be more and more
amazing. The things you do and manage."

"He's rather a wonderful person I think," said Ellie, "but
rather frightening."

"Did he frighten you?"

"Yes, he frightened me very much for some reason."
"Did you talk to him about us?"

"Yes. Oh yes, I told him all about us and about Gipsy's
Acre and about the house. He told me then that we'd have
to take a chance with him. He's a very ill man. He said he
thought he still had the life left in him to go and see the site,
to draw the plans, to visualise it and get it all sketched out.

52



ENDLESS NIGHT

He said he wouldn't mind really if he died before the house
was finished, but I told him," added Ellie, "that he mustn't die before the house was finished because I wanted him to see
us live in it."
"What did he say to that?"
"He asked me if I knew what I was doing marrying you,
and I said of course I did."
"And then?"
"He said he wondered if.0u knew what you were doing."
"I know all right," I said.
"He said 'You will always know where you're goings Miss
Guteman.' He said 'You'll be going always where you want
to go and because it's your chosen way.'
"'But Mike,' he said, 'might take the wrong road. He
hasn't grown up enough yet to know where he's going.' "I said," said Ellie, "he'll be quite safe with me."
She had superb self-confidence. I was angry though at
what Santonix had said. He was like my mother. She
always seemed to know more about me than I knew myself.
"I know where I'm going," I said. "I'm going the way I
want to go and we're going it together."
"They've started pulling down the ruins of The Towers
already," said Ellie.
She began to talk practically.
"It's to be a rush job as soon as the plans are finished. We
must hurry. Santonix said so. Shall we be married next
Tuesday," said Ellie, "it's a nice day of the week."
"With nobody else there," I said.
"Except Greta," said Ellie.
"To hell with Greta," I said, "she's not coming to our
wedding. You and I and nobody else. We can pull the
necessary witnesses out of the street."
I really think, looking back, that that was the happiest
day of my life ....

53



BOOK II



CHAPTER IX


So that was that, and Ellie and I got married. It sounds
abrupt just putting it like that, but you see it was really just
the way things happened. We decided to be married and
we got married.

It was part of the whole thingmnot just an end to a
romantic novel or a fairy story. "And so they got maxried
and lived happily ever afterwards." You can't, after all,
make a big drama out of living happily ever afterwards.
We were married and we were both happy and it was really
quite a time before anyone got on to us and began to make
the usual difficulties and commotions and we'd made up our
minds to those.

The whole thing was really extraordinarily simple. In
her desire for freedom Ellie had covered her tracks very
cleverly up to now. The useful Greta had taken all the
necessary steps, and was always on guard behind her. And I
had realised fairly soon on that there was nobody really
whose business it was to care terribly about Ellie and what
she was doing. She had a stepmother who was engrossed in
her own social life and love affairs. If Ellie didn't wish to
accompany her to any particular spot on the globe there
was no need for Ellie to do so. She'd had all the proper
governesses and ladies' maids and scholastic advantages and
if she wanted to go to Europe, why not? If she chose to
have her twenty-first birthday in London, again why not?
Now that she had come into her vast fortune she had the
whip hand of her family in so far as spending her money went.
57



ENDLESS NIGHT

If she'd wanted a villa on the Kiviera or a castle on the
Costa Brava or a yacht or any of those things, she had only
to mention the fact and someone among the retinues that
surround millionaires would put .everything in hand immediately.
Greta, I gather, was regarded by her family as an admirable
stooge. Competent, able to make all arrangements
with the utmost efficiency, subservient no doubt and charming
to the stepmother, the uncle and a few odd cousins who
seemed to be knocking about. Ellie had no fewer than three
lawyers at her command, from what she let fall every now
and then. She was surrounded by a vast financial network of
bankers and lawyers and the administrators of Trust Funds.
It was a world that I just got glimpses ofevery now and then, mostly from things that Ellie let fall carelessly in the course
of conversation. It didn't occur to her, naturally, that I
wouldn't know about all those things. She had been brought
up in the midst of them and she naturally concluded that
the whole world knew what they were and how they worked
and all the rest of it.
In fact, getting glimpses of the special peculiarities
of each other's lives were unexpectedly what we enjoyed
most in our early married life. To put it quite crudely--and
I did put things crudely to myself, for that was the only way
to get to terms with my new life--the poor don't really
know how the rich live and the rich don't know how the
poor live, and to find out is really enchanting to both of them.
Once I said uneasily:
"Look here, Ellie, is there going to be an awful schemozzle
over all this, over our marriage, I mean?"
Ellie considered without, I noticed, very much interest.
"Oh yes," she said, "they'll probably be awful." And she
added, "I hope you won't mind too much."
"I won't mind--why should I?----But you, will they
bully you over it?"
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"I expect so," said Ellie, "but one needn't listen. The
point is that they can't do anything."
"But they'll try?"
"Oh yes," said Ellie. "They'll try." Then she added
thoughtfully, "They'll probably try and buy you off."
"Buy me off?."
"Don't look so shocked," said EIlie, and she smiled, a
rather happy little girl's smile. "It isn't put exactly like
that." Then she added, "They bought off Minnie Thompson's
first, you know."
"Minnie Thompson? Is that the one they always call
the oil heiress?"
"Yes, that's right. She ran off and married a Life Guard
off the beach."
"Look here, Ellie," I said uneasily, "I was a Life Guard
at Littlehampton once."
"Oh, were you? What fun! Permanently?"
"No, of course not. Just one summer, that's all."
"I wish you wouldn't worry," said Ellie.
"What happened about Minnie Thompson?"
"They had to go up to oo,ooo dollars, I think," said
Ellie. "He wouldn't take less. Minnie was man-mad and
really a half-wit," she added.
"You take my breath away, Ellie," I said. "I've not only
acquired a wife, I've got something I can trade for solid
cash at any time."
"That's right," said Ellie. "Send for a high powered
lawyer and tell him you're willing to talk turkey. Then he
fixes up the divorce, and the amount of alimony," said Ellie,
continuing my education. "My stepmother's been married
four times," she added, "and she's made quite a lot out of
it." And then she said, "Oh, Mike, don't look so shodced."
The funny thing is that I was shocked. I felt a priggish distaste
for the corruption of modern society in its richer
phases. There had been something so little grl-like about
59



ENDLESS NIGHT

Ellie, so simple, almost touching in her attitude that I was
astonished to find how well up she was in worldly affairs
and how much she took for granted. And yet I knew that I
was right about her fundamentally. I knew quite well the
kind of creature that Ellie was. Her simplicity, her affection,
her natural sweetness. That didn't mean she had to be
ignorant of things. What she did know and took for granted
was a fairly limited slice of humanity. She didn't know much
about my world, the world of scrounging for jobs, of racecourse
gangs and dope gangs, the rough and tumble
dangers of life, the sharp-Aleck flashy type that I knew so
well from living amongst them all my life. She didn't know
what it was to be brought up decent and respectable but
always hard up for money, with a mother who worked her
fingers to the bone in the name of respectability, determining
that her son should do well in life. Every penny scrimped for
and saved, and the bitterness when your gay carefree on
threw away his chances or gambled his all on a good tip for
the 3.3°.
She enjoyed hearing about my life as much as I enjoyed
hearing about hers. Both of us were exploring a foreign
country.
Looking back I see what a wonderfully happy life it wa,
those early days with Ellie. At the time I took them for
granted and so did she. We were married in a registry office
in Plymouth. Guteman is not an uncommon name. Nobody,
reporters or otherwise, knew the Guteman heiress was
in England. There had been vague paragraphs in papers
occasionally, describing her as in Italy or on someone's
yacht. We were married in the Registrar's Office with his
clerk and a middle-aged typist as witnesses. He gave us a
serious little harangue on the serious responsibilities of
married life, and wished us happiness. Then we went out,
free and married. Mr. and Mrs. Michael Rogers! We spent
a week in a seaside hotel and then we went abroad. We had
6O



ENDLESS NIGHT

a glorious three weeks travelling about wherever the fancy
took us and no expense spared.
We went to Greece, and we went to Florence, and to
Venice and lay on the Lido, then to the French Riviera and
then to the Dolomites. Half the places I forget the names of
now. We took planes or chartered a yacht or hired large
and handsome cars. And while we enjoyed ourselves, Greta, I gathered from Ellie, was still on the Home Front doing
her stuff.
Travelling about in her own way, sending letters and
forwarding all the various post-cards and letters that Ellie
had left with her.
"There'll be a day of reckoning, of course," said Ellie.
"They'll come down on us like a cloud of vultures. But we
might as well enjoy ourselves until that happens."
"What about Greta?" I said, "won't they be rather
angry with her when they find out?"
"Oh, of course," said Ellie, "but Greta won't mind.
She's tough."
"Mightn't it stop her getting another job?"
"Why should she get another job?" said Ellie. "She'll
come and live with us."
"No!" I said.
"What do you mean, no, Mike?"
"We don't want anyone living with us," I said.
"Greta wouldn't be in the way," said Ellie, "and she'd
be very useful. Really, I don't know what I'd do without
her. I mean, she manages and arranges everything."
I frowned. "I don't think I'd like that. Besides, we want
our own house--our dream house, after all, Ellie--we want
it to ourselves."
"Yes," said Ellie, "I know what you mean. But all the
same "She heeitated. "I mean, it would be very hard
on Greta not to have anywhere to live. After all, she's been
with me, done everything for me for four years now.
61



ENDLESS NIGHT


And look how she's helped me to get married and all that."
"I won't have her butting in between us all the time!"

"But she's not like that at all, Mike. You haven't even
met her yet."

"No. No, I know I haven't buttbut it's nothing to do
with, oh with liking her or not. We want to be by ourselves,

llie.' '

"Darling Mike," said Ellie softly.

We left it at that for the moment. ?

During the course of our travels we had met Santonix.
That was in Greece. He had been in a small fisherman's
cottage near the sea. I was startled by how ill he looked,
much worse than when I had seen him a year ago. He

greeted both Ellie and myself very warmly.

"So you've done it, you two," he said.

"Yes," said Ellie, "and now we're going to have our
house built, aren't we?"

"I've got the drawings for you here, the plans," he said
to me. "She's told you, hasn't she, how she came and
ferreted me out and gave me her--commands," he said,
choosing the word thoughtfully.

"Oh! not commands," said Ellie. "I just pleaded.''
"You know we've bought the site?" I said.

"Ellie wired and told me. She sent me dozens of photo-graphs."

"Of course you've got to come and see it first," said Ellie.

"You mightn't like the site."

"I do like it."

"You can't really know till you've seen it."

"But I have seen it, child. I flew over five days ago. I met

one of your hatchet-faced lawyers there--the English one."
"Mr. Crawford ?"

"That's the man. In fact, operations have already
started; clearing the ground, removing the ruins of the old
house, foundations--drains. When you get back to

62



ENDLESS NIGHT


England I'll be there to meet you." He got out his plans
then and we sat talking and looking at our house to be.
There was even a rough water-colour sketch of it as well as

the architectural elevations and plans.
"Do you like it, Mike?"
I drew a deep breath.

"Yes," I said, "that's it. That's absolutely it."

"You used to talk about it enough, Mike. When I was in
fanciful mood I used to think that piece of land had laid
a spell upon you. You were a man in love with a house that
you might never own, that you might never see, that might
never even be built."

"But it's going to be built," said Ellie. "It's going to be
built, isn't it?"

"If God or the devil wills it," said SantonLx. "It doesn't
depend on me."

"You're not any--any better?" I asked doubtfully.

"Get it into your thick head. 1 shall never be better. That's
not on the cards."

"Nonsense," I said. "People are finding cures for things
all the time. Doctors are gloomy brutes. They give people
up for dead and then the people laugh and cock a snook at
them and live for another fifty years."

"I admire your optimism, Mike, but my malady isn't one
of that kind. They take you to hospital and give you a
change of blood and back you come again with a little lee-way
of life, a little span of time gained. And so on, getting
weaker each time."

"You are very brave," said Ellie.

"Oh no, I'm not brave. When a thing is certain there's
nothing to be brave about. All you can do is to find your
consolation."

"Building houses?"

"No, not that. You've less vitality all the time, you see,
and therefore building houses becomes more difficult, not

63



ENDLESS NIGHT


easier. The strength keeps giving out. No. But there are

consolations. Sometimes very queer ones."

"I don't understand you," I said.

"No, you wouldn't, Mike. I don't know really that Ellie
would. She might." He went on, speaking not so much to
us as to himself. "Two things run together, side by side.
Weakness and strength. The weakness of fading vitality and
the strength of frustrated power. It doesn't matter, you see,
what you lo now! You're going to die anyway. So you can
do anything.you choose. There's nothing to deter you, there's
nothing to hold you back. I could walk through the streets
of Athens shooting down every man or woman whose face I
didn't like. Think of that."

"The police could arrest you just the same," I pointed
out.

"Of course they could. But what could they do? At the
most take my life. Well my life's going to be taken by a
greater power than the law in a very short time. What else
could they do? Send me to prison for twenty--thirty years?
That's rather ironical, isn't it, there aren't twenty or thirty
years for me to serve. Six months--one year--eighteen
months at the utmost. There's nothing anyone can do to
me. So in the span that's left to me I am king. I can do what
I like. Sometimes it's a very heady thought. Only---only,
you see, there's not much temptation because there's noth-ing
particularly exotic or lawless that I want to do."

After we had left him, as we were driving back to Athens,
Ellie said to me,

"He's an odd person. Sometimes you know, I feel
frightened of him."

"Frightened, of Rudolf Santonix--why?"

"Because he isn't like other people and because he has
a--I don't knowma ruthlessness and an arrogance about
him somewhere. And I think that he was trying to tell us,
really, that knowing he's going to die soon has increased his

64



ENDLESS NIGHT


arrogance. Supposing," said Ellie, looking at me in an
animated way, with almost a rapt and emotional ex-pression
on her face, "supposing he built us our lovely castle,
our lovely house on the cliff's edge there in the pines, sup-posing
we were coming to live in it. There he was on the

doorstep and he welcomed us in and then

"Well, Ellie?"

"Then, supposing he came in after us, he slowly closed
the doorway behind us and sacrificed us there on the thresh-old.
Cut our throats or something."

"You frighten me, Ellie. The things you think of!"
"The trouble with you and me, Mike, is that we don't
live in the real world. We dream of fantastic things that
may never happen."

"Don't think of sacrifices in connection with Gipsy's
Acre."

'tit's the name, I suppose, and the curse upon it."

"There isn't any curse," I shouted. "It's all nonsense.
Forget it."

That was in Greece.


65



CHAPTER X

It was, I think, the day after that. We were in Athens.
Suddenly, on the steps of the Acropolis Ellie ran into people
that she knew. They had come ashore from one of the Hellenic
cruises. A woman of about thirty-five detached herself
from the group and rushed along the steps to Ellie exclaiming,
"Why, I never did. It's really you, Ellie Guteman? Well,
what are you doing here ? I'd no idea. Are you on a cruise ?"
"No," said Ellie, "just staying here."
"My, but it's lovely to see you. How's Cora, is she here?"
"No, Cora is at Salzburg I believe."
"Well, well." The woman was looking at me and Ellie
said quietly, "Let me introduce--Mr. Rogers, Mrs. Benning-ton."
"How d'you do. How long are you here for?"
"I'm leaving to-morrow," said Ellie.
"Oh dear! My, I'll lose my party if I don't go, and I just
don't want to miss a word of the lecture and the descriptions.
They do hustle one a bit, you know. I'm just dead beat at
the end of the day. Any chance of meeting you for a drink?"
"Not to-day," said Ellie, "we're going on an excursion."
Mrs. Bennington rushed off to rejoin her party. Ellie, who
had been going with me up the steps of the Acropolis, turned
round and moved down again.
"That rather settles things, doesn't it," she said to me.
"What does it settle?"
Ellie did not answer for a minute or two and then she said
with a sigh, "I must write tonight."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Write to whom?"
"Oh, to (3ora, and to Uncle Frank, I suppose, and Uncle
Andrew."
"Who's Uncle Andrew? He's a new one."
"Andrew Lippincott. Not really an uncle. He's my
principal guardian or trustee or whatever you call it. He's a
lawyer--a very well known one."
"What are you going to say?"
"I'm going to tell them I'm married. I couldn't say
suddenly to Nora Bennington 'Let me introduce my
husband'. There would have been frightful shrieks and
exclamations and 'I never heard you were married. Tell me
all about it, darling' etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. It's only
fair that my stepmother and Uncle Frank and Uncle Andrew
should be the first to know." She sighed. "Oh well, we've
had a lovely time up to now."
"What will they say or do?" I asked.
"Make a fuss, I expect," said Ellie, in her placid way. "It doesn't matter if they do and they'll have sense enough to
know that. We'll have to have a meeting, I expect. We
could go to New York. Would you like that?" She looked
at me inquiringly.
"No," I said, "I shouldn't like it in the least."
"Then they'll come to London probably, or some of them
will. I don't know if you'd like that any better."
"I shouldn't like any of it. I want to be with you and se
our house going up brick by brick as soon as Santonix gets
there."
"So we can," said Ellie. "After all, meetings with the
family won't take long. Possibly just one big splendid row
would do. Get it over in one. Either we fly over there or
they fly over here."
'ti thought you said your stepmother was at Salzburg."
"Oh, I just said that. It sounded odd to say I didn't know
where she was. Yes," said Ellie with a sigh, "we'll go home
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ENDLESS NIGHT

and meet them all. Mike, I hope you won't mind too much."
"Mind what--your family?"
"Yes. You won't mind if they're nasty to you."
"I suppose it's the price I have to pay for marrying you,"
I said. "I'll bear it."
"There's your mother," said Ellie thoughtfully.
"For heaven's sake, Ellie, you're not going to try and
arrange a meeting between your stepmother in her frills and
her furbelows and my mother from her back street. What do
you think they'd ever have to say to each other?"
"If Cora was my own mother they might have quite a lot
to say to each other," said Ellie. "I wish you wouldn't be
so obsessed with class distinctions, Mike I"
"Me!" I said incredulously. "What's your American
phrase---I come from the wrong side of the tracks, don't I ?"
"You don't want to write it on a placard and pin it on
yourself."
"I' don't know the right clothes to wear," I said bitterly. "I don't know the right way to talk about things and I
don't know anything really about pictures or art or music.
I'm only jugt learning who to tip and how much to give."
"Don't you think, Mike, that that makes it all much more
exciting for you? I think so."
"Anyway," I said, "you're not to drag my mother into
your family party."
"I wasn't proposing to drag anyone into anything, but I think, Mike, I ought to go and see your mother when we
go back to England."
"No," I said explosively.
She looked at me rather startled.
"Why not, Mike, though. I mean, apart from anything
else, I mean it's just very rude not to. Have you told her
you're married?"
"Not yet."
"Why not?"
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ENDLESS NIGHT

I didn't answer.
"Wouldn't the simplest way be to tell her you're married
and take me to see her when we get back to England?"
"No," I said again. It was not so explosive this time but
it was still fairly well underlined.
"You don't want me to meet her," said Ellie, slowly.
I didn't, of course. I suppose it was obvious enough but
the last thing I could do was to explain. I didn't see how
could explain.
"It wouldn't be the right thing to do," I said slowly.
"You must see that. I'm sure it would Icad to trouble.'
"You think she wouldn't like me?"
"Nobody could help liking you, but it wouldn't
oh I don't know how to put it. But she might be upset and
confused. After all, well, I mean I've married out of my
station. That's the old-fahioncd term. She wouldn't like that."
Fllie shook her head slowly.
"Does anybody rcaily think like that nowadays?"
"Of course they do. They do in your country too."
"Yes," she said, "in a way that's true bu[--if anyone
makes good there "
"You mean if a man makes a lot of money."
"Well, not only money."
"Yes," I said, "it's money. Ifa man makes a lot ofmoney
he's admired and looked up to and it doesn't matter whero
he was born."
"Well, that's the same everywhere," said Ellle.
"Please, Ellie," I said. "Please don't go and see my
mother."
"I still thln it's unkind."
"No it isn't. Can't you let me know what's best for my
own mother? She'd be upset. I tell you she would."
"But you must tell her' you've got married."
"All right," I said. "I'll do that."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

It occurred to me it would be easier to write to my mother
from abroad. That evening when Ellie was writing to
Uncle Andrew and Uncle Frank and her stepmother Cora
van Stuyvesant, .I, too, was writing my own letter. It was
quite short.
"Dear Mum," I wrote. "I ought to have told you before
but I felt a bit awkward. I got married three weeks ago.
It was all rather sudden. She's a very pretty girl and very
sweet. She's got a lot of money which makes things a bit
awkward sometimes. We're going to build ourselves a
house somewhere in the country. Just at present we're
travelling around Europe. All the best, Yours, Mike."
The results of our evening's correspondence were somewhat
varied. My mother let a week elapse before she sent a
letter remarkably typical of her.
"Dear Mike. I was glad to get your letter. I hope you'll
be very happy. Your affectionate mother."
As Ellie had prophesied, there was far more fuss on her
side. We'd stirred up a regular hornet's nest of trouble. We
were beset by reporters who wanted news of our romantic
marriage, there were articles in the papers about the
Guteman heiress and her romantic elopement, there were
letters from bankers and lawyers. And finally official
meetings were arranged. We met Santonix on the site of
Gipsy's Acre and we looked at the plans there and discussed
things, and then having seen things under way we
came to London, took a suite at Claridge's and prepared as
they say in old world books, to receive cavalry.
The first to arrive was Mr. Andrew P. Lippincott. He
was an elderly man, dry and precise in appearance. He was
long and lean with suave and courteous manners. He was a
Bostonian and from his voice I wouldn't have known he was
an American. By arrangement through the telephone he
called upon us in our suite at 2 o'clock. Ellie was nervous, I
could tell, although she concealed it very well.
TO



ENDLESS NIGHT

Mr. Lippincott kissed Ellie and extended a hand and a
pleasant smile to me.
"Well, Ellie my dear, you are looking very well. Blooming,
I might say."
"How are you, Uncle Andrew? How did you come. Did
you fly?"
"No, I had a very pleasant trip across on the Queen Mary.
And this is your husband?"
"This is Mike, yes."
I played up, or thought I did. "How are you, sir?" I said.
Then I asked him if he'd have a drink, which he refused
pleasantly. He sat down in an upright chair with gilt arms
to it and looked, still smiling, from Ellie to me.
"Well," he said, "you young people have been giving us
shocks. All very romantic, eh?"
"I'm sorry," said Ellie, "I really am sorry."
"Are you?" said Mr. Lippincott, rather dryly.
"I thought it was the best way," said Ellie.
"I am not altogether of your opinion there, my dear."
"Uncle Andrew," Ellie said, "you know perfectly well
that if I'd done it any other way there would have been the
most frightful fuss."
"Why should there have been such a frightful fuss?"
"You know what they'd have been like," said Ellie.
'You too," she added accusingly. She added "I've had two
letters from Cora. One yesterday and one this morning.''
"You must discount a certain amount of agitation, my
dear. It's only natural under the circumstances, don't you
think?"
"It's my business who I get married to and how and
where."
"You may think so, but you will find that the women of
any family would rarely agree as to that."
"Really, I've saved everyone a lot of trouble."
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ENDLESS NIGHT


"You may put it that way."

"But it's true, isn't it?"

"But you practised, did you not, a good deal ofdeceptlon,
helped by someone who should have known better than to

do what she did."

Ellie flushed.

"You mean Greta? She only did what I asked her to.
Are they all very upset with her?"

"Naturally. Neither she nor you could expect anything
else, could you? She was, remember, in a position of
trust."

"I'm of age. I can do what I like."

"I am speaking of the period of time before you were of
age. The deceptions began then, did they not?"

"You mustn't blame Ellie, sir," I said. "To begin with I
didn't know what was going on and since all her rdations
are in another country it wasn't easy for me to get in touch
with them."

"I quite realise," said Mr. Lippincott, "that Greta posted
certain letters and gave certain information to Mrs. van
Stuyvesant and to myself as she was requested to do by Ellie
here, and made, if I may say so, a very competent job of it.
You have met Greta Andersen, Michael? I may call you
Michael, since you are Ellie's husband."

"Of course," I said, "call me Mike. No, I haven't met
Miss Andersen "

"Indeed? That seems to me surprising." lie looked at
me with a long thoughtful gaze. "I should have thought
that she would have been present at your marriage."

"No, Greta wasn't there," said Ellie. She threw me a
look of reproach and I shifted uncomfortably.

Mr. Lippincott's eyes were still resting on me thought-fully.
He made me uncomfortable. He seemed about to say
something more then changed his mind.

"I'm afraid," he said after a moment or two, "that

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ENDLESS NIGHT

you two, Michael and Ellie, will have to put up with a
certain amount of reproaches and criticm fi.om Ellie's
family."
"I suppose they are going to descend on me in a bunchy"
said Ellie.
"Very probably," said Mr. Lippincott. "I've tried to
pave the way," he added.
"You're on our side, Uncle Andrew?" .aid Ellie, smiling
at him.
"You must hardly ask a prudent lawyer to go as far as that.
I have learnt that in life it is wise to accept what is a fait
axcorapli. You two have fallen in love with each other and
have got married and have, I understood you to say, Ellie,
bought a piece of property in the South of England and have
already started building a house on it. You propose, therefore,
to live in this country?"
"We want to make our home here, yes. Do you object to
our doing that?" I said with a touch of anger in my voice.
"Ellie's married to me and she's a British subject now. So
why shouldn't she live in England?"
"No reason at all. In fact, there is no reason why Fenella
should not live in any country she chooses, or indeed have
property in more than one country. The house in Nassau
belongs to you, remember, Ellie."
"I always thought it was Cora's. She always has behaved
as though it was."
"But the actual property fights are vested in you. You
also have the house in Long Island whenever you care to
visit it. You are the owner of a great deal of oil bearing
roperty in the West." His voice was amiable, pleasant but
I had the feeling that the words were directed at me in some
curious way. Was it his idea of trying to insinuate a wedge
between me and Ellie? I was not sure. It didn't seem very
sensible, rubbing it in to a man that his wife owned property
all over the world and was fabulously rich. If anything I
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ENDLESS NIGHT

should have thought that he would have played down
Ellie's property rights and her money and all the rest of it. iF i was a fortune hunter as he obviously thought, that would
be all the more grist to my mill But I did realise that Mr.
Lippincott was a subtle man. It would be hard at any time
to know what he was driving 'at; what he had in his mind
behind his even and pleasant manner. Was he trying in a
way of his own to make me feel uncomfortable, to make
me feel that I was going to be branded almost publicly as a
fortune hunter. He said to Ellie,
"I've brought over a certain amount of legal stuff which
you'll have to go through with me, Ellie. I shall want your
signature to many of these things."
"Yes, of course, Uncle Andrew. Any time."
"As you say, any time. There's no hurry. I have other
business in London and I shall be over here for about ten
days."
Ten days, I thought. That's a long time. I rather wished
that Mr. Lippincott wasn't going to be here for ten days. He
appeared friendly enough towards me, though, as you might
say, indicating that he still reserved his judgment on certain
points, but I wondered at that moment whether he was really
my enemy. If he was, he would not be the kind of man to
show his hand.
"Well," he went on, "now that we've all met and come to
terms, as you might say, for the future, I would like to have
a short, interview with this husband of yours."
Ellie said, "You can talk to us both." She was up in
arms. I put a hand on her arm.
"Now don't flare up, ducks, you're not a mother hen
protecting a chicken." I propelled her gently to the door
in the wall that led into the bedroom. "Uncle Andrew
wants to size me up," I said. "He's well within his rights."
I pushed her gently through the double doors. I shut
them both and came back into the room. It was a large
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ENDLESS NIGHT


handsome sitting-room. I came back and took a chair and
faced Mr. Lippincott. "All right," I said. "Shoot."

"Thank you, Michael," he said. "First of all I want to
assure you that I am not, as you may be thinking, your
enemy in any way."

"Well," I said, "I'm glad to hear that." I didn't sound
very sure about it.

"Let me speak frankly," said Mr. Lippincott, "more
frankly than I could do before that dear child to whom I am
guardian and of whom I am very fond. You may not yet
appreciate it fully, Michael, but Ellie is a most unusually
sweet and lovable girl."

"Don't you worry. I'm in love with her all right."

"That is not at all the same thing," said Mr. Lippincott
in his dry manner. "I hope that as well as being in love with
her you can also appreciate what a really dear and in some
ways very vulnerable person she is."

"I'll try," I said. "I don't think I'll have to try very hard.
She's the tops, Ellie is."

"So I will go on with what I was about to say. I shall put
my cards on the table with the utmost frankness. You are
not the kind of young man that I should have wished Ellie to
marry. I should like her, as her family would have liked her,
to marry someone of her own surroundings, of her own

set "

"A toff in other words," I said.

"No, not only that. A similar background is, I think, to
be desired as a basis for matrimony. And I am not referring
to the snob attitude. After all, Herman Guteman, her
grandfather, started lire'as a dock hand. He ended up as
one of the richest men in America."

"For all you know I might do the same," I said. "I may
end up one of the richest men in England."

"Everything is possible," said Mr. Lippincott. "Do you
have ambitions that way?"

75



ENDLESS NIGHT

"It's not just the money," I said. "I'd like to--I'd like to
get somewhere and do things and "I hesitated, stopped.
"You have ambitions, shall we say? Well, that is a very
good thing, I am sure."
"I'm starting at long odds," I said, "starting from scratch.
I'm nothing and nobody and I won't pretend otherwise."
He nodded approval.
"Very frankly and handsomely said. I appreciate it.
Now, Michael, I am no relation to Ellie, but I have acted as
her guardian, I am a trustee, left so by her grandfather, of
her affairs, I manage her fortune and her investments. And
I assume therefore a certain responsibility for them. Therefore
I want to know all that I can know about the husband
she has chosen."
"Well," I said, "you can make inquiries about me, I
suppose, and find out anything you like easily enough."
"Quite so," said Mr. Lippincott. "That would be one
way of doing it. A wise precaution to take. But actually,
Michael, I should like to know all that I can about you from
your own lips. I should like to hear your own story of what
your life has been up to now."
Of course I didn't like it. I expect he knew I wouldn't.
Nobody in my position would like that. It's second nature
to make the best of yourself. I'd made a point of that at
school and onwards, boasted about things a bit, said a few
things, stretching the truth a bit. I wasn't ashamed of it.
I think it's natural. I think it's the sort of thing that you've
got to do if you want to get on. Make out a good case for
yourself. People take you at your own valuation and I
didn't want to be like that chap in Dickens. They read it
out on the television, and I must say it's a good yarn on its
own. Uriah something his name was, always going about
being humble and rubbing his hands, and actually planning
and scheming behind that humility. I didn't want to be like
that.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

I was ready enough to boast a bit with the chaps I met or
to put up a good case to a prospective employer. After all,
you've got a best side and a worst side of yourself and it's no
good showing the worst side and harping on it. No, I'd
always done the best for myself describing my activities
up to date. But I didn't fancy doing that sort of ihing with
Mr. Lippincott. He'd rather pooh-poohed the idea of
making private inquiries about me but I wasn't at all sure
that he wouldn't do so all the same. So I gave him the truth
unvarnished, as you might say.
Squalid beginnings, the fact that my father had been a
drunk, but that I'd had a good mother, that she'd slaved a
good bit to help me get educated. I made no secret of the
fact that I'd been a rolling stone, that I'd moved from one
job to another. He was a good listener, encouraging, if you
know what I mean. Every now and then, though, I realised
how shrewd he was. Just little questions that he slipped in,
or comments, some comments that I might have rushed in
unguardedly either to admit or to deny.
Yes, I had a sort of feeling that I'd better be wary and on
my toes. And after ten minutes I was quite glad when he
leaned back in his chair and the inquisition, if you could call
it that, and it wasn't in the least like one, seemed to be over.
"You have an adventurous attitude to life, Mr. Rogera
Michael. Not a bad thing. Tell me more about this house
that you and Ellie are building."
"Well," I said, "it's not far from a town called Market
Chadwell."
"Yes," he said, "I know just where it is. As a matter of
fact I ran down to see it. Yesterday, to be exact."
That startled me a little. It showed he was a deviou
kind of fellow who got round to more things than you might
think he would.
"It's a beautiful site," I said defensively, "and the house
77



ENDLESS NIGHT

we're building is going to be a beautiful house. The architect's
a chap called Santonix. Rudoff Santonix. I don't
know if you've ever heard of him but'
"Oh yes," said Mr. Lippincott, "he's quite a well known
name among architects."
"He's done work in the States I believe."
"Yes, an architect of eat promise and talent. Unfortunately
I believe lib health is not good."
"He think he's a dying man," I said, "but I don't
believe it. I believe he'll get cured, get well again. Doctor
--they'll say anything."
"I hope your optimism is justified. You are an optimist." "I ara about Santonix."
"I hope all you wish will come true. I may say that I
think you and Ellie have made an extremely good purchase
in the piece of property that you have bought."
I thought it was nice of the old boy to use the pronoun
'you'. It wasn't rubbing it in that Ellie had done the buying
on her own.
"I have had a consultation with Mr. Crawford " "Crawford?" I frowned slightly.
"Mr. Crawford of Reece & Crawford, a firm of English
olicitors. Mr. Crawford was the member of the firm who
put the purchase in hand. It is a good firm of solicitors and I gather that this property was acquired at a cheap figure. I may say that I wondered slightly at that. I am familiar
with the present prices of land in this country and I really
felt rather at a loss to account for it. I think Mr. Crawford
himself was surprised to get it at o low a figure. I wondered
if you knew at all why property happened to go so
cheaply. Mr. Crawford did not advance any opinion on that.
In fact he seemed slightly embarrassed when I put the
question to him."
"Oh well," I said "it's got a curse on it."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"I beg your pardon, Michael, what did you say?"
"A curse, sir," I explained. ,The gipsy's warning, that
sort of thing. It is known locally as Gipsy's Acre."
"Ah. A story?"
"Yes. It seems rather confused and I don't know how
much people have made up and how much is true. There
was a murder or something long ago. A man and his wife
and another man. Some story that the husband shot the
other two and then shot himself. At least that's the verdict
that was brought in. But all sorts of other stories go flying
about. I don't think anyone really knows what happened.
It was a good long time ago. It's changed hands about four
or five times since, but nobody stays there long."
"Ah," said Mr. Lippincott appreciatively, "yes, quite a
piece of English folklore." He looked at me curiously.
"And you and Ellie are not afraid of the curse?" He said it lightly , with a slight smile.
"Of course not," I said. "Neither Ellie nor I would
believe in any rubbish of that kind. Actually it's a lucky
thing since because of it we got it cheap." When I said that
a sudden thought struck me. It was lucky in one sense, but
I thought that with all Ellie's money and her property and
all the rest of it, it couldn't matter to her very much whether
she bought a piece of land cheap or at the top price. Then
I thought, no, I was wrong. After all, she'd had a grandfather
who came up from being a dock labourer to a
millionaire. Anyone of that lrlnd would always wish to buy
cheap and sell dear.
"Well, I am not superstitious," said Mr. Lippincott, "and
the view fxom your property is quite magnificent." 'He hesitated.
"I only hope that when you come to move into your
house to live there, that F.l!ie will not hear too many of
these stories that are going about."
"I'll keep everything from her that I can," I said. "I
don't suppose anybody will say anything to her."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"People in country villages are very fond of repeating
stories of that kind," said lIr. Lippincott. "And Ellie,
remember, is not as tough as you are, Michael. She can be
influenced easily. Only in some ways. Which brings me "
he stopped without going on to say what he had been going
to. He tapped on the table with one finger. "I'm going to
speak to you now on a matter of some difficulty. You said
just now that you had not met Greta Andersen."
"No, as I said, I haven't met her yet."
"Odd. Very curious."
"Well?" I looked at him inquiringly.
"I should have thought you'd have been almost sure to
have met her," he said slowly. "How much do you know
about her?"
"I know that she's been with Ellie some time."
"She has been with F.111e since Ellie was seventeen. She
has occupied a post of some responsibility and trust. She
came first to the States in the capacity of secretary and companion.
A kind of chaperon to F.111e when Mrs. van
$tuyvesant, her stepmother, was away from home, which I
may say was a quite frequent occurrence." He spoke
particularly dryly when he said this. "She is, I gather, a wellborn
girl with excellent references, half Swedish half German.
Ellie became, quite naturally, very much attached to
her."
"So I gather," I said.
"In some ways Ellie was, I suppose, almost too much
ttached to her. You don't mind my saying that."
"No. Why should I mind? As a matter of fact I've--well,
I've thought so myself once or twice. Greta this and
Greta that. I got--well, I know I've no business to, but I
used to get fed up sometimes."
".amd yet she expressed no wish for you to meet Greta?"
"Well," I said, "it's rather difficult to explain. But I
think, yes, I think she probably did suggest it in a mild way
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ENDLESS NIGHT

once or twice but, well, we were too taken up with having
met each other. Besides, oh well, I suppose I didn't really
want to meet Greta. I didn't want to share Ellie with anyone."
"I see. Yes, I see. And Fllie did not suggest Greta being
present at your wedding?"
"She did suggest it," I said.
"But--but you didn't want her to come. Why?"
"I don't know. I really don't know. I just felt that this
Greta, this girl or woman I'd never met, she was aJways
homing in on everything. You know, arranging Ellic's life
for her. Sending post-cards and letters and filling in for
Ellic, arranging a whole itinerary and passing it on to the
family. I felt that Ellie was dependent on Greta in a way,
that she let Greta run her, that she wanted to do everything
that Greta wanted. I--oh, I'm sorry, Mr. Lippincott, I
oughtn't to be saing all these things perhaps. Say I was
just plain jealous. Anyway I blew up and I said'I didn't
want Greta at the wedding, that the wedding was ours, that
it was just our business and nobody clse's. And so we went
along to the Rcgistrar's office and his clerk and the typist
from his office were the two witnesses. I dare say it was mean
of me to refuse to have Greta there, but I wanted to have
Ellic to myself."
"I see. Yes, I sec, and I think, if I may say so, that you
were wie, Michael."
"You don't like Greta either," I said shrewdly.
"You can hardly use the word 'either', Michael, if you
have not even met her."
"No, I know but, well, lC mean if you hear a lot about a
person you can form some sort of idea of them, some judgment
of them. Oh well call it plain jealousy. Why don't you like Greta?" ,
"This is without prejudice," said Mr. Lippincott, "but
you are Ellie's husband, Michael, and I have Ellie's happi-
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ENDLESS NIGHT

ness very much at heart. I don't think that the influence
that Greta has over Ellie is a very desirable one. She takes
too much upon herself."
"Do you think she'll try and make trouble between us?"
I asked.
"I think," said Mr. Lippincott, "that I have no fight to
say anything of that kind."
He sat looking cautiously at me, and blinking like a
wrinkled old tortoise.
I didn't know quite what to say next. He spoke first,
choosing his words with some care.
"There has been, then, no suggestion that Greta Andersen
might take up her residence with you?"
"Not if I can help it," I said.
"Ah. So that is what you feel? The idea has been
mooted."
"Ellie did say something of the kind. But we're newly
married, Mr. Lippincott. We want our house--our new
home to ourselves. Of course she'll come and stay sometimes,
I suppose. That'll only be natural."
"As you say, that would be only natural. But you realise,
perhaps, that Greta is going to be in a somewhat difficult
position as regards further employment. I mean, it is not a
question of what Ellie thinks of her, but of what the people
who engaged her and reposed trust in her feel."
"You mean that you or Mrs. van What's-her-name won't
recommend her for another post of the same kind?"
"They are hardly likely to do so except so far as to satisfy
purely legal requirements."
"And you think that she'll want to come to England and
live on Ellie."
"I don't want to prejudice you too much against her.
After all, this is mostly in my mind. I dislike some of the
things she has done and the way she has done them. I think
that Ellie who has a very generous heart will be upset at
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ENDLESS NIGHT

having, shall we say, blighted Greta's prospects in many
ways. She might impulsively insist on her coming to live with
y
OU.''

"I don't think F.11ie will insist," I said slowly. I sounded a
little worried all the sam% and I thought Lippincott
noticed it. "But couldn't we--F.1li% I mean--couldn't IF. llie
pension her off?"
"We should not put it precisely like that," said Mr.
,ippincott. "There is a suggestion of age about pensioning
anyone off and Greta is a young woman, and I may say a
very handsome young woman. Beautiful, in fact," he added
in a deprecating, disapproving voice. "She's very attractive
'to men, too."
"Well, perhaps she'll marry," I said. "If she's all that,
why hasn't she got married before this?"
"There have been people attracted, I believe, but she
has not considered them. I think, however, that your suggestion
is a very sound one. I think it might be carried out in
a way that would not hurt anyone's susceptibilities. It
might seem quite a natural thing to do on Ellie's having
attained her majority and having had her marriage helped
on by Greta's good offices--settle a sum of money upon her
in a fit of gratitude." Mr. Lippincott made the last two
words sound as sour as lemon juice.
"Well, then, that's all right," I said cheerfully.
"Again I see that you are an optimist. Let us hope tha!
Greta will accept what is offered to her."
"Why shouldn't she? She'd be mad if she didn't."
"I don't know," said Mr. Lippincott. "I should sa)
it would be extraordinary if she did not accepts and they
will remain on terms of friendship, of course."
"You think--what do you think?"
"I would like to see her influence over Ellie broken," said
Mr. Lippincott. He got up. "You will, I hopes assist me and
do everything you can to further that end?"
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"You bet I will," I said. "The last thing I wat is to have
Greta in our pockets all the time."
"You might change your raind when you see her," aid
Mr. Lippincott.
"I don't think so," I said. "I don't like managing
females, however efficient and even handsome they are."
"Thank you, MichaeI, for listening to me so patiently. I
hope you will give me the pleasure of dining with me, both
of you. Possibly next Tuesday evening? Cora van Stuyvesant
and Frank Barton will probably be in London by that time."
"And I've got to meet them, I suppose?"
"Oh yes, that will be quite inevitable." He smiled at me
and this time his smile seemed more genuine than it had
before. "You mustn't mind too much," he said. "Cora, I
expect, will be very rude to you. Frank will be merely
tactless. Reuben won't be over just at present."
I didn't know who Reuben was--another relation I
supposed.
I went across to the connecting doors and opened them.
"Come on, Ellie," I said, "the grilling is over."
She came back in the room and looked quickly from
Lippincott to myself, then she went across and kissed him.
"Dear Uncle Andrew," she said. "I can see you've been
nice to Michael."
"Well, my dear, if I weren't nice to your husband you
wouldn't have much use for me in the future, would you?
I do reserve the right to give a few words of advice now and
then. You're very young you know, both of you."
"All right," said Ellie, "we'll listen patiently."
"Now, my dear, I'd like to have a word withy0u if I may."
"My turn to be odd man out," I said, and I too went into
the bedroom.
I shut the two double doors ostentatiously but I opened
the inner one again after I got inside. I hadn't been as well
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ENDLESS NIGHT

brought up as Ellie so I felt a bit anxious to find out how
double-faced Mr. Lippincott might turn out to be. But
tually there was nothing I need have listened to. He gave
Ellie one or two wise words of advice. He said she must
realise that I might find it difficult to be a poor man married
to a rlch wife and then he went on to sound her about
making a settlement on Greta. She agreed to it eagerly and
said she'd been going to ak him that herself. He also
suggested that she should make an additional setdement on
Cora van $tuyvesant.
"There is no earthly need that you should do so," he said.
"She has been very well provided for in the matter of alimony
from several husbands. And she is as you know paid
an income, though not a very big one, from the trust fund
leit by your grandfather."
"But you think I ought to give her more still?"
"I think there is no legal or moral obligation to do so.
What I think is that you will find her far less tiresome and
shall I say catty if you do so. I should make it in the form
of an increased income, which you could revoke at any time.
If you find that she has been spreading malicious rumours
about Michael or yourself or your life together, the knowledge
that you can do that will keep her tongue free of those
more poisonous barbs that she so well knows how to plant."
"Cora has always hated me," said Ellie. "I've known
that." She added rather shyly, "You do like Mike, don't
you, Uncle Andrew?"
"I think he's an extremely attractive young man," said
Mr. Lippincott. "And I can quite see how you came to
marry him."
That, I suppose, was as good as I could expect. I wasn't
really his type and I knew it. I eased the door gently to and
in a minute or two Ellie came to fetch me.
We were both standing saying good-bye to Lippincott
when there was a knock on the door and a page boy came in
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ENDLESS NIGHT

with a telegram. Ellie took it and opened it. She gave a
little surprised cry of pleasure.
"It's Greta," she said, "she's arriving in London tonight
and she'll be coming to see us m-morrow. How lovely."
She looked at us both. "Isn't it?" she said.
She saw two sour faces and heard two polite voices saying,
one: "Yes indeed, my dear," the other one "Of course."

86



CHAPTER XI

I had been out shopping the next morning and I arrived
back at the hotel rather later than I had meant. I found
Ellie sitting in the central lounge and opposite her was a
tall blonde young woman, tn fact Greta. Both of them were
talking nineteen to the dozen.
I'm never any hand at describing people but I'll have a
shot at describing Greta. To begin with one couldn't deny
that she was, as Ellie had said, very beautiful and also, as
Mr. Lippincott had reluctantly admitted, very handsome.
The two things are not exactly the same. If you say a woman
is handsome it does not mean that actually you yourself
admire her. Mr. Lippincott, I gathered, had not admired
Greta. All the same when Greta walked across the lounge
into a hotel or in a restaurant, men's heads turned to look
at her. She was a Nordic type of blonde with pure gold-corn
coloured hair. She wore it piled high on her head in the
fashion of the time, not falling straight down on each side of
her face in the Chelsea tradition. She looked what she was,
Swedish or north German. In fact, pin on a pair of wings
and she could have gone to a fancy dress ball as a Valkyrie.
Her eyes were a bright clear blue and her contours were
admirable. Let's admit it. She was something!
][ came along to where they were sitting and joined them,
greeting them both in what I hope was a natural, friendly
manner, though I couldn't help feeling a bit awkward. I'm
not always very good at acting a part. Ellie said immediately:
"At last, Mike, this is Greta."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

I said I guessed it might be, in a rather facetious, not very
happy manner. I said,
"I'm very glad to meet you at last, Greta."
Ellie said,
"As you know very well, if it hadn't been for Greta we
would never have been able to get married."
"All the same we'd have managed it somehow," I said.
"Not if the family had come down on us like a ton of
coals. They'd have broken it up somehow. Tell me, Greta,
have they been very awful?" Ellie asked. "You haven't
written or said anything to me about that."
"I know better," said Greta, "than to write to a happy
couple when they're on their honeymoon."
"But were they very angry with you?"
"Ofcoursel What do you imagine? But I was prepared
'for that, I can assure you."
"What have they said or done?"
"Everything they could," said Greta cheerfully. "Start-lng
with the sack naturally."
"Yes, I suppose that was inevitable. Butwbut what have
you done? After all they can't refuse to give you references."
"Of course they can. And after all, from their point of
view I was placed in a position of trust and abused it shamefully."
She added, "Enjoyed abusing it too."
"But what are you doing now?"
"Oh I've got a job ready to walk into."
"In New York?"
"No. Here in London. Secretarial."
"But are you all right?"
"Darling Ellie," said Greta, "how can I not be all right
with that lovely cheque you sent me in anticipation of
what was going to happen when the balloon went up."
Her English was very good with hardly any trace o!
accent though she used a lot of colloquial terms which
sometimes didn't run quite right.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"I've seen a bit of the world, fixed myself up in London
and bought a good many things as well."
"Mike and I have bought a lot of things too," said Ellie,
smiling at the recollection.
It was true. We'd done ourselves pretty well with our
continental shopping. It was really wonderful that we had
dollars to spend, no niggling Treasury restrictions. Brocades
and fabrics in Italy for the home. And we'd bought pictures
too, both in Italy and in Paris, paying what seemed fabulous
sums for them. A whole world had opened up to me that
I'd never dreamt would have come my way.
"You both look remarkably happy," said Greta.
"You haven't seen our home yet," said Ellie. "It's going
to be wonderful. It's going to be just like we dreamed it
would be, isn't it, Mike?"
"I have seen it," said Greta. "The first day I got back to '
England I hired a car and drove down there."
"Well?" said Ellie.
I said Well ? too.
"Well," said Greta consideringly. She shifted her head
from side to side.
Ellie looked grief-stricken, horribly taken aback. But I
wasn't taken in. I saw at once that Greta was having a bit
of fun with us. If the thought just flashed across my mind
for a moment that her kind of fun wasn't very kind, it hardly
had time to take root. Greta burst out laughing, a high mm-ical
laugh that made people turn their heads and look at us.
"You should have seen your faces," she said, "especially
yours, Ellie. I have to tease you just a little. It's a wonderful
home, lovely. That man's a genius."
"Yes," I said, "he's something out of the ordinary. Wait
till you meet him."
"I have met him," said Greta. "He was down there the
day I went. Yes, he's an extraordinary person. Rather
frightening, don't you think?"
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Frightening?" I said, surprised, "in what way?"
"Oh I don't know. It's as though he looks through you
and--well, sees right through to the other side. That's
always disconcerting." Then she added, "He looks rather
ill."
"He is ill. Very ill," I said.
"What a shame. What's the matter with him, tuberculosis,
something like that?"
"No," I said, "I don't think it's tuberculosis. I think it's
something to do with--oh with blood."
"Oh I see. Doctors can do almost anything nowadays,
can't they, unless they kill you first while they're trying to
cure you. But don't let's think of that. Let's think of the
house. When will it be finished?"
"Quite soon, I should think, by the look of it. I'd never
imagined a house could go up so quickly," I said.
"Oh," said Greta carelessly, "that's money. Double
shifts and bonuses---all the rest of it. You don't really know
yourself, Ellie, how wonderful it is to have all the money
you have."
But I did know. I had been learning, learning a great
deal in the last few weeks. I'd stepped as a result of marriage
into an entirely different world and it wasn't the sort of
world I'd imagined it to be from the outside. So far in my
life, a lucky double had been my highest knowledge of
affluence. A whack of money coming in, and spending it
as fast as I could on the biggest blow-out I could find. Crude,
of course. The crudeness of my class. But Ellie's world was
a different world. It wasn't what I should have thought it
to be.. Just more and more super luxury. It wasn't bigger
bathrooms and larger houses and more electric light
fittings and bigger meals and faster cars. It wasn't just
spending for spending's sake and showing off to everyone in
sight. Instead, it was curiously simple. The sort of simplicity
that comes when you get beyond the point of splash90




ENDLESS NIGHT

ing for splashing's sake. You don't want three yachts or
four cars and you can't eat more than three meals a day and if you buy a really top price picture you don't want more
than perhaps one of them in a room. It's as simple as that.
Whatever you have is just the best of its kind, not so much
because it is the best, but because there is no reason if you
like or want any particular thing, why you shouldn't have
it. There is no moment when 3ou say "I'm afraid I can't
afford that one." So in a strange way it makes sometimes
for such a curious simplicity that I couldn't understand it.
We were considering a French impressionist picture, a
Czanne, I think it was. I had to learn that name carefully.
I always mixed it up with a tzigane which I gather is a
gipsy orchestra. And then as we walked along the streets of
Venice, Ellie stopped to look at some pavement artists. On
the whole they were doing some terrible pictures for tourists
which all looked the same. Portraits with great rows of
shining teeth and usually blonde hair falling down their
necks.
And then she bought quite a tiny picture, just a picture of
a little glimpse through to a canal. The man who had
painted it appraised the look of us and she bought it for £6
by English exchange. The funny thing was that I knew
quite well that Ellie had just the same longing for that 6
picture that she had for the Czanne.
It was the same way one day in Paris. She'd said to me
suddenly:
"What fun it would be--let's get a really nice crisp
French loaf of bread and have that with butter and one of
those cheeses wrapped up in leaves."
So we did and Ellie I think enjoyed it more than the meal
we'd had the night before which had come to about o
English. At first I couldn't understand it, then I began to
see. The awkward thing was that I could see now that being
married to Ellie wasn't just fun and games. You have to do
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ENDLESS NIGHT

your homework, you have to learn how to go into a restaur
ant and the sort of things to order and the right tips, and when

for some reason you gave more than usual. You have to

memofise what you drink with certain foods. I had to do

most of it by observation. I couldn't ask Ellie because that

was one of the things she wouldn't have understood. She'd

have said "But, darling Mike, you can have anything you

like. What does it matter if waiters think you ought to have

one particular wine with one particular thing?" It wouldn't

have mattered to her because she was born to it but it

mattered to me because I couldn't do just .as I liked. I

wasn't simple enough. Clothes too. Ellie was more helpful

there, for she could understand better. She just guided me

to the fight places and told me to let them have their head.

Of course I didn't look fight and sound fight yet. But

that didn't matter much. I'd got the hang of it, enough so

that I could pass muster with people like old Lippincott,

and shortly, presumably, when Ellie's stepmother and

uncles were around, but actually it wasn't going to matter

in the future at all. When the house was finished and when

we'd moved in, we were going to be far away from every
body. It could be our kingdom. I looked at Greta sitting

opposite me. I wondered what she'd really thought of our

house. Anyway, it was what I wanted. It satisfied me

utterly. I wanted to drive down and go through a private

path through the trees which led down to a small cove

which would be our own beach which nobody could come

to on the land side. It would be a thousand times better, I

thought, plunging into the sea there. A thousand times

better than a lido spread along a beach with hundreds of

bodies lying there. I didn't want all the senseless rich things.

I wanted--there were the words again, my own particular
words--I want, I want I
could feel all the feeling
surging
up in me. I wanted a wonderful woman and a wonderful house
like nobody else's house and I wanted my 92



ENDLESS NIGHT


wonderful house to be full of wonderful things. Things that

belonged to me. Everything would belong to me.

"He's thinking of our house," said Ellie.

It seemed that she had twice suggested to me that we
should go now into the dining-room. I looked at her affec-tionately.

Later in the day--it was that evening--when we were

dressing to go out to dinner, Ellie said a little tentatively,
"Mike, you do--you do like Greta, don't you?"
"Of course I do," I said.

"I couldn't bear it ffyou didn't like her."

"But I do," I protested. "What makes you think I
don't?"

"I'm not quite sure. I think it's the way you hardly look
at her even when you're talking to her."

"Well, I suppose that's became--well, became I feel

Ilervom."

"Nervous of Greta?"

"Yes, she's a bit awe-inspiring, you know."

And I told Ellie how I thought Greta looked rather like a
Valkyrie.

"Not as stout as an operatic one," said Ellie and laughed.
We both laughed. I said,

"It's all very well for you because you've known her for
years. But she is just a bit--well, I mean she's very efficient
and practical and sophisticated." I struggled with a lot of
words which didn't seem to be quite the right ones. I said
suddenly, "I feel--I feel at a disadvantage with her."

"Oh Mike!" Ellie was conscience-stricken. "I know
we've got a lot of things to talk about. Old jokes and old
things that happened and all that. I suppose--yes, I
suppose it might make you feel rather shy. But you'll soon
get to be friends. She likes you. She likes you very much.
She told me so."

"Listen, Ellie, she'd probably tell you that anyway."

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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Oh no she wouldn't. Greta's very outspoken. You
heard her. Some of the things she said today."
It was true that Greta had not minced her words during
luncheon. She had said, addressing me rather than Ellie,
"You must have thought it queer sometimes, the way I
was backing Ellie up when I'd not even seen you. But I got
so mad--so mad with the life that they were making her
lead. All tied up in a cocoon with their money, their
traditional ideas. She never had a chance to enjoy herself,
go anywhere really by herself and do what she wanted. She
wanted to rebel but she didn't know how. And so--yes, all
right, I urged her on. I suggested she should look at properties
in England. Then I said when she was twenty-one
she could buy one of her own and say good-bye to all that
New York lot."
"Greta always has wonderful ideas," said Ellie. "She
thinks of things I'd probably never have thought of myself."
What were those words Mr. Lippincott had said to me?
'She has too much influence over Ellie.' I wondered if it
was true. Queerly enough I didn't really think so. I felt
that there was a core somewhere in Ellie that Greta, for all
that she knew her so well, had never quite appreciated.
Ellie, I was sure, would always accept any ideas that
matched with the ideas she wanted to have herself. Greta
had preached rebellion to Ellie but Ellie herself wanted to
rebel, only she was not sure how to do so. But I felt that
Ellie, now that I was coming to know her better, was one of
those very simple people who have unexpected reserves. I
thought Ellie would be quite capable of taking a stand of her
own if she wished to. The point was that she wouldn't very
often wish to and I thought then how difficult everyone
was to understand. Even Ellie. Even Greta. Even perhaps
my own mother The
way she looked at me with fear
in
her eyes.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

I wondered about Mr. Lippincott. I said, as we were
peeling some outsize peaches,
"Mr. Lippincott seems to have taken our marriage very
well really. I was surprised."
"Mr. Lippincott," said Greta, "is an old fox."
"You always say so, Greta," said ERie, "but I think he's
rather a dear. Very strict and proper and all that."
"Well, go on thinking so if you like," said Greta. "Myself,
I wouldn't trust him an inch."
"Not trust him!" said ERie.
Greta shook her head. "I know. He's a pillar ofrespectability
and trustworthiness. He's everything a trustee and a
lawyer should be."
ERie laughed and said, 'Do you mean he's embezzled
my fortune? Don't be silly, Greta. There are thousands
of auditors and banks and check-ups and all that sort of
thing."
"Oh I expect he's all right really," said Greta. "All the
same, those are the people that do embezzle. The trustworthy
ones. And then everyone says afterwards 'I'd never have
believed it of Mr. A' or 'Mr. B. The last man in the world.'
Yes, that's what they say. 'The last man in the world'."
ERie said thoughtfully that her Uncle Frank, she thought
was much more likely to go in for dishonest practices. She
did not seem unduly worried or surprised by the idea.
"Oh well he looks like a crook," said Greta. "That
handicaps him to start with. All that geniality and bonhomie.
But he'll never be in a position to be a crook in a big
way."
"is he your mother's brother?" I asked. I always got
confused over ERie's relations.
"He's my father's sister's husband," said ERie. "She left
him and married someone else and died about six or seven
years ago. Uncle Frank has more or less stuck on with the
family."
95



ENDLESS NIGHT
"There are three of them," said Greta kindly and helpfully.
"Three leeches hanging round, as you might .say.
Ellie's actual uncles were killed, one in Korea and one in a
car accident, so what she's got is a much damaged stepmother,
an Uncle Frank, an amiable hanger-on in the
family home and her cousin Reuben whom she calls Uncle
but he's only a cousin and Andrew Lippincott, and Stanford
Lloyd."
"Who is Stanford Lloyd?" I asked, bewildered.
"Oh another sort of trustee, isn't he, Ellie? At any rate
he manages your investments and things like that. Which
can't really be very difficult because when you've got as
much money as Ellie has, it sort of makes more money all the time without anyone having to do much about it. Those
are the main surrounding group," Greta added, "and I have
no doubt that you will be meeting them fairly soon. They'll
be over here to have a look at you."
I groaned, and looked at Ellie. Ellie said very gently and sweetly ,
"Never mind, Mike, they'll go away again."

96



CHAPTER XII


They did come over. None of them stayed very long. Not
that time, not on a first visit. They came over to have a look
at me. I found them difficult to understand because of course
they were all American. They were types with which I was
not well acquainted. Some of them were pleasant enough.
Uncle Frank, for instance. I agreed with Greta about him.
I wouldn't have trusted him a yard. I had come across the
same type in England. He was a big man with a bit of a
paunch and pouches under his eyes that gave him a dissip-ated
look which was not far from the truth, I imagine. He
had an eye for women, I thought, and even more of an eye
for the main chance. He borrowed money from me once or
twice, quite small sums, just, as it were, something to tide
him over for a day or two. I ffought it was not so much
that he needed the money but he wanted to test me out, to
see if I lent money easily.. It was rather worrying because I
wasn't sure which was the best way to take it. Would it
have been better to refuse point blank and let him know I
was a skinflint or was it better to assume an appearance of
careless generosity, which I was very far from feeling. To
hell with Uncle Frank, I thought.

Cora, Ellie's stcpmother was the one that interested me
most. She was a woman of about forty, well turned out
with tinted hair and a rather gushing manner. She was all
sweetness to Ellie.

"You mustn't mind those letters I wrote you, Ellie," she
said. "You must admit that it came as a terrible shock your

97



ENDLESS NIGHT

marrying like that. $o secretly. But ofcourse I know it was
Greta who put you up to it, doing it that way."
"You mustn't blame Greta," said Ellie. "I didn't mean
to upset you all so much. I just thought that--well, the less
fuss----"
"Well, of course, Ellie dear, you have something there.
All the men of business were simply livid. Stanford Lloyd
and Andrew Lippincott. I suppose they thought everyone
would blame them for not looking after you better. And of
course they'd no idea what Mike would be like. They didn't
realise how charming he was going to be. I didn't myself."
She smiled across at me, a very sweet smile and one of the
falsest ones I'd ever seen! I thought to myself that if ever a
woman hated a man, it was Cora who hated me. I thought
her sweetness to Ellie was understandable enough. Andrew
Lippincott had gone back to America and had, no doubt,
given her a few words of caution. Ellie was selling some of
her property in America, since she herself had definitely
decided to live in England, but she was going to make a
large allowance to Cora so that the latter could live where
she chose. Nobody mentioned Cora's husband much. I
gathered he'd already taken himself off to some other part
of the world, and had not gone there alone. In all probability,
I gathered, another divorce was pending. There
wouldn't be much alimony out of this one. Cora's last
marriage had been to a man a good many years younger
than herself with more attractions of a physical kind than
cash.
Cora wanted that allowance. She was a woman of
extravagant tastes. No doubt old Andrew Lippincott had
hinted clearly enough that it could be discontinued any
time if F.11ie chose, or if Cora so far forgot ,herself as to
criticise Ellie's new husband too virulently.
Cousin Reuben, or Uncle Reuben did not make the
journey. He wrote instead to Ellie a pleasant, noncommittal
98



ENDLESS NIGHT

letter hoping she'd be very happy, but doubted i:t'she would
like living in England. "lfyou don't, Ellie, you come right
back to the States. Don't think you won't get a welcome
here because you. will. Certainly you will from your
Uncle Reuben."
"He sounds rather nice," I said to Ellie.
"Yes," said Ellie meditatively. She wasn't, it seemed,
quite so sure about it.
"Are you fond of any of them, Ellie?" I asked, "or
oughtn't I to ask you that?"
"Of course you can ask me anything." But she didn't
answer for a moment or two all the sne. Then she said,
with a sort offinaiity and dcclsion, "No, I don't think I am.
It seems odd, but I suppose it's because they don't really
belong to me. Only by environment, not by relationship.
They none of them arc my flesh and blood relations.
loved my father, what I remembered of him. I think he
was rather a weak man and I think my grandfather was disappolntcd
in him because he hadn't got much head for
business. He didn't want to go into the business life. He
liked going to Florida and fishing, that sort of thing. And
then later he married Cora and I never cared for Cora
much--or Cora for me, for that matter. My own mother, of
course, I don't remember. I liked Uncle Henry and Uncle
Joe. They were fun. In some ways more fun than my
father was. He, I think, was in some ways a quiet and rather
sad man. But the uncles enjoyed themselves. Uncle Joe was, I think, a bit wild, the kind that is wild just because they've
got lots of money. Anyway, he was the one who got smashed
up in the car, and the other one was killed fighting in the
war. My grandfather was a sick man by that time and it
was a terrible blow to him that all his three sons were dead.
He didn't like Cora and he didn't care much for' any of his
more distant relatives. Uncle Reuben, for instance. He said
you could never tell what Reuben was up to. That's why he
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ENDLESS NIGHT

made arrangements to put his money in trust. A lot of it
went to museums and hospitais. He left Cora well provided
for, and his daughter's husband Uncle Frank."
"But most of it to you?"
"Yes. And I think that worried him a little bit. He did
his best to get it looked after for me."
"By Uncle Andrew and by Mr. Stanford Lloyd. A lawyer
and a baker."
"Yes. I suppose he didn't think I could look after it very
well by myself. The odd thing is that he let me come into it
at the age of twenty-one. He didn't keep it in trust till I was
twenty-five, as lots of people do. I expect that was because
I was a girl."
"That's odd," I said, "it would seem to me that it ought
to be the other way round?"
Ellie shook her head. "No," she said, "I think my
grandfather thought that young males were always wild and
hit things 'up and that blondes with evil designs got hold of
them. I think he thought it would be a good thing if they
had plenty of time to sow their wild oats. That's your
English saying, isn't it? But he said once to me, 'Ifa girl is going to have any sense at all, she'll have it at twenty-one.
It won't make any difference making her wait four years
longer. If she's going to be a fool she'll be a fool then just
as much.' He said, too," Ellie looked at me and smiled,
"that he didn't think I was a fool. He said 'You mayn't
know very much about life, but you've got good sense, Ellie.
Especially about people. I think you always will have'."
"I don't suppose he would have liked me," I said thoughtfully.
lgllie has a lot of honesty. She didn't try and reassure me
by saying anything but what was undoubtedly the truth.
"No," she said, "I think he'd have been rather horrified.
To begin with, that is. He'd have had to get reed to you."
"Poor Ellie," I said suddenly.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Why do you say that?"
"I said it to you once before, do you remember?"
"Yea. You said poor LITTLE rich girl. You were quite right to0.'
"I didn't mean it the same way this time," I said. "I
didn't mean that you were poor because you were rich. I
think I meant "I hesitated. "You've too many people," I said, "at you. All round you. Too many people who want
things from you but who don't really care for you. That's
true, isn't it?"
"I think Uncle Andrew really cares for me," said Ellie, a
little doubtfully. "He's always been nice to me, sympathetic.
The others--no, you're quite right. They only want things."
"They come and cadge off you, don't they? Borrow
money off you, want favours. Want you to get them out of
jams, that sort of thing. They're at you, at you, at you!"
"I suppose it's quite natural," said Ellie calmly, "but I've
done with them all now. I'm coming to live here in England. I shan't see much of them."
She was wrong there, of course, but she hadn't grasped
that fact yet. Stanford Lloyd came over later by himself.
He brought a great many documents and papers and things
for Ellie to sign and wanted her agreement on investments.
I-Ie talked to her about investments and shares and property
that she owned, and the disposal of trust funds. It was all
Double Dutch to me. I couldn't have helped her or advised
her. I couldn't have stopped Stanford Lloyd from cheating
her, either. I hoped he wasn't, but how could anyone
ignorant like myself be sure?
There was something about Stanford Lloyd that was
almost too good to be true. He was a banker, and he looked
like a banker. He was rather a handsome man though not
young. He was very polite to me and thought dirt of me
though he tried not to show it.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Well," I said when he had finally taken his departure,
"that's the last of the bunch."
"You didn't think much of any of them, did you?"
"I think your stepmother, Cora, is a double faced bitch
if I ever knew one. Sorry, Ellie, perhaps I oughtn'.t to say
that."
"Why not, if that's what you think? I expect you're not
far wrong."
"You must have been lonely, Ellie," I said.
"Yes, I was lonely. I knew girls of my own age. I went
to a fashionable school but I was never reallyJ?ee. If I made
friends with people, somehow or other they'd get me
separated, push another girl at me instead. You know?
Everything was governed by the social register. If I'd cared
enough about anybody to make a fusbut I never got
far enough. There was never anybody I red(y cared for. Not
until Greta came, and then everything was different. For the
first time someone was really fond of rat. It was wonderful."
Her face softened.
"I wish," I said, as I turned away towards the window.
"What do you wish?"
"Oh I don't know .... I wish perhaps that you weren't--weren't
quite so dependent on Greta. It's a bad thing to
be as dependent as that on anyone."
"You don't like her, Mike," said Ellie.
"I do," I protested hurriedly. "Indeed I do. But you
must realise, Ellie, that she is--well, she's quite a stranger to
me. I suppose, let's face it, I'm a bit jealous of her. Jealous
because she and youmwell, I didn't understand before--how
linked together you were."
"Don't be jealous. She's the only person who was good
to me, who cared about me--till I met you."
"But you have met me," I said, "and you've married
me." Then I said again what I'd said before. "And we're
going to live together happily ever afterwards."
102



CHAPTER XIII

I'm trying as best I can, though that isn't saying much, to
paint a picture of the people who came into our lives, that
is to say: who came into my life became, ofcourse, they were
in Ellie's life already. Our mistake was that we thought
they'd go out of ERie's life. But they didn't. They'd no
intention of doing so. However, we didn't know that then.
The English side of our life was the next thing that
hgppened. Our house was finished, we had a telegram from
Santonix. He'd asked us to keep away for about a week,
then the telegram came. It said: "Come tomorrow."
We drove down there, and we arrived at sunset. Santonix
heard the car and came out to meet us, standing in front of
the home. When I saw our home, finished, something inside
me leaped up, leaped up as though to burst out of my skin!
It was my house--and I'd got it at last I I held ERie's arm very
tight.
"Like it?" said Santonix.
"It's the tops," I said. A silly thing to say but he knew
what I meant.
"Yes," he said, "it's the best thing I've done .... It's cost you a mint of money and it's worth every penny of it.
I've exceeded my estimates all round. Come on, Mike,"
he said, "pick her up and carry her over the threshcld.
That's the thing to do when you enter into possession with
your bride I'
I flushed and then I picked up ERie--she was quite a
light weight--and carried her as Santonix had suggested,
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ENDLESS NIGHT

over the thrcsholc. As I did so, I stumbled just a little and
I saw Santonix frown.
"There you are," said Santonix, "be good to her, Mike.
Take care of her. Don't let any harm happen to her. She
can't take care of herself. She thinks she can."
"Why should any harm happen to me?" said Ellie.
"Because it's a bad world and there are bad people in it,"
said Santonix, "and there are some bad people round you,
my girl. I know. I've seen one or two of them. Seen them
down here. They come nosing around, sniffing around like
the rats they are. Excuse my French but somebody's got
to say it."
"They won't bother us," said Ellie, "they've all gone
back to the States."
"Maybe," said $x.'itonix, "but it's only a few hours by
plane, you know."
He put his hands on her shoulders. They were very thin
now, very white looking. He looked terribly ill.
"I'd look after you myself, child, if I could," he said,
"but I can't. It won't be long now. You'll have to fend for
yourself."
"Cut out the gipsy's warning, Santonix," I said, "and
take us round the house. Every inch of it."
So we went round the house. Some of the rooms were
still empty but most of the things we'd bought, pictures and
the furniture and the curtains were there.
"We haven't got a name for it," said Ellie suddenly.
"We can't call it The Towers, that was a ridiculous name.
What was the other name for it that you told me once?" she
said to me. "Gipsy's Acre, wasn't it?"
"We won't call it that," I said, sharply. "I don't like
that name."
"It'll always be called that hereabouts," said Santonix.
"They're a lot of silly superstitious people," I said.
And then we sat down on the terrace looking at the setting
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ENDLESS NIGHT

sun and the view, and we thought of names for the house.
It was a kind of game. We started quite seriously and then
we began to think of every silly name we possibly could.
'Journey's End', 'Heart's Delight' and names like boarding
houses. 'Seaview', 'Fairholme', 'The Pines'. Then suddenly
it grew dark and cold, and we went indoors. We didn't
draw the curtains, just closed the windows. We'd brought
down provisions with us. On the following day an expensively
acquired domestic staff was coming.
"They'll probably hate it and say it's lonely and they'll
all go away," said Ellie.
"And then you'll give them double the money to stay on,"
said Santonix.
"2eou think," said Ellle, "that everyone casa be bought?'
But she only said it laughingly.
We had brought pdtg en crotlte with us and French bread
and large red prawns. We sat round the table laughing and
eating and talking. Even Santonix looked strong and
animated, and there was a kind of wild excitement in his
eyes.
And then it happened suddenly. A stone crashed in
through the window and dropped on the table. Smashed
a wineglass too, and a sliver of glass slit Ellie's cheek. For a
moment we sat paralysed, then I sprang up, rushed to the
window, unbolted it and went out on the terrace. There
was no one to be seen. I came back into the room again.
I picked up a paper napcin and bent over Ellie, wiping
away a little trickle of blood I saw coursing down her
cheek.
"It's hurt you .... There, dear, it's nothing much. It's
just a wee cut from a sliver of glass."
My eyes met those of Santonix.
"Why did anyone do it?" said Ellie. She looked bewil.
dered.
"Boys," 1 said, "you know, young hooligans. They knew,
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ENDLESS NIGHT

perhaps, we were settling in. I dare say you were lucky that
they only threw a stone. They might have had an air gun or
something like that."
"But why should they do it to us? Why?"

"I don't know," I said. "Just beastliness."

Ellie got up suddenly. She said,

"I'm frightened. I'm afraid."
"We'll find out to-morrow," I said.
"We don't know
enough about the people round here."
"Is it because we're rich and they're poor?" said Ellie.
She asked it not of me but of Santonix as though he would
know the answer to the question better than I did.
"No," said Santonix slowly, "I don't think it's that..."

Ellie said:
"It's because they hate us Hate
Mike and hate me.
Why? Because we're happy?"
Again
Santonix shook his head.
"No,"
Ellie said, as though she were agreeing with him, "no,
it's something else. Something we don't know about. Gipsy's
Acre. Anyone who lives here is going to be hated. Going
to be persecuted. Perhaps they will succeed in the end
in driving us away .... "
I
poured out a glass ofwine and gave it to her.
"Don't,
Ellie," I begged her. "Don't say such things. Drink
this. It's a nasty thing to happen, but it was only silliness,
crude horseplay."
"I wonder," said Ellie, "I wonder..." She looked hard at
me. "Somebody is trying to drive us away, Mike. To drive
us away from the house we've built, the house we love."
"We
won't let them drive us away," I said. I added,
"I'll
take care of you. Nothing shall hurt you."
She
looked again at $antonix.
"You
should know," she said, "you've been here while the
house was building. Didn't anyone ever say anything to
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ENDLESS NIGHT

you? Come and throw stones--interfere with the building
of the house ?"
"One can imagine things," said Santonix.
"There were accidents, then?"
"There are always a few accidents in the building of a
house. Nothing serious or tragic. A man falls off a ladder,
someone drops a load on his foot, someone gets a splinter
in his thumb and it goes septic."
"Nothing more than that? Nothing that might have been meant?"
"No," said Santonix, "no. I swear to you, no I"
Ellie turned to me.
"You remember that gipsy woman, Mike. How queer
she was that day, how she warned me not to come here."
"She's just a bit crazy, a bit off her head."
"We've built on Gipsy's Acre," said Ellie. "We've done
what she told us not to do." Then she stamped her foot. "I won't let them drive me away. I won't let anyone drive me
away I"
"Nobody shall drive us away," I said. "We're going to
be happy here."
We said it like a challenge to fate.

107



CHAPTER XIV

That's how our life began at Gipsy's Acre. We didn't find
another name for the house. That first evening fixed
Gipsy's Acre in our heads.
"We'll call it Gipsy's Acre," said Ellie, "just to show A
kind of challenge, don't you think? It's our Acre, and to hell
with the gipsy's warning."
She was her old gay self again the next day and soon we
were busy getting ourselves settled in, and getting also to
know the neighbourhood and the neighbours. Ellie and I
walked down to the cottage where the gipsy woman lived. I
felt it would be a good thing if we found her digging in her
garden. The only time Ellie had seen her before was when
she told our fortunes. If EHie saw she was just an ordinary
old woman--digging up potatoes--but we didn't see her.
The cottage was shut up. I asked if she were dead but the
neighbour I asked shook her head.
"She must have gone away," she said. "She goes away
from time to time, you know. She's a gipsy really. That's
why she can't stay in houses. She wanders away and comes
back again." She tapped her forehead. "Not quite right up
there."
Presently she said, trying to mask curiosity, "You've
come from the new house up there, haven't you, the one on
the top of the hill, that's just been built."
"That's right," I said, "we moved in last night."
"Wonderful looking place it is," she said. "We've all
been up to look at it while it was building. Makes a difference,
doesn't it, seeing a house like that where all those
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ENDLESS NIGHT

gloomy trees used to be." She said to Ellie rather shyly,
"You're an American lady, aren't you, so we heard?"
"Yes," said Ellie, "I'm American---or I was, but now I'm
married to an Englishman so I'm an Englishwoman."
"And you've come here to settle down and live, haven't
you?"
We said we had.
:'Well, I hope you'll like it, I'm sure.'" She sounded
doubtful.
"Why shouldn't we?"
"Oh well, it's lonely up there, you know. People don't
always like living in a lonely place among a lot of trees."
"Gipsy's Acre," said Ellie.
"Ah, you know the local name, do you? But the house
that was there before was called The Towers. I don't know
why. It hadn't got any towers, at least not in my time."
"I think The Towers is a silly name," said Ellie. "I think
we'll go on calling it Gipsy's Acre."
"We'll have to tell the post office if so," I said, "or we
shan't get any letters."
"No, I suppose we shan't."
"Though when I come to think of it," I said, "would that
matter, Ellie? Wouldn't it be much nicer if we didn't get any
letters ?"
"It might cause a lot of complications," said Ellie. "We shouldn't even get our bills."
"That would be a splendid idea," I said.
"No, it wouldn't," said Ellie. "Bailiffs would come in and
camp there. Anyway," she said, "I wouldn't like not to get
any letters. I'd want to hear from Greta."
"Never mind Greta," I said. "Let's go on exploring."
So we explored Kingston Bishop. It was a nice village,
nice people in the shops. There was nothing sinister about
the place. Our domestic help didn't take to it much, but we
soon arranged that hired cars should take them into the
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ENDLESS NIGHT

nearegt seaside town or into Market Chadwell on their days

out. They were not enthusiastic about the location of the

house, but it was not superstition that worded them. I

pointed out to E!lle nobody COuld say the house was haunted

because it had been just built.

"No," Ellie agreed, "it's not the house. There's nothing
wrong with the house. It's outside. It's that road where it

curves round through the trees and that bit of rather gloomy

wood where that woman stood and made me jump so that

day."

"Well, next year," I said, "we might cut down those trees

and plant a lot of rhododendrons or something like that."

We went on making plans.
Greta came down and stayed with uss for a week-end. She

was enthuusiastic about the house, and congratulated us on

all our furnishings and pictures and colour schemes. She

was very tactful. After the week-end she said she wouldn't

disturb the honeymooners any longer, and anyway she'd

got to get back to her job.

ERie enjoyed showing her the house. I could see how fond

ERie was of her. I. tried to behave very scusibly and pleas
antly but I was glad 'when Greta went back to London,

because her staying there had been a strain on me.

When we'd been there a couple of weeks we were accepted

locally and made the acquaintance of God. He came one

afternoon to call upon uss. ERie and I were arguing about

where we'd have a flower border when our correct, to me

slightly phoney looking, manservant came out from the house

to announce that Major Phillpot was in the drawing-room.
It was then that I said in a whisper to ERie:
"God?'
IV. Hie asked me what I meant.

"Well, the locals treat him like that," I said.
8o we went in and there was Major Phillpot. He was
just a pleasant, nondescript man of close on .4xty. He was
wearing country clothes, rather shabby, he had grey hair
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ENDLESS NIGHT

going a little thin on top and a short bristly moustache. He
apologised for his wife not being able to come and call on
us. She was something of an invalid, he said. He sat down
and chatted with us. Nothing he said was remarkable or
particularly interesting. He had the knack of making people
feel at their ease. He touched quite lightly on a variety of
subjects. He didn't ask any direct questions, but he soon
got it into his head where our particular interests lay. He
talked to me about racing and to Ellie about making a
garden and what things did well in this particular soil. He
had been to the States once or twice. He found out that
though Ellie didn't care much for race meetings, she was fond of riding. He told her that if she was going to keep
horses she could go up a particular track through the pine
woods and she would come out on a good stretch of moor
where she could have a gallop. Then we came to the subject
of our house and of the stories about Gipsy's Acre.
"I see you know the local name," he said, "and all the
local superstitious, too, I expect."
"Gipsies' warnings in profusion," I said. "Far too many
ofthem. Mostly old Mrs. Lee."
"Oh dear," said Phillpot. "Poor old Esther: she's been
a nuisance, has she?"
"Is she a bit dotty?" I asked.
"Not so much as she likes to make out. I feel more or less
responsible for her. I settled her .in that cottage," he said,
"not that she's grateful for it. I'm fond of the old thing
though she can be a nuisance sometimes."
"Fortune telling?"
"No, not particularly. Why, has she told your fortune?"
"I don't know if you can call it a fortune," said Ellic.
"It was more a warning to m agaiust coming here."
"That seems rather odd to me." Major Phillpot's rather
bristly eyebrows rose. "She's usually got a honeyed
tongue in fortunes. Handsome stranger, marriage bells, six
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ENDLESS NIGHT

children and a heap of good fortune and money in your
hand, pretty lady." He imitated rather unexpectedly the
gipsy whine of her voice. "The gipsies used to camp here a
lot when I was a boy," he said. "I suppose I got fond of
them then, though they were a thieving lot, of course. But
I've always been attracted to them. As long as you don't
expect them to be law-abiding, they're all right. Many a tin
mug of gipsy stew I've had as a schoolboy. We felt the family
owed Mrs. Lee something, she saved the life of a brother of
mine when he was a child. Fished him out of a pond when
he'd gone through the ice."
I made a clumsy gesture and knocked a glass ashtray off
a table. It smashed into fragments.
I picked up the pieces and Major Phillpot helped me.
"I expect Mrs. Lee's quite harmless really," said Ellie.
"I was very foolish to have been so scared."
"Scared, were you?" His eyebrows rose again. "It was
as bad as that, was it?"
"I don't wonder she was afraid," I said quickly. "It was
almost more like a threat than a warning."
"A threat!" He sounded incredulous.
"Well, it sounded that way to me. And then the first night
we moved in here something else happened."
I told him about the stone crashing through the window. "I'm afraid there are a good many young hooligans
about nowadays," he said, "though we haven't got many of
them round here--not nearly as bad as some places. Still,
it happens, I'm sorry to say." He looked at Ellie. "I'm
very sorry you were frightened. It was a beastly thing to
happen, your first night moving in."
"Oh, I've got over it now," said Ellie. "It wasn't only
that, it was--it was something else that happened not long
afterwards."
I told him about that too. We had come down one morn112




ENDLESS NIGHT

ing and we had found a dead bird skewered through with a
knife and a small piece of paper with it which said in an
illiterate scrawl "Get out of here if you know what's good for
you."
Phillpot looked really angry then. He said, "You should
have reported that to the police."
"We didn't want to," I said. "After all, that would only
have put whoever it is even more against us."
"Well, that kind of thing has got to be stopped," said
Phillpot. Suddenly he became the magistrate. "Otherwise,
you know, people will go on with the thing. Think it's
funny, I suppose. Only---only this sounds a bit more than
fun. Nasty--malicious-- It's not," he said, rather as
though he was talking to himself, "it's not as though anyone
round here could have a grudge against you, a grudge
against either of you personally, I mean."
"No," I said, "it couldn't be that because we're both
strangers here."
"I'll look into it," Phillpot said.
He got up to go, looking round him as he did.
"You know," he said, "I like this house of yours. I didn't
think I should. I'm a bit of an old square, you know, what
used to be called an old fogey. I like old houses and old
buildings. I don't like all these matchbox factories that are
going up all over the country. Big boxes. Like beehives. I
like buildings with some ornament on them, some grace.
But I like this house. It's plain and very modern, I suppose,
but it's got shape and light. And when you look out from
it you see things--well, in a different way from the way
you've seen them before. It's interesting. Very interesting.
Who designed it? An English architect or a foreigner?"
I told him about Santonix.
"Mm," he said, "I think I read about him somewhere.
Would it have been in House and Garden?
I said he was fairly well known.
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"I'd like to meet him sometime, though I don't suppose
I'd know what to say to him. I'm not artistic."
Then he asked us to settle a day to come and have lunch
with him and his wife.
"You can see how you like my house," he said.
"It's an old house, I suppose?" I said.
"Built x7o. Nice period. The original house was
Elizabethan. That was burnt down about x 700 and a new
one built on the same spot."
"You've always lived here then?" I said. I didn't mean
him personally, of course, but he understood.
"Yes. We've been here fince Elizabethan times. Sometimes
prosperous, sometimes down and out, selling land
when things have gone badly, buying it back when things
went well. I'll be glad to show it to you both," he dd, and
looking at Ellie he said with a smile, "Americans like old
houses, I know. :You're the one who probably won't think
much of it," he said to me.
"I won't pretend I know much about old things," I said.
He stumped off then. In his car there was a spaniel
waiting for him. It was a battered old car with the paint
rubbed off, but I was getting my values by now. I knew that
in this part of the world he was still God all right, and he'd
set the seal of his approval on us. I could see that. He liked
Ellie. I was inclined to think that he'd liked me, too,
although I'd noticed the appraising glances which he shot
over me from time to time, as though he was making a
quick snap judgment on something he hadn't come across
before.
Ellie was putting splinters of glass carefully in the wastepaper
basket when I came back into the drawing-room.
"I'm sorry it's broken," she said regretfully. "I liked it.'

"We can get another like it," I said. "It's modern."
"I know! What startled you, Mike?"

I considered for a moment.

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ENDLESS NIGHT


"Something Phillpot said. It reminded me of something
that happened when I was a kid. A pal of mine at school
and I played truant and went out skating on a local pond.
Ice wouldn't bear us, silly little asses that we were. He went

through and was drowned before anyone could get him out."
"How horrible."

"Yes. I'd forgotten all about it until Phillpot mentioned
that about his own brother."

"I like him, Mike, don't you?"

"Yes, very much. I wonder what his wife is like?"

We went to lunch with the Phillpots early the following
week. It was a white Georgian house, rather beautiful in its
lines, though not particularly exciting. Inside, it was
shabby but comfortable. There were pictures of what I
took to be ancestors on the walls of the long dining-room.
Most of them were pretty bad, I thought, though they might
have looked better if they had been cleaned. There was one of
a fair-haired girl in pink satin that I rather took to. Major
?hillpot smiled and said:

"You've picked one of our best. It's a Gainsborough,
and a good one, though the subject of it caused a bit of
trouble in her time. Strongly suspected of having poisoned
her husband. May have been prejudice, because she was a
foreigner. Gervase Phillpot picked her up abroad some-where."

A few other neighbours had been invited to meet us.
Dr. Shaw, an elderly man with a kindly but tired manner.
He had to rush away before we had finished our meal. There
was the Vicar who was young and earnest, and a middle-aged
woman with a bullying voice who bred corgis. And
there was a tall handsome dark girl called Claudia Hardcastle
who seemed to live for horses, though hampered by having
an allergy which gave her violent hay fever.

She and Ellie got on together rather well. Ellie adored
riding and she too was troubled by an allergy.

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"In the States it's mostly ragwort gives it to me," she
said--"but horses too, sometimes. It. doesn't trouble me
much nowadays because they have such wonderful things
that doctors can give you for different kinds of allergies.
I'll give you some of my capsules. They're bright orange.
And if you remember to take one before you start out you
don't as much as sneeze once."
Claudia Hardcastle said that would be wonderful.
"Camels do it to me worse than horses," she said. "I
was in Egypt last year--and the tears just streamed down
my face all the way round the Pyramids."
Ellie said some people got it with cats.
"And pillows." They went on talking about allergies.
I sat next to Mrs. Phillpot who was tall and willowy and
talked exclusively about her health in the intervals of
eating a hearty meal. She gave me a full account of all her
various ailments and of how puzzled many eminent members
of the medical profession had been by her case. Occasionally
she made a social diversion and asked me what I did. I parried that one, and she made half-hearted efforts to find
out whom I knew. I could have answered truthfully "Nobody",
but I thought it would be well to refrain--especially
as she wasn't a real snob and didn't really want to know.
Mrs. Corgi, whose proper name I hadn't caught, was much
more thorough in her queries but I diverted her to the
general iniquity and ignorance of vets! It was all quite
pleasant and peaceful, if rather dull.
Later, as we were making a rather desultory tour of the
garden, Claudia Hardcastle joined me.
She said, rather abrupfiy, "I've heard about you--from
my brother."
I looked surprised. I couldn't imagine it to be possible
that I knew a brother of Claudia Hardcastle's.
"Are you sure?" I said.
She seemed amused.
ll6



ENDLESS NIGHT


"As a matter of fact, he built your house."

"Do you mean $antonix is your brother?"

"Half brother. I don't know him very well. We rarely
meet."

"He's wonderful," I said.

"Some people think so, I know."

"Don't you?"

"I'm never sure. There are two sides to him. At one
time he was going right down the hill .... People wouldn't
have anything to do with him. And then--he seemed to
change. He began to succeed in his profession in the most
extraordinary way. It was as though he was--" she paused
for a word--"dedicated."

"I think he is--just that."

Then I asked her if she had seen our house?

"No--not since it was finished."

I told her she must come and see it.

"I shan't like it, I warn you. I don't like modern houses.
Queen Anne is my favourite period."

She said she was going to put Ellie up for the golf club.
And they were going to ride together. Ellie was going to
buy a horse, perhaps more than one. She aaad Ellie seemed
to have made friends.

When Phillpot was showing me his stables he said a word
or two about Claudia.

"Good rider to hounds," he said. "Pity she's mucked up
her life."

"Has she?"

"Married a rich man, years older than herself. Au
American. Name of Lloyd. It didn't take. Came apart
almost at once. She went back to her own name. Don't
think she'll ever marry again. She's anti man. Pity."

When we were driving home, Ellie said: "Dull--but
nice. Nice people. We're going to be very happy here,
aren't we, Mike?"

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ENDLESS NIGHT

I said: "Yes, we are." And took my hand from the
teeHng wheel and laid it over hers.
When we got back, I dropped Ellie at the house, and
put away the car in the garage.
As I walked back to the house, I heard the faint twanging
of Ellle's guitar. She had a rather beautiful old Spanish
guitar that must have been worth a lot of money. She used
to sing to it in a soft low crooning voice. Very pleasant to
hear. I didn't know what most of the songs were. American
spirituals partly, I think, and some old IHsh and Scottish
ballads--sweet and rather sad. They weren't Pop music or
anything of that kind. Perhaps they were folk songs.
I went round by the terrace and paused by the window
before going in.
Ellie was singing one of my favourites. I don't know
what it was called. She was crooning the words softly to
herself, bending her head down over the guitar and gently
plucking the strings. It had a sweet-sad haunting little
tulle°
Man was made for Joy and Woe
And when this we Hghtly know
Thro' the World we safely go...

Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are born.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are born to Sweet Delight,
Some are born to Sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night...

She looked up and saw me.
"Why are you looking at me like that, Mike?"
"Like what?"
"You're looking at me as though you loved me..."
"Of corn, se I love you. How else should I be looking at you?"
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"But what were you thinking just then?"
I answered slowly and truthfully: "I was thinking of you as I saw you first--standing by a dark fir tree." Yes,
I'd been remembering that first moment of seeing Ellie, the
surprise of it and the excitement ....
Ellie smiled at me and sang softly

Every Morn and every Night
Some are born to Sweet Delight,
Some are born to Sweet Delight,
Some are born to Endless Night.

One doesn't recognise in one's life the really important
moments--not until it's too late.
That day when we'd been to lunch with the Phillpots and
came back so happily to our home was such a moment. But
I didn't know it then--not until afterwards.
I said: "Sing the song about the Fly." And she changed
to a gay little dance tune and sang:

Little Fly
Thy Summer's play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink, and sing
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing
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ENDLESS NIGHT


If thought is life

And strength and breath

And the want

Of thought is death;


Then am I
A happy fly
If I live

Or if I die.


Oh, Ellie--Ellie...


120



CHAPTER XV

It's astonishing in this world how things don't turn out at all
the way you expect them to!
We'd moved into our house and were living there and
we'd got away from everyone just the way I'd meant and
planned. Only of course we hadn't got away from everyone.
Things crowded back upon us across the ocean and in other
ways.
First of all there was Ellie's blasted stepmother. She sent
letters and cables and asked Ellie to go and see estate
agents. She'd been so fascinated, she said, by our house
that she really must have a house of her own in England.
She said she'd love to spend a couple of months every year in
England. And hard on her last cable she arrived and had to
be taken round the neighbourhood with lots of orders to
view. In the end she more or less settled on a house. A
house about fifteen miles away from us. We didn't want her
there, we hated the idea--but we couldn't tell her so. Or
rather, what I really mean is even if we had told her so, it
wouldn't have stopped her taking it if she'd wanted it. We
couldn't order her not to come there. It was the last thing
Ellie wanted. I knew that. However, while she was still
awaiting a surveyor's report, some cables arrived.
Uncle Frank, it seemed, had got himself into a jam of
some kind. Something crooked and fraudulent, I gathered,
which would mean a big sum of money to get him out. More
cables passed to and fro between Mr. Lippincott and Ellie.
And then there turned out to be some trouble between

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Stanford Lloyd and Lippincott. There was a row about
some of Ellie's investments. I had felt, in my ignorance and
credulity, that people who were in America were a long way
away. I'd never realised that Ellie's relations and business
connections thought nothing of taking a plane over to
England for twenty-four hours and then flying back again.
First Stanford Lloyd flew over and back again. Then
Andrew Lippincott flew over.
Ellie had to go up to London and meet them. I hadn't
got the hang of these financial things. I think everybody
was being fairly careful in what they said. But it was something
to do with the settling up of the trusts on Ellie, and a
kind of sinister suggestion that either Mr. Lippincott had
delayed the matter or it was Stanford Lloyd who was
holding up the accounting.
In a lull between these worries Ellie and I discovered our
Folly. We hadn't really explored all our property yet (only
the part just round the house). We used to follow up tracks
through the woods and see where they led. One day we
followed a sort of path that had been so overgrown that
you couldn't really see where it was at first. But we tracked
it out and in the end it came out at what Ellie said was a
Folly. A sort of little white ridiculous temple looking place.
It was in fairly good condition so we cleared it up and had
it painted and we put a table, and a few chairs in it and a
divan and a corner cupboard in which we put china and
glasses, and some bottles. It was fun really. Ellie said we'd
have the path cleared and made easier to climb and I said
no, it would be more fun if no one knew where it was except
us. Ellie thought that was a romantic idea.
"We certainly won't let Cora know," I said and Ellie
agreed.
It was when we were coming down from there, not the
first time but later, after Cora had gone away and we were
hoping to be peaceful again, that Ellie, who was skipping
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along ahead of me, suddenly tripped over the root of a tree
and fell and sprained her ankle.
Dr. Shaw came and said she'd taken a nasty sprain but
that she'd be able to get about again all right in perhaps a
week. Ellie sent for Greta then. I couldn't object. There
was no one really to look after her properly, no woman I
mean. The servants we had were pretty useless and anyway
Ellie wanted Greta. So Greta came.
She came and she was a great blessing of course to Ellie.
And to me as far as that went. She arranged things and kept
the household working properly. Our servants gave notice
about now. They said it was too lonely--but really I think
Cora had upset them. Greta put in advertisements and got
another couple almost at once. She looked after Ellie's
ankle, amused her, fetched things for her that she knew she
liked, the kind of books and fruit and things like that--things
I knew nothing about. And they seemed frightfully
happy together. Ellie was certainly delighted to see Greta.
And somehow or other Greta just didn't go away again ....
She stopped on. Ellie said to me,
"You don't mind, do you, if Greta stays on for a bit?"
I said "Oh no. No, of course not."
"It's such a comfort having her," said Ellie. "You see,
there are so many sort offema/e things we can do together.
One's awfully lonely without another woman about."
Every day I noticed Greta was taking a bit more upon
herself, giving orders, queening it over things. I pretended
I liked having Greta there, but one day when Ellie was lying
with her foot up inside the drawing-room and Greta and I
were out on the terrace, we suddenly got into a row together. I can't remember the exact words that started it. Something
that Greta said, it annoyed me and I answered sharply back.
And then we went on, hammer and tongs. Our voices rose.
She let me have it, saying all the vicious, unkind things
she could think of, and I pretty well gave her as good as I
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ENDLESS NIGHT


was getting. Told her she was a bossy, interfering female,
that she'd far too much influence over Ellie, that I wasn't
going to stand having Ellie bossed about the whole time.
We shouted at each other and then suddenly Ellie came
hobbling out on the terrace looking from one to the other
of us, and I said,

"Darling, I'm sorry. I'm terribly sorry."

I went back into the house and settled Ellie on the sofa
again. She said,

"I didn't realise. I didn't realise a bit that you--that you
really hated having Greta here."

I soothed her and calmed her and said she mustn't take
any notice, that I just lost my temper, that I was rather
quarrelsome sometimes. I said all that was the matter was
that I thought Greta was just a bit bossy. Perhaps that was
natural enough because she'd been used to being so. And in
the end I said I really liked Greta very much, it was just that
I'd lost my temper because I'd been upset and worried. So
it ended that I practically begged Greta to stay on.

It was quite a scene we'd had. I think quite a good many
other people in the house had heard it as well. Our new
manservant and his wife certainly did. When I get angry
I do shout. I dare say I really overdid it a bit. I'm like that.

Greta seemed to make a point of worrying a great deal

about Ellie's health, saying she oughtn't to do this, or that.
"She isn't really very strong, you know," she said to me.

"There's nothing wrong with Ellie," I said, "she's always
perfectly well."

"No, she isn't, Mike. She's delicate."

When Dr. Shaw next came to have a look at Ellie's ankle
and to tell her, by the way, that it was quite all right again,
just bind it up if she was going to walk over rough ground,
I said to him, I suppose in rather the foolish way that men
do,

"She isn't delicate or anything, is she, Dr. Shaw?"

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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Who says she's delicate?" Dr. Shaw was the kind of
practitioner that is fairly rare nowadays and was, indeed,
known locally as "Leave it to Nature-Shaw."
"Nothing wrong with her as far as I can see," he said.
"Anyone can sprain an ankle."
"r didn't mean her ankle. I wondered if she had a weak
heart or anything like that."
He looked at me through the top of his spectacles. "Don't
start imagining things, young man. What put it into your
head? You're not the type that worries usually about
women's ailments?"
"It was only what Miss Andersen said."
"Ah. Miss Andersen. What does she know about it?
Not medically qualified, is she?"
"Oh no," I said.
"Your wife's a woman of great wealth," he said, "according
to local gossip anyway. Of course some people just imagine
all Americans are rich."
"She is wealthy," I said.
"Well, you must remember this. Rich women get the
worst of it in many ways. Some doctor or other is always
giving them powders and pills, stimulants or pep pills, or
tranquillisers, things that on the whole they'd be better
without. Now the village women are much healthier because
nobody worries about their health in the same way."
"She does take some capsules or something," I said.
"I'll give her a check-up if you like. Might as Well find
out what muck she's been given. I can tell you, before now
I've said to people 'chuck the whole lot in the wastepaper
basket'."
He spoke to Greta before he left. He said,
"Mr. Rogers asked me to give Mrs Rogers a general.
check-up. I can't find anything much wrong with her. I
think more exercise in the open air might do her good. What
does she take in the way of medicines?'
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"She has some tablets that she takes when she's tired, and
some that she takes for sleeping if she wants them."
She and Dr. Shaw went and had a look at Ellie's prescriptions.
Ellie was smiling a little.
"I don't take all these things, Dr. Shaw," she said.
"Only the allergy capsules."
Shaw took a look at the capsules, read the prescription
and said there was no harm in that, and passed on to a prescription
for sleeping pills.
"Any trouble with sleeping?"
"Not living in the country. I don't think I've taken a
single sleeping pill since I've been here."
"Well, that's a good thing." He patted her on the
shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with you, my dear.
Inclined to worry a bit sometimes, I should say. 3aat's all.
These capsules are mild enough. Lot of people take them
nowadays and they don't do them any harm. Go on with
them but leave the sleeping pills alone."
"I don't know why I worried," I said to Ellie apologetically.
"I suppose it was Greta."
"Oh," said Ellie and laughed, "Greta fusses about me.
She never takes any remedies herself." She said, "We'll
have a turn-out, Mike, and throw most of these things
away."
EIlie was getting on very friendly terms with most of our
neighbours now. Claudia Hardcastle came over quite often
and she and Ellie went riding together occasionally. I
didn't ride, I'd dealt with cars and mechanical things all
my life. I didn't know the first thing about a horse in spite
of mucking out stables in Ireland for a week or two once,
but I thought to myself that some time or other when we
were in London I'd go to a posh riding stable and learn how
to ride properly. I didn't want to start down here. People
would laugh at me very likely. I thought riding was per=
haps good for Ellie. She seemed to enjoy it.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

Greta encouraged her to ride, although Greta herself
also knew nothing about horses.
Ellie and Claudia went together to a sale and on Claudia's
advice Ellie bought herself a horse, a chestnut called
Conquer. I urged Ellie to be careful when she went out
riding by herself but she laughed at me.
"I've ridden since I was three years old," she said.
So she usually went for a ride about two or three times a
week. Greta used to drive the car and go into Market Chad-well
to do the shopping.
One day Greta said at lunchtime: "You and your
gipsies! There was a terrible looking old woman this
morning. She stood in the middle of the road. I might have
run over her. Just stood smack in front of the car. I had to
pull up. Coming up the hill too."
"Why, what did she want?"
Ellie was listening to us both but she didn't say anything.
I thought, though, that she looked rather worried.
"Damn cheek, she threatened me," said Greta.
"Threatened you?" I said sharply.
"Well, she told me to get out ofhere. She said: 'This is
gipsy land here. Go back. Go back the lot of you. Go back
to where you came from if you wish to be safe.' And she
lifted up her fist and shook it at me. She said: 'If I curse
you,' she said, 'there'll be no good luck for you ever again.
Buying our land and raising houses on our land. We don't
want houses where tent dwellers should be.'"
Greta said a lot more. Ellie said to me afterwards,
frowning a little,
"It all sounded most improbable, didn't you think so,
Mike?"
"I think Greta was exaggerating a bit," I said.
"It didn't sound right somehow," said Ellie. "I wonder
if Greta was making some of it up."
I considered. "Why would she want to make things up?"
127



ENDLESS NIGHT

Then I asked sharply, "Tou haven't seen our Esther lately,
have you? Not when you are out riding?"
"The gipsy woman? No."
"You don't sound quite sure, Ellie," I said.
"I think I've caught glimpses of her," said Ellie. "You
know, standing among the trees peering out but never near
enough for me to be sure."
But Ellie came back from a ride one day, white and shaking.
The old woman had come out from in between the trees.
Ellie had reined up and stopped to speak to her. She said the
old woman was shaking her fist and muttering under her
breath. Ellie said: "This time I was angry. I said to her:
"'What do you want here? This land doesn't belong to
you. It's our land and our house.'"
The old woman had said then,
"It'll never be your land and it'll never belong to you. I
warned you once and I've warned you twice. I shan't
warn you again. It won't be long now--I can tell you that.
It's death I see. There behind your left shoulder. It's death
standing by you and it's Death will have you. That horse
you're riding has got one white foot. Don't you know that
it's bad luck to ride a horse with one white foot? It's death
I see and the grand house you've built falling in ruins?
"This has got to be stopped," I said angrily.
Ellie didn't laugh it off this time. Both she and Oreta
looked upset. I went straight down to the village. I went
first to Mrs. Lee's cottage. I hesitated for a moment but there
was no light there and I went on to the police station. I
knew the Sergeant in Charge, Sergeant Keene, a square,
sensible man. He listened to me, then he said:
"I'm sorry you've had this trouble. She's a very old
woman and she may be getting tiresome. We've never had
much real trouble with her up to now. I'll speak to her and
tell her to lay off."
"If you would," I said.
128



ENDLESS NIGHT

lie hesitated a minute and then said:
"I don't like to suggest things--but as far as you know, Mr.
Rogers, is there anyone around here who might--perhaps
for some trivial cause--have it in for you or your wife?"
"I should think it most unlikely. Why?"
"Old Mrs. Lee has been flush of money latelym! don't
know where it's coming from
"
"What are you suggesting?"
"It could be someone is paying her--someone who wants
you out of here. There was an incident--a good many
years ago. She took money from someone in the village--to
frighten a neighbour away. Doing this same sort of stuff--threats--warnings--evil
eye business-- Village people are
superstitious. You'd be surprised at the number of villages
in England that have got their private witch, so to speak.
She got a warning then and so far as I know she's never tried
it on since--but it could be like that. She's fond of money--they'll
do a lot for money "
But I couldn't accept that idea. I pointed out to Keene
that we were complete strangers here. "We've not had time
to make enemies," I said.
I walked back to the house worried and perplexed. As
I turned the corner of the terrace, I heard the faint sound
of Ellie's guitar, and a tall figure, who had been standing by
the window looking in, wheeled round and came towards
me. For a moment I thought it was our gipsy, then I
relaxed as I recognised Santonix.
"Oh," I said with a slight gasp, "it's you. Where have
you sprung from? We've not heard from you for ages."
He didn't answer me directly. He just caught my arm
and drew me away from the window.
"So she's here!" he said. "I'm not surprised. I thought
she'd come sooner or later. Why did you let her? She's
dangerous. You ought to know that."
"You mean Ellie?"
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"No, no, not Ellie. The other one! What's her name?
Greta."
I stared at him.
"Do you know what Greta's like or don't you? She's come, hasn't she? Taken possession! You won't get rid of
her now. She's come to stag,."
"Ellie sprained her ankle," I said, "Greta came to look
after her. She's--I suppose she's going soon."
"You don't know anything of the kind. She always
meant to come. I knew that. I took her measure when she
came down while the house was building."
"Ellie seems to want her," I muttered.
"Oh yes, she's been with Ellie some time, hasn't she?
She knows how to manage Ellie."
That was what Lippincott had said. I'd seen for myself
lately how true it was.
"Do you want her here, Mike?"
"I can't throw her out of the house," I said irritably.
"She's Ellie's old friend. Her best friend. What the hell
can I do about it?"
"No," said Santonix, "I suppose you can't do anything, Cai1 yOU."
He looked at me. It was a very strange glance. Santonix
was a strange man. You never knew what his words really
meant.
"Do you know where you're going, Mike?" he said.
"Have you any idea? Sometimes I don't think you know
anything at all."
"Of course I know," I said. "I'm doing what I want to.
I'm going where I wanted."
"Are you? I wonder. I wonder if you really know what
you want yourself. I'm afraid for you with Greta. She's
stronger than you are, you know."
"I don't see how you make that out. It in't a question
of strength."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Isn't it? I think it is. She's the strong kind, the kind
that always gets her way. You didn't mean to have her here.
That's what you said. But here she is, and I've been watch-Lug
them. She and Ellie sitting together, at home together
chattering and settled in. What are.you Mike? The outsider?
Or aren't you an outsider?"
"You're crazy, the things you say. What do you mean--I'm
an outsider? I'm Ellie's husband, aren't I?"
"Are you Ellie's husband or is Ellie.your wife?"
"You're daft," I said. "What's the difference?"
He sighed. Suddenly his shoulders sagged as though
vigour went out of him.
"I can't reach you," said Santonix. "I can't make you
hear me. I can't make you understand. Sometimes I think
you do understand, sometimes I think you don't know anything at all about yourself or anyone else."
"Look here," I said, "I'll take so much from you, Santonix.
You're a wonderful architect--but "
His face changed in the queer way it had.
"Yes," he said, "I'm a good architect. This house is the
best thing I have done. I'm as near as possible satisfied with
it. You wanted a house like this. And Ellie wanted a house
like this, too, to live in with you. She's got it and you've
got it. Send that other woman away, Mike, before it's too
late."
"How can I upset Ellie?."
"That woman's got you where she wants you," said
Santonix.
"Look here," I said, "I don't like Greta. She §ets on my
nerves. The other day I even had a frightful row with her.
But none of it's as simple as you think."
"No, it won't be simple with her."
"Whoever called this place Gipsy's Acre and said it had
a curse on it may have had something," I said anily.
*'We've It gipsies who jump out from behind trees and
131



ENDLESS NIGHT

shake fists at us and warn us that if we don't get out of here,
some awful fate will happen to us. This place that ought to b
good and beautiful."
They were queer words to say, those last ones. I said
them as though it was somebody else saying them.
"Yes, it should be like that," said Santonix. "It should be.
But it can't be, can it, if there is something evil possessing
it?"
"You don't believe, surely, in "
"There are many queer things I believe .... I know
something about evil. Don't you realise, haven't you often
felt, that I am partly evil myself?. Always have been. That's
why I know. I know when it's near me, although I don't
always know exactly where it is .... I want the house I built
purged of evil. You understand that?" HIS tone was menacing.
"You understand that? It matters to me."
Then his whole manner changed.
"Come on," he said, "don't let's talk a lot of nonsense.
Let's come in and see Ellie."
So we went in through the window and Ellie greeted
Santonix with enormous pleasure.
Santonix showed all his normal manner that evening.
There were no more histrionics, he was his own self, charm-Lug,
light-hearted. He talked mostly to Greta, giving her as
it were the especial benefit of his charm. And he had a lot of
charm. Anyone would have sworn that he was impressed by
her, that he liked her, that he was anxious to please her. It
made me feel that Santonix was really a very dangerous
man, there was a great deal more to him than I had ever
glimpsed.
Greta always responded to admiration. She showed
herself at her best. She could on occasion dim her beauty
or else reveal it and to-night she looked as beautiful as I'd
ever seen her. Smiling at Santonix, listening to him as
though spellbound. I wondered what lay behind his manner.
132



I go safely
ERie,


ENDLESS NIGHT


You never knew with Santonix. ERie said she hoped he was
staying for several days but he shook his head. He had to
leave on the following day, he said.

"Are you building something now, are you busy?"

He said no, he'd just come out of hospital.

"They've patched me up once more," he said, "but it's
probably for the last time."

"Patched you up? What do they do to you?"

"Drain the bad blood out of my body and put some good,
fresh red blood in," he said.

"Oh." ERie gave a little shudder.

"Don't worry," said Santonix, "it will never happen to
you."

"But why has it got to happen to you?" said ERie. "It's
cruel."

"Not cruel, no," said Santonix. "I heard what you were
singing just now.


Man was made for Joy and Woe
And when this we rightly know
Thro' the World we safely go.


because I know why I'm here. And for you,


Every Morn and every Night

Some are born to Sweet Delight.


That's yo."

"I wish I could feel safe," said ERie.

"Don't you feel safe?"

"I don't like to be threatened," said ERie. "I don't like
anyone to put • curse on me."

"You're talking about your gipsy?"

"Yes."

"Forget it," mid Santonix. "Forget it for to-night. Let's
be happy. ERie--your health-- Long life to you-- and a

13B



ENDLESS NIGHT

quick and merciful end to me--and Good Luck to Mike
here "He stopped, his glass raised towards Greta.
"Yes?" said Greta. "And to me?"
"And to you, what's coming to you! Success, perhaps?"
he added, half quizzically with an ironic question' in his tone.
He went away next morning early.
"What a strange man he is," ERie said. "I've never
understood him."
"I never understand half of what he says," I answered.
"He knows things," said ERie thoughtfully.
'"You mean he knows the future?"
"No," said ERie, "I didn't mean that. He knows people.
I said it to you once before. He knows people better than
they know themselves. Sometimes he hates them because of
that, and sometimes he's sorry for them. He's not sorry for
me, though," she added meditatively.
"Why should he be?" I demanded.
"Oh, because "said ERie.

134



CHAPTER XVI

It was the next day in the afternoon that as I was walking
rather rapidly in the darkest part of the wood where the
shade of the pine trees was more menacing than anywhere
else, I saw the figure of a tall woman standing in the drive.
I took a quick impulsive step off the path. I'd taken it for
granted that she was our gipsy but I stopped in sudden
recoil when I saw who it actually was. It was my mother.
She stood there tall and grim and grey-haired.
"Good lord," I said, "you starfied me, Mum. What are
you doing here? Come to see us? We've asked you often
enough, haven't we ?"
We hadn't actually. I'd extended one rather lukewarm
invitation, that was all. I'd put it, too, in a way which made
it pretty sure that my mother wouldn't accept. I didn't
want her here. I'd never wanted her here.
"You're right," she said. "I've come to see you at last.
To see ali's well with you. So this is the grand house you've
built, and it is a grand house," she said, looking over my
shoulder.
I thought I detected in her voice the disapproving acidity
that I'd expected to find.
"Too grand for the likes of me, eh?" I said.
"I didn't say that, lad."
"But you thought it."
"It wasn't what you were born to, and no good comes
from getting out of your station in life."
"Nobody'd ever get anywhere if they listened to you."
135



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Aye, I know that's what you say and think, but I don't
know what good ambition's ever done to anybody. It's
the kind of thing that turns to dead sea fruit in your
mouth."
"Ah, for God's sake don't croak," I said. "Come on.
Come along up to see our grand house for yourself and turn
up your nose at it. And come and see my grand wife, too,
and turn up your nose at her if you dare."
"Your wife? I've seen her already."
"What do you mean, you've seen her already?" I demanded.
"So she didn't tell you, eh?"
"What?" I demanded.
"That she came to see me."
"She came to see you?" I asked, dumbfounded.
"Yes. There she was one day standing outside the door,
ringing the bell and looking a little scared. She's a pretty
lass and a sweet one for all the fine clothes she had on. She
said 'You're Mike's mother, aren't you?' and I said 'Yes, and
who are you?' and she said Tm his wife.' She said 'I had to
come to see you. It didn't seem right that I shouldn't know
Mike's mother .... ' And I said 'I bet he didn't want you to'
and she hesitated, and I said: 'You don't need to mind telling
me that. I know my boy and I know what he'd want
or not want'. She said 'You think--perhaps he's ashamed
of you because he and you are poor and I'm rich, but it isn't
like that at all. That isn't like him at all. It isn't, really it
isn't.' I said again, 'You don't need to tell me, lass. I know
what faults my boy has. That's not one of his faults. He's
not ashamed of his mother and he's not ashamed of his
beginnings.
"'He's not ashamed of me.' I said to her, 'He's afraid of
me if anything. I know too much about him, you see.' And
that seemed to amuse her. She said: 'I expect mothers
always feel like that--that they know all about their sons.
136



ENDLESS NIGHT

And I expect sons always feel embarrassed just because of
that I'
"I said in a way that might be true enough. When you're
young, you're always putting on an act to the world.
mind myself, when I was a child in my aunfie's house. On
the wall over my bed there was a great big Eye in a gilt
frame. It said 'Thou God seest me.' Gave me the creeps it
did all up my spine before I went to sleep."
"Ellie should have told me she'd been to see you," I said.
"I don't see why she should keep it such a secret. She
should have told me."
I was angry. I was very angry. I'd had no idea that Ellie
would keep secrets like that from me.
"She was a LITTLE scared of what she'd done, maybe, but
she'd no call to be frightened of you, my boy."
"Come on," I said, "come on and see our house."
I don't know whether she liked our house or not. I think
not. She looked round the rooms and raised her eyebrows
and then she went into the terrace room. Ellie and Greta
were sitting there. They'd just come in from outside and
Greta had a scarlet wool cloak half over her shoulders. My
mother looked at them both. She just stood there for a
moment as though rooted to the spot. Ellie jumped up and
came forward and across the room.
"Oh, it's Mrs. Rogers," she said, then turning to Greta,
she said, "It's Mike's mother come to see our house and us.
Isn't that nice? This is my friend Greta Andersen."
And she held out both her hands and took Mum's and
Mum looked at her and then looked over her shoulder at
Greta very hard.
"I see," she said to herself, "I see."
"What do you see?" asked Ellie.
"I wondered," said Mum. "I wondered what it would
all be like here." She looked round her. "Yes, it's a fine
house. Fine curtains and fine chairs and fane pictures."
137



ENDLESS NIGHT

"You must have some tea," said Ellie.
"You look as if you've finished tea."
"Tea's a thing that need never be finished," said Ellie,
then she said to Greta, "I won't ring the bell. Greta, will
you go out to the kitchen and make a fresh pot of tea?"
"Of course, darling," said Greta and went out of the room
looking over her shoulder once in a sharp, almost scarcd
way at my mother.
My mother sat down.
"Where's your luggage?" said Ellie. "Have you come to
stay? I hope you have."
"No, lass, I won't stay. I'm going back by train in half
an hour's time. I just wanted to look in on you." Then she
added rather quickly, probably because she wished to get it
out before Greta came back, "Now don't worry yourself,
love, I told him how you came to see me and paid me a
visit."
"I'm sorry, Mike, that I didn't tell you," said Ellie firmly,
"only I thought perhaps I'd better not."
"She came out of the kindness of her heart, she did," said
my mother. "She's a good girl you've married, Mike, and
a pretty one. Yes, a very pretty one." Then she added hal
audibly, "I am sorry."
"Sorry," said Ellie, faintly puzzled.
"Sorry for thinking the things I did," said my mother and
added with a slight air of strain, "Well, as you say, mothers
are like that. Always inclined to be suspicious of daughters-in-law.
But when I saw you, I knew he'd been lucky. It
seemed too good to be true to me, that it did."
"What impertinence," I said, but I smiled at her as I
said it. "I always had excellent taste."
"You've always had expensive taste, that's what you
mean," said my mother and looked at the brocade curtains.
"I'm not really the worse for being an expensive taste,"
said Ellie, smiling at her.
138



ENDLESS NIGHT

"You make him save a bit of money from time to time,"
said Mum, "it'll be good for his character."
"I refuse to have my character improved," I said. "The
advantage of taking a wife is that the wife thinks everything
you do is perfect. Isn't that so, Ellie?"
ERie was looking happy again now. She laughed and
said,
"You're above yourself, Mike! The conceit of you."
Greta came back then with the teapot. We'd been a little
ill at ease and we were just getting over it. Somehow when
Greta came back the strain came on again. My mother
resisted all endeavours on ERie's part to make her stay over
and F.11ie didn't insist after a short while. She and I walked
down together with my mother along the winding drive
.through the trees and to the gateway.
"What do you Call it?" my mother asked abruptly.
ERie said, "Gipsy's Acre." . ..
"Ah," said my mother, "yes, you've got gipsies arotnd
here, haven't you?" .
"How did you know that?" I asked.
"I saw one as I came up. She looked at me queer, she
did."
"She's all right really," I said, "a little half baked, that's

"Why do you say she's half baked? She'd a funny look
to her when she looked at me. She's got a grievance against
you of some kind?"
"I don't think it's real," said ERie. "I think she's imagined
it all. That we've done her out of her land or something like
that."
"I expect she wants money," said my mother. "Gipsies
are like that. Make a big song and dance sometimes of
how they've been done down one way or another. But
they soon stop when they get some money in their itching
palms."
139



ENDLESS NIGHT


"You don't like gipsies," said Ellie.

"They're a thieving lot. They don't work steady and
they don't keep their hands off what doesn't belong to
them."

"Oh well," Ellie said, "we--we don't worry any more
I1OW."

My mother said good-bye and then added, "Who's the
young lady that lives with you?"

Ellie explained how Greta had been with her for three
years before she married and how but for Greta she would
have had a miserable life.

"Greta's done everything to help us. She's a wonderful
person," said Ellie. "I wouldn't know how to--how to get
on without her."

"She's living with you or on a visit?"

"Oh well," said Ellie. She avoided the question.' "She--she's
living with us at present because I sprained my ankle
and had to have someone to look after me. But I'm all right
again now."

"Married people do best alone together when they're
starting," my mother said.

We stood by the gate watching my mother march away
down the hill.

"She's got a very strong personality," said Ellie thought-funy.

I was angry with Ellie, really very angry because she'd
gone and found out my mother and visited her without tell-ing
me. But when she turned and stood looking at me with
one eyebrow raised a little and the funny half-timid, half-satisfied
little girl smile on her face, I couldn't help relent

"What
a deceitful little thing you are," I said.

"Well," said Ellie, "I've had to be sometimes, you


"That's like a Shakespeare play I once saw. They did it

140



ENDLESS NIGHT

at a school I was at." I quoted rather self-consciously,
"'She has deceiv'd her father and may thee'."
"What did you play---Othello?"
"No," I said, "I played the girl's father. That's why I
remember that speech, I suppose. It's practically the only
thing I had to say."
"'She has deceiv'd her father and may thee',"
said Ellie thoughtfully. "I didn't ever deceive my father as
far as I know. Perhaps I would have later."
"I don't suppose he would have taken very kindly to your
marrying me," I said, "any more than your stepmother did."
"No," said Ellie, "I don't suppose he would. He was
pretty conventional I think." Then she gave that funny
little girl smile again, "so I suppose I'd have had to be like
Desdemona and deceived my father and run away with you."
"Why did you want to see my mother so much, Ellie?" I
asked curiously.
"It's not so much I wanted to see her" said Ellie, "but l
felt terribly bad not doing anything about it. You haven't
mentioned your mother very often but I did gather that she'a
always done everything she could for you. Come to the
rescue about things and worked very hard to get: you extra
schooling and things like that. And I thought it seemed so
mean and purse-proud of me not to go near her."
"Well, it wouldn't have been your fault," I said, "it
would have been mine."
"Yes," said Ellie. "I can understand that perhaps you
didn't want me to go and see her."
"You think I've got an inferiority complex about my
mother? That's not true at all, Ellie, I assure you it isn't.
It wasn't that."
"No," said Ellie thoughtfully, "I know that now. It was
because you didn't want her to do a lot of mother stuff."
"Mother stuff?" I queried.
141



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Well," said Ellie, "I can see that she's the kind of person
who would know quite well what other people ought to
do. I mean, she'd want you to go in for certain kinds of
jobs."
"Quite right," I said. "Steady jobs. Settling down."
"It wouldn't have mattered very much now," said Ellie.
I dare say it was very good advice. But it wouldn't have
been the right advice ever for.you, Mike. You're not a settler
down. You don't want to be steady. You want to go and see
things and do things--be on top of the world."
"I want to stay here in this house with you," I said.
"For a while, perhaps .... And I think I think you'll
alway want to come back here. And so shall I. I think we
shall come here every year and I think we shall be happier
here than anywhere else. But you'll want to go places too.
You'll want to travel and see things and buy things. Perhaps
think up new plans for doing the garden here. Perhaps
we'll go and look at Italian gardens, Japanese gardens,
landscape gardens of all kinds."
"You make life seem very exciting, Ellie," I said. "I'm
8OITy I WaS cro."
"Oh, I don't mind your being cross," said Ellie. "I'm
not afraid of you." Then she added, with a firown: "Your
mother didn't like Greta."
"A lot of people don't like Greta," I said.
"Including you."
"Now look here, Ellie, you're always saying that. It's
not true. I waS just a bit jealous of her at first, that was all.
We get on very well now." And I added, "I think perhaps
he makes people get rather on the defensive."
"Mr. Lippincott doesn't like her either, does he? He
thinks she's got too much influence over me," said Ellie.
"Has she?"
"I wonder why you should ask that. Yes, I think perhaps
she has. It's only natural, she's rather a dominant personal142




ENDLESS NIGHT

ity and I had to have someone I could trust in and rely on.
Someone who'd stand up for me."
"And see you got your own way?" I asked her, laughing.
We went into the house arm in arm. For some reason i
seemed dark that afternoon. I suppose because the sun had
just left the terrace and left a feeling of darkness behind it.
Ellie said,
"What's the matter, Mike?"
"I don't know," I said. "Just suddenly I felt as though
someone were walking over my grave."
"A goose is walking over your grave. That's the real
saying, isn't it ?" said Ellie.
Greta wasn't about anywhere. The servants said she'd
gone out for a walk.
Now that my mother knew all about my marriage and had
seen Ellie, I did what I had really wanted to do for some
time. I sent her a large cheque. I told her to move into a
better house and to buy herself any additional furniture she
wanted. Things like that. I had doubts of course as to
whether she would accept it or not. It wasn't money that
I'd worked for and I couldn't honestly pretend it was. As
I had expected, she sent the cheque back torn in two with
a scrawled note. "I'll have naught to do with any of this,"
she wrote. "You'll never be different. I know that now.
Heaven help you." I flung it down in front of Ellie.
"You see what my mother's like," I said. "I married a
rich girl, and I'm living on my rich wife's money and the old
battleaxe disapproves of it!"
"Don't worry," said Ellie. "Lots of people think that
way. She'll get over it. She loves you very much, Mike,"
she added.
"Then why does she want to alter me all the time? Make
me into her pattern. I'm myself. I'm not anybody else's
pattern. I'm not my mother's little boy to be moulded the
way she likes. I'm myself. I'm an adult. I'm mt!"
143



ENDLESS NIGHT

"You're you," said Ellie, "and I love you."
And then, perhaps to distract me, she said something
rather disquieting.
"What do you think," she said, "of this new manservant
of ours?"
I hadn't thought about him. What was there to think?
If anything I preferred him to our last one who had not
troubled to conceal his low opinion of my social status.
"He's all right," I said. "Why?"
"I just wondered whether he might be a security
man."
"A security man? What do you mean?"
"A detective. I thought Uncle Andrew might have
arranged it."
"Why should he?"
"Well--possible kidnapping, I suppose. In the States,
you know, we usually had guards--especially in the country."
Another of the disadvantages of having money that I
hadn't known about!
"What a beastly idea I"
"Oh, I don't know .... I suppose I'm used to it. What
does it matter? One doesn't really notice."
"Is the wife in it, too?"
"She'd have to be, I think, though she cooks very well. I should think that Uncle Andrew, or perhaps Stanford
Lloyd, whichever one of them thought of it, must have paid
our last ones to leave, and had these two all lined up ready
to take their place. It would have been quite easy." "Without telling you?" I was still incredulous.
"They'd never dream of telling me. I might have kicked
up a fuss. Anyway, I may be quite wrong about them."
She went on dreamily. "It's only that one gets a kind of
feeling when one's been used to people of that kind always
being around."
144



ENDLESS NIGHT


"Poor little rich girl," I said savagely.

Ellie did not mind at all.

"I suppose that does describe it rather well," she said.

"The things I'm learning about you all the tim% Elli%"
I said.


145



CHAPTER XVII


What a mysterious thing sleep is. You go to bed worrying
about gipsies and secret enemies, and detectives planted in
your house and the possibilities of kidnapping and a hun-dred
other things; and sleep whisks you away from it all.
You travel very far and you don't know where you've
been, but when you wake up, it's to a totally new world. No
worries, no apprehensions. Instead, when I woke up
on the x7th September I was in a mood of boisterous excite-ment.

'A wonderful day,' I said to myself with conviction.
'This is going to be a wonderful day.' I meant it. I was like
those people in advertisements that offer to go anywhere
and do anything. I went over plans in my head. I had
arranged to meet Major Phillpot at a sale at a country
house about fifteen miles away. They had some very nice
stuff there and I'd already marked down two or three items
in the catalogue. I was quite excited about the whole thing.

Phillpot was very knowledgeable' about period furniture
and silver and things of that kind, not because he was
artistic--he was entirely a sporting man--but simply
because he knew. His whole family was knowledgeable.

I looked over the catalogue at breakfast. Ellie had come
down in a riding habit. She rode most mornings now--sometimes
alone, sometimes with Claudia. She had the
American habit of drinking coffee and a glass of orange
juice and nothing much else for breakfast. My tastes now
that I hadn't got to restrain them in any way, were very
146



ENDLESS NIGHT

much those of a Victorian squire! I liked lots of hot dishe.
on the sideboard. I ate kidneys this morning and sausages
and bacon as well. Delicious.
"What are you doing, Greta?" I asked.
Greta said she was meeting Claudia Hardcastle at the
tation at Market Chadwell and they were going up to
London to a white sale. I asked what a white sale was.
"Does there really have to be white in it?" I asked.
Greta looked scornful and said that a white sale meant a
sale of household linen and blankets and towels and sheets,
etc. There were some very good bargains at a special shop
in Bond Street of which she had been sent a catalogue.
I said to Ellie, "Well, if Greta is going to London for the
day, why don't you drive in and meet us at the George in
Bartington. The food there's very good, so old Phillpot said.
He suggested you might come. One o'clock. You go through
Market Chadwell and then you take a turning about three
miles after that. It's sign-posted, I think."
"All tight," said Ellie, "I'll be there."
I mounted her and she went off riding through the trees.
Elie loved tiding. She usually rode up one of the winding
tracks and came out on the Downs and had a gallop before
returning home. I left the smaller car for Ellie as it was
easier to park and took the big Chrysler myself. I got to
Baxtington Manor just before the sale began. Phillpot was
there already and had kept a place for me.
"Some quite nice stuff here," he said. "One or two good
pictures. A Romney and a Reynolds. I don't know if
you're interested?"
I shook my head. My taste at the moment was entirely
for modern artists.
"Several dealers here," Phillpot went on, "a couple down
from London. See that thin man over there with the
pinched lips? That's Cressington. Pretty well known. Not
brought your wife?"
147



ENDI1LE; SS NIGHT

"No," I said, "she's not awafully keen on salea.

didn't particularly want hr to come ths xnaOrg.,, Y,

"Oh? Why not?"

"There's going to be a u. prise for Elli,e," I aicl. "Did

you notice Lot 4?"

He took a glance at the cagalogue and tlen lked %ross

the room.

"Hm. That papier mdcht*' daesk? Yes. R:athet bed,. ....

little piece. One of the best examples of apiac,vU;

seen. Desk rather rare too. pJenty of hand clesk%

tables But this is an early erample. Nevex se%neu on

,,
uite

like it before.
The little piece was in!ait with a design 0I
Castle and the sides of it had bouquets of roses-- :asor
d thistles
and shamrock.

condition," sicl. Phillpot.itTMI-Ie lo0ked t me

"Beautiful,,I
curiously,
shouldn't kaa,./e thought
0ttr taste
but "
"Oh, it isu't," I said. "It' a LITTLE too flowerynd

like for me ut Ellie loves th: stuff. It's her binhdavdY'

week and i want it as a rcseat for her. A surpre. ?ex.t
P
. .
.
why I didn't want her to kor I was bddxsg forit to!

But I know there's nothing I :ould give her thathe,uaY•
,
' d"
like
more. She Il be really surp•
We went in and took seatS nd the sale beg.an. &ct,

the piece I ;anted was run Lip lretty high. 15.tthe Lo

dealers seemed keen on it although one o e

nractised and reserved abou. t i that you could hardl.. a so
r
.
.
Y ' '
the almost infinitesimal mo toa of his catalogue hich race

auctioneer was observing closely. I bought a c'.the

Chippendale chair as well which I thought would l0'v,ed

in our hall and some enormoUs brocade curtains in

condition.

"Well, you seem to have enjoyed yourself all fight" -

Phillpot, rising to his feet when the auctioneer c0rl.aid
14 IS
r'ted



ENDLESS NIGHT

the morning's sale. "Want to come back tills afternoon?"
I shook my head.
"No, there's nothing in the second half of' the sale that I
want. Mostly bedroom furniture and carpets and things like
that."
"No, I didn't think you'd be interested. Well--" he
looked at his watch, "we'd better be getting along. Is Ellie
meeting us at the George?"
"Yes, she'll be there."
"And--er--Miss Andersen?"
"Oh, Greta's gone to London," I said. "She's gone to
what they call a white sale. With Miss Hardcastle, I
believe."
"Oh yes, Claudia said something about it the other day.
Prices of sheets and things are fantastic nowa. days. Do you
know what a linen pillow case costs? Thirt3r-five shillings.
Used to buy 'em from six bob."
"You're very knowledgeable on household purchases,"
I said.
"Well, I hear my wife complaining about them." Phill.
pot smiled. "You're looking in the pink of condition, Mike.
Happy as a sandboy."
"That's because I've got the papier m&hdesk," I said, "or at any rate that's partly it. I just woke up feeling happy
this morning. You know those days when everything in the
world seems right."
"Mm," said Phillpot, "be careful. That's what's known
as being fey."
"Fey?" I said. "That's something Scottish, isn't it?"
"It comes before disaster, my boy," said Phillpot.
"Better curb your exuberance."
"Oh, I don't believe those silly superstitions," I said. "Nor in gipsies' prophecies, eh?"
"We haven't seen our gipsy lately," I said. "Well not for
a week at least."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Perhaps she's away from the place," said Phillpot.
He asked me if I'd give him a lift in my car and I said I
would.
"No use taking the two of them. You can drop me here
on your way back, can't you? What about Ellie, will she
be bringing her car over?"
"Yes, she's bringing the LITTLE one,"
"Hope the George will put on a good meal," said Major
Phillpot. "I'm hungry."
"Did you buy anything?" I asked. "I was too excited to
notice.'
"Yes, you've got to keep your wits about you when you're
bidding. Have to notice what the dealers are doing. No.
I made a bid or two but everything went fax above my
price."
I gathered that although Phillpot owned enormous
quantities of land round about, his actual income did not
amount to much. He was what you might describe as a poor
man though a large landowner, Only by selling a good portion
of his land would he have had money to spend and he
didn't want to sell his land. He loved it.
We got to the George and found a good many cars
standing there already. Possibly some of the people from the
auction. I didn't see Ellie's, though. We went inside and
I looked around for her but she hadn't turned up yet. However,
it was only just past one.
We went and had a drink at the bar while we were waiting
for Ellie to arrive. The place was pretty crowded. I looked
into the dining-room but they were still holding our table.
There were a good many local faces that I knew and sitting
at a table by the window was a man whose face seemed
familiar to me. I-was sure I knew him but I couldn't
remember when and where we'd met. I didn't think he was
a local, because his clothes didn't fit in with these parts.
Of course I've knocked up against a great many people in
150



ENDLESS NIGHT


my time and it is unlikely that I can remember them all
easily. He hadn't been at the sale aa far as I could
remember, though, oddly enough, there had been one face
that I thought I'd recognised but couldn't place. Faces
are tricky unless you can connect up when and where you'd
seen them.

The presiding goddess of the George, rustling in her
usual black silk of affected Edwardian style which she
always wore, came up to me and said,

"Will you be coming to your table soon, Mr. Kogers?
There's one or two waiting."

"My wife will be here in a minute or two," I said.

I went back to rejoin Phillpot. I thought perhaps that
Ellie might have had a puncture.

"We'd better go in," I said, "they seem getting rather
upset about it. They've got quite a crowd to-day. I'm
afraid," I added, "that Ellie isn't the most punctual of
people."

"Ah," said Phillpot in his old-fashioned style, "the
ladies make a point of keeping us waiting, don't they? All
right, Mike, if that's all fight by you. We'll go in and start
lunch."

We went into the dining-room, chose steak and kidney
pie off the menu and started.

"It's too bad of Ellie," I said, "to stand us up like this."
I added that it was possibly because Greta was in London.
"Ellie's very used, you knows" I said, "to Greta helping her
to keep appointments, reminding her of them and getting
her off in time and all that."

"Is she very dependent on Miss Andersen?"

"In that way, yea," I said.

We went on eating and passed from the steak and kidney
pie to apple tart with a self-couscioua piece of phoney
pastry on top of it.

"I wonder if she's forgotten all about it," I said suddenly.

151



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Perhaps you'd better ring up."
"Yes, I think I'd better."
I went out to the phone and rang. Mrs. Carson, the cook,
answered.
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Rogers, Mrs. Rogers hasn't come home
yet."
"What do you mean, hasn't come home. Home from
where?"
"She hasn't come back from her ride yet."
"But that was after breakfast. She can't have been riding
the wbole morning."
"She didn't say anything different. I was expecting her
back."
"Why didn't you ring up sooner and let me know about
it?" I asked.
"Well, I wouldn't know where to get at you you see. I
didn't know where you'd gone."
I told her I was at the George at Bartlngton and gave
her the number. She was to ring up the moment Ellie
came in or she had news of her. Then I went back to join
Phillpot. He saw from my face at once that something was
wrong.
"Ellie hasn't come home," I said. "She went off riding
this morning. She usually does most mornings but it only
lasts half an hour to an hour."
"Now don't worry before you need to, boy," he said
kindly. "Your place is in a very lonely part, you know.
Maybe her horse went lame and she might be walking it
home. All that moorland and downs above the woods.
There's nobody much in that part to send a message by."
"If she decided to change her plans and ride over and see
anyone, anything like that," I said, "she'd have rung here.
She'd have left a message for us."
"Well, don't get het up yet," Phillpot said. "I think we'd
better go now, right away, and see what we can find out."
152



ENDLESS NIGHT


As we went out to the car park, another car drove away.
In it was the man I had noticed in the dining-room and
suddenly it came to me who it was. Stanford Lloyd or some-one
just like him. I wondered what he could be doing down
here. Could he be coming to see us? If so, it was odd he
hadn't let us know. In the car with him was a woman who
had looked like Claudia Hardcastle, but surely she was in
London with Greta, shopping. It all floored me rather ....

As we drove away Phillpot looked at me once or twice.
I caught his eye once and said rather bitterly,

"All right. You said I was fey this morning."

"Well, don't think of that yet. She may have had a fall
and sprained an ankle or something like that. She's a good
horsewoman, though," he said. "I've seen her. I can't feel
an accident is really likely."

I said "Accidents can happen at any time."

We drove fast and came at last to the road over the
downs above our property, looking about us as we went.
Now and again we stopped to ask people. We stopped a
man who was digging peat and there we got the first news.

"Seen a riderless horse I have," he said. "Two hours
ago maybe or longer. I would-a caught it but it galloped
off when I got near it. Didn't see anyone though."

"Best drive home," suggested Phillpot, "there may be
news of her there."

We drove home but there was no news. We got hold of
the groom and sent him off to ride over the moorland in
search of Ellie. Phillpot telephoned his own house and sent
a man from there too. He and I went up a path together
and through the wood, the one that Ellie often took, and
came out on the downs there.

At first there ;vas nothing to be seen. Then we walked
along the edge of the wood near where some of the other
paths came out and so--we found her. We saw what looked
like a huddled heap of clothes. The horse had come back

153



ENDLESS NIGHT

and was now standing cropping near that huddled heap. I

began to run. Phillpot followed me faster tha I'd lmve

thought a man of his age could have kept up.

She was there--lying in a crumpled up heap, her little

white face turned up to the sky. I said,
"I can't--I can't
"and turned my face away.
Phillpot went and knelt down by her. He got up almost at once.
"We'll get hold of a doctor," he said. "Shaw. He's the
nearest. But--I don't think it's any use, Mike."
"You mean--she's dead?"
"Yes," he said, "it's no good pretending anything else."
"Oh God? I said and turned away. "I can't believe it.
Not ELlie."
"Here, have this," said Phillpot.
He took a flask out of his pocket, unscrewed it and handed
it to me. I took a good deep pull at it.
"Thanks," I said.
The groom came along then and Phillpot sent him off to
fetch Dr. Shaw.

154



CHAPTER XVIII

Shaw came up in a battered old Land-Rover. I suppoitqt
was the car he used for going to visit isolated farms in 1M
weather. He barely looked at either of us. He went straight
and bent over Ellie. Then he came over to us.
"She's been dead at least three or four hours," he sd.x.
"How did it happen?"
I told him how she'd gone off riding as usual after brek%
fast that morning.
"Has she had any accidents up to this time when
been out riding?"
"No," I said, "she was a good rider."
"¥os I know she's a rood rider I've seen her once0
twice. She's ridden since she was a child, I understandx
I wondered if she might have had some accident lately anc
that that might have affected her nerve a bit. If the hon
had shied "
"Why should the horse shy? It's a quiet brute .."
"There's nothing vicious about this particular hors¢,"
said Major ?hillpot. "He's well behaved, not nervy. E
she broken any bones?"
"I haven't made a complete examination yet but
doesn't eem physically injured in any way. There may
some internal injury. Might be shock, I suppose?"
"But you can't die of shock," I said.
"People have died of shock before now. If she'd had
weak heart "
"They said in America that she had a weak heart--sofa%
kind of weakness at least."
155



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Hm. I couldn't find much trace of it when I examined
her. Still, we didn't have a cardiograph. Anyway no point
in going into that now. We shall know later. After the
inquest."
He looked at me considcringly, then he patted me on the
shoulder.
"You go home and go to bcd," he said. "You're the one
who's suffering from shock."
In the queer way people materialise out of nowhere in
the country, we had three or four people standing near us,
by this time. One a hiker who had come along from the
main road seeing our LITTLE group, one a rosy-faced woman
who I think was going to a farm over a short cut and an old
roadman. They were making exclamations and remarks.
"Poor young lady."
"So young too. Thrown from her horse, was she?"
"Ah well, you never know with horses."
"It's Mrs. Rogers, isn't it, the American lady from The
Towers ?"
It was not until everyone else had exclaimed in their
astonished fashion, that the aged roadman spoke. He gave
us information. Shaking his head he said,
"I must-a seen it happen. I must-a seen it happen."
The doctor turned sharply on him.
"What did you see happen?"
"I saw a horse bolting across country."
"Did you see the lady fall?"
"No. No, I didn't. She were riding along the top of
the woods when I saw her and after that I'd got me back
turned and I was cutting the stones for the road. And then I heard hoo and I looked up and there was the horse
galloping. I didn't think there'd been an accident. I
thought the lady perhaps had got off and let go of the horse
in some way. It wasn't coming towards me, it was going in
the other direction."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"You didn't see the lady ling on the ground?"
"No, I don't see very well far. I saw the horse because
it showed against the sky line."
"Was she riding alone? Was there anyone with her, or
near her?"
"Nobody near her. No. She was all alone. She rode
not very far from me, past me, going along that way. She
was bearing towards the woods, I think. No, I didn't see
anyone at all except her and the horse;"
"Might have been the gipsy what frightened her," said
the rosy-faced woman.
I swung round.
"What gipsy? When?"
"Oh, must have been--well, at must have been three or
four hours ago when I went down the road this morning.
About quarter to ten maybe, I saw that gipsy woman. The
one as lives in the cottage in the village. Least I think it was
she. I wasn't near enough to be sure. But she's the only
one as goes about hereabouts in a red cloak. She was walking
up a path through the trees. Somebody told me as she'd
said nasty things to the poor American young lady. Threatened
her. Told her something bad would happen i she
didn't get out of this place. Very threatening, I hear she Was."
"The gipsy," I said. Then, bitterly, to myself, though out
loud, "Gipsy's Acre. I wish I'd never seen the place."

157



CHAPTER XIX

It's cxtraordinar how difficult it is for me to remember what
happened after that. I mean, the sequence of it all. Up to
then, you see, it's all clear in my mind. I was a little doubtful
where to begin, that was all. But from then on it was as
though a knife fell, cutting my life into two halves. What I
went on to from the moment of Ellie's death seems to me now
like something for which I was not prepared. A eonfusion
of thrusting people and clements and happenings where I
wasn't myself in control of anything any more. Things
happened not to me, but all around me. That's what it
seemed like.
Everybody was very kind to me. That seems the thing I
remember best. I stumbled about and looked dazed and
didn't know what to do. Greta, I remember, came into her
element. She had that amazing power that women have to
take charge of a situation and deal with it. Deal, I mean,
with all the small unimportant details that someone has to
see to. I would have been incapable of seeing to them.
I think the first thing I remembered clearly after they'd
taken Ellic away and I'd got back to my house-our house-- the house--was when Dr. Shaw came along and talked to
me. I don't know how long after that was. He was qnict,
kind, reasonable. Just explaining things clearly and gently.
Arrangements. I remember his using the word arrange-mcnts.
What a hateful word it is and all the things it stands
• for. The things in life that have grand words--Love--scx--life--death--hate--those
aren't the things that govern
existence at all. It's lots of other pettifogging, degrading
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ENDLESS NIGHT

things. Things you have to endure, things you never think
about until they happen to you. Undertakers, arrangements
for funerals, inquests. And servants coming into rooms and
pulling the blinds down. Xhy should blinds be pulled down
because Ellie was dead? Of all the stupid things!
That was whY, I remember, I felt quite grateful to Dr.
Shaw. He dealt with such things so kindly and sensibly,
explaining gently why certain' things like an inquest had to
be. Talking rather slowly, I remember, so that 1 could be
quite sure I was taking them in.

I didn't know what an inquest would be like. I'd never
been to one. It seemed to me curiously unreal, amateurish.
The Coroner was a small fussy little man with pince-nez. I
had to give evidence of identification, to describe the last
time I had seen Ellie at the breakfast table and her departure
for her usual morning ride and the arrangement we had
made to meet later for lunch. She had seemed, I said, exactly
the same as usual, in perfectly good health.
Dr. Shaw's evidence was quiet, inconclusive. No serious
injuries, a wrenched collar bone and bruises such as would
result from a fall from the horsemnot ora very serious nature,
and inflicted at the time of death. She did not appear to
have moved again after she had fallen. Death, he thought,
had been practically instantaneous. There was no specific
organic injury to have caused death, and he could give no
other explanation of it than that she had died from heart
failure caused by shock. As far as I could make out from
the medical language used ElIie had died simply as the result
of absence of breath--of asphyxia of some kind. Her organs
were healthy, her stomach *******s normal. -
Greta, who also gave evidence, stressed rather more
forcibly than she had done to Dr. Shaw before,that Ellie
had suffered from some form of heart malady three or four
years ago. She had never heard anything definite mentioned
162



ENDLESS NIGHT


but Ellie's relations had occasionally said that hex heart was
weak and that she must take care not to over-do things. She
had never heard anything more definite than that.

Then we came to the people who had seen or been in the
vicinity at the time the accident happened. The old man
who had been cutting peat was the first of them. He had
seen the lady pass him, she'd been about fifty yards or so
away. He knew who she was though he'd never spoken to

her. She was the lady from the new house.

"You knew her by sight?"

"No, not exactly by sight but I knew the horse, sir. It's
got a white fetlock. Used to belong to Mr. Gaxey over at
$hettlegroom. I've never heard it's anything but quiet and
well behaved, suitable for a lady to ride."

"Was the horse giving any trouble when you saw it?
Playing up in any way?"

"No, it was quiet enough. It was a nice morning."
There had not been many people about, he said. He
hadn't noticed many. That particular track across the moor
wasn't much used except as a short cut occasionally to one
of the farms. Another track crossed it about a mile farther
away. He'd seen one or two passers-by that morning but not
to notice. One man on a bicycle, another man walking.
They were too far away for him to see who they were and
he hadn't noticed much anyway. Earlier, he said, before
he'd seen the lady riding, he'd seen old Mrs. Lee, or so he
thought. She was coming up the track towards him and
then she turned off and went into the woods. She often
walked across the moors and in and out of the woods.

The Goroner asked why Mrs. Lee was not in Court. He
understood that she'd been summoned to attend. He was
told, however, that Mrs. Lee had left the village some days
ago--nobody knew exactly when. She had not left any
address behind. It was not her habit to do so, she often went
away and came back without notifying anyone. So there

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ENDLESS NIGHT


was nothing unusual about this. In fact one or two people
said they thought she'd already left the village before the
day the accident happened. The Coroner asked the old
man again.

"You think, however, that it was Mrs. Lee you saw?"
"Couldn't say, I'm sure. Wouldn't like to be certain. It
was a tall woman and striding along, and had on a scarlet
cloak, like Mrs. Lee wears sometimes. But I didn't look
particular. I was busy with what I was doing. Could
have been she, it could have been someone else. Who's to
say?"

As for the rest he repeated very much what he had said
to us. He'd seen the lady riding nearby, he'd often seen her
riding before. He hadn't paid any particular attention.
Only later did he see the horse galloping alone. It looked
as though something had frightened it, he said. "At least,
it could be that way." He couldn't tell what time that was.
Might have been eleven, might have been earlier. He saw
the horse much later, farther away. It seemed to be return-ing
towards the woods.

Then the Coroner recalled me and asked me a few more

questions about Mrs. Lee. Mrs. Esther Lee of Vine Cottage.
"You and your wife knew Mrs. Lee by sight?"
"Yes," I said, "quite well."
"Did you talk with her?"

"Yes, several times. Or rather," I added, "she talked to


"Did she at any time threaten you or your wife?"

I paused a moment or two.

"In a sense she did," I said slowly, "but I never
thought "

"You never thought what?"

"I never thought she really meant it," I said.

"Did she sound as though she had any particular grudge
against your wife?"

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"My wife said so once. She said she thought she had some'
special grudge against her but she couldn't see why."
"Had you or your wife at any time ordered her off your
land, threatened her, treated her roughly in any way?"
"Any aggression came from her side," I said.
"Did you ever have the impression that she was mentally
unbalanced?"
I considered. "Yes," I said, "I did. I thought she had
come to believe that the land on which we had built our
house belonged to her, or belonged to her tribe or whatever
they call themselves. She had a kind of obsession about it."
I added slowly, "I think she was getting worse, more and
more obsessed by the idea."
"I see. She never offered your wife physical violence at
any time?"
"No," I said, slowly, "I don't think it would be fair to
say that. It was all--well, all a sort of gipsy's warning
stuff. 'You'll have bad luck if you stay here.' 'There'll be
a curse on you unless you go away'."
"Did she mention the word death?"
"Yes, I think so. We didn't take her seriously. At least,"
I corrected myself, "I didn't."
"Do you think your wife did?"
"I'm afraid she did sometimes. The old woman, you
know, could be rather alarming. I don't think she was
really responsible for what she was saying or doing."
The proceedings ended with the Coroner adjourning the
inquest for a fortnight. Everything pointed to Death
being due to Accidental Causes but there was not sufficient
evidence to show what had caused the accident to occur.
He would adjourn the proceedings until he had heard the
evidence of Mrs. Esther Lee.

165



CHAPTER XX

The day after the inquest I went to see Major Phillpot and I told him point-blank that I wanted his opinion. Someone
whom the old peat-cutting man had taken to be Mrs.
Esther Lee, had been seen going up towards the woods that
morning.
"You know the old woman," I said. "Do you actually
think that she would have been capable of causing an
accident by deliberate malice?"
"I can't really believe so, Mike," he said. "To do a
thing like that you need a very strong motive. Revenge for
some personal injury caused to you. Something like that.
And what had Ellie ever done to her? Nothing."
"It seems crazy, I know. Why was she constantly appearing
in that queer way, threatening Ellie, telling her to go
away? She seemed to have a grudge against her, but how
could she have a grudge? She'd never met Ellie or seen her
before. What was Ellie to her but a perfectly strange American?
There's no past history, no link between them."
"I know, I know," said Phillpot. "I can't help feeling,
Mike, that there's something here that we don't understand.
I don't know how much your wife was over in England
previous to her marriage. Did she ever live in this part of
the world for any length of time?"
"No, I'm sure of that. It's all so difficult. I don't really
know anything about Ellie. I mean, who she knew, where
she went. We just--met." I checked myself and looked at
him. I said 'You don't know how we came to meet, do you?
No," I went on, "you wouldn't guess in a hundred years
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ENDLESS NIGHT

how we met." And suddenly, in spite of myself, I began
to laugh. Then I pulled myself together. I could feel that I was very near hysteria.
I could see his kind patient face just waiting till I was
myself again. He was a helpful man. There was no doubt of
that.
"We met here," I said. "Here at Gipsy's Acre. I had
been reading the notice board of the sale of The Towers and
I walked up the road, up the hill because I was curious
about this place. And that's how I first saw her. She was
standing there under a tree. I startled her---or perhaps it
was she who startled me. Anyway, that's how it all began.
Thafs- how we came to live here in this damned, cursed,
unlucky place."
"Have you felt that all along? That it would be unlucky?"
"No. Yes. No, I don't know really. I've never admitted
it. I've never wanted to admit it. But I think she knew. I
think she's been frightened all along." Then I said slowly,
"I think somebody deliberately wanted to frighten her."
He said rather sharply, "What do you mean by that?
Who wanted to frighten her?"
"Presumably the gipsy woman. But somehow I'm not
quite sure about it .... She used to lie in wait for Ellie, you
know, tell her this place would bring her bad luck. Tell
her she ought to go away from it."
"Tcha!" He spoke angrily. "I wish I'd been told more
about that. I'd have spoken to old Esther. Told her she
couldn't do things like that."
"Why did she?" I asked. "What made her?"
"Like so many people," said Phillpot, "she likes to make
herself important. She likes either to give people warnings
or else tell their fortunes and prophesy happy lives for them.
She likes to pretend she knows the future."
"Supposing," I said slowly, "somebody gave her money.
I've been told she's fond of money."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Yes, she was very fond of money. If someone paid her--that's
what you're suggesting--what put that idea into your
head?"
"Sergeant Kcene," I said. "I should never have thought
of it myself."
"I see." He shook his head doubtfully.
"I can't believe," he said, "that she would deliberately
try to frighten your wife to the extent of ca-sing an
accident."
"She mayn't have counted on a fatal accident. She might
have done something to frighten the horse," I said. "Let
off a squib or flapped a sheet of white paper or something.
Sometimes, you know, I did feel that she had some entirely
pcrsonai grudge against Ellic, a grudge for some reason
that I don't know about."
"That sounds very farfetched."
"This place never belonged to her?" I asked. "The land,
I mean."
"No. Gipsies may have been warned off this property,
probably more than once. Gipsies are always getting turned
off places, but I doubt if they keep up a life-long resentment
about it."
"No," I said, "that would be far-fetched. But I do
wonder if for some reason that we don't know about
She was paid "
"A reason we don't know about--what reason?"
I reflected a moment or two.
"Everything I say will just sound fantastic. Let's say that,
as Keene suggested, someone paid her to do the things she
did. What did that someone want? Say they wanted to
make us both go away from here. They concentrated on
Ellie, not on me, because I wouldn't be scared in the way
Ellie would be. They frightened her to get her--and through
her both of us--to leave here. If so, there must be some
reason for wanting the land to come on the market again.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

Somebody, shall we say, for some reason wants our land." I
stopped.
"It's a logical suggestion," Phillpot said, "but I know of
no reason why anyone should."
"Some important mineral deposit," I suggested, "that
nobody knows about."
"Hm, I doubt it."
"Something like buried treasure. Oh, I know it sounds
absurd. Ormwell, say the proceeds of some big bank
robbery."
Phillpot was still shaking his head but rather less vehemently
now.
"The only other proposition," I said, "is to go one step
farther back as you did just now. Behind Mrs. Lee to the
person who paid Mrs. Lee. That might be some unknown
enemy of Ellie's."
"But you can't think of anyone it would be likely to be?"
"No. She didn't know anyone down here. That I'm sure
of. She had no links with this place." I got up. "Thank you
for listening to me," I said.
"I wish I could have been more helpful."
I went out of the door, fingering the thing that I was
carrying in my pocket. Then, taking a sudden dcclsion, I
turned on my heel and went back into the room.
"There's something I'd like to show you," I said. "Actually,
I was going to take it down to show to Sergeant Kccne
and see what he could make of it."
I dived into my pocket and brought, out a stone round
which was wrapped a crumpled bit of paper with printed
writing on it.
"This was thrown through our breakfast window this
morning," I said. "I heard the crash of the glass as I came
down the stairs. A stone was thrown through the window
once before when we first came here. I don't know if this ia
the same person or not."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

I took off the wrapping paper and held it out to him. It
was a dirty, coarse bit of paper. There was some printing
on it in rather faint ink. ?hillpot put on his spectacles and
bent over the piece of paper. The message on it was quite
short. All it said was, "It was a woman who killed your w/."
Phillpot's eyebrows went up.
"Extraordinary," he said. "Was the first message you
got printed?"
"I can't remember now. It was just a warning to go away
from here. I can't even remember the exact wording of it
now. Anyway, it seems pretty certain that that was hooligans.
This doesn't seem quite the same."
"Do you think it was thrown in by someone who knew
something?"
"Probably just a bit of silly cruel malice in the anonymou
letter class. You get it, you know, a good deal in villages."
He handed it back to me.
"But I think your instinct was right," he said, "to take
it to Sergeant Keene. He'll know more about these anony-mom
things than I should."
I found Sergeant Keene at the police station and he was
definitely interested.
"There's queer things going on here," he said.
"What do you think it means?" I asked.
"Hard to say. Might be just malice leading up to accusing
some particular person."
"It might be just accusing Mrs. Lee, I suppose?"
"No, I don't think it would have been put that way. It
might be--I'd like to think it was--it might be that someone
saw or heard something. Heard a noise or a cry or the
horse bolted right past someone, and they saw or met a
woman soon afterwards. But it sounds as though it was a
different woman from the gipsy, because everyone thinks the
gipsy's mixed up in this anyway. So this sounds as though
another an entirely different woman was meant."
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ENDLESS NIGHT


"What about the gipsy?" I said. "Have you had news of
her, found her?"

He shook his head slowly.

"We know some of the places she used to go when she left
here. East Anglia, that way. She'd friends there among the
gipsy clan. She's not been there, they say, but they'd say
that anyway. They clam up, you know. She's fairly well
known by sight in those parts but nobody's seen her. All
the same, I don't think she's as far away as East Anglia."

There was something peculiar about the way he said the
words.

"I don't quite understand," I said.

"Look at it this way, she's scared. She's got good reason
to be. She's been threatening your wife, frightening her,
and now, say, she caused an accident and your wife died.
The police'll be after her. She knows that, so she'll go to
earth, as you might say. She'll put as big a distance between
herself and us as she possibly can. But she won't want to
show herself. She'd be afraid of public transport."

"But you'll find her? She's a woman of striking appear-ance.''

"Ah yes, we shall find her eventually. These things take
a little time. That is, if it was that way."

"But you think it was some other way."

"Well, you know what I've wondered all along. Whether
somebody was paying her to say the things she did."

"Then she might be even more anxious to get away," I
pointed out.

"But somebody else would be anxious too. You've got to
think of that, Mr. Rogers."

"You mean," I said slowly, "the person who paid her."
Yes."

"Supposing it was ama woman who paid her."

"And supposing somebody else has some idea of that.
And so they start sending anonymous messages. The woman

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ENDLESS NIGHT

would be scared too. She needn't have meant this to happen,
you know. However much she got that gipsy woman to
frighten your wife away from this place she wouldn't have
meant it to result in Mrs. Rogers's death."
"No," I said. "Death wasn't meant. It was just to
frighten us. To frighten my wife and to frighten me into
leaving here."
"And now who's going to be frightened? The woman who
caused the accident. And that's Mrs. Esther Lee. And so
she's going to come clean, isn't she? Say it wasn't really
her doing. She'll admit even that she was paid money to do
it. And she'll mention a name. She'll say who paid her.
And somebody wouldn't like that would they, Mr. Rogers?"
"You mean this unknown woman that we've more or
less postulated without even knowing there's any such
person?"
"Man or woman, say someone paid her. Well, that someone
would want her silenced pretty quickly, wouldn't
they?"
"You're thinking she might be dead?"
"It's a possibility, isn't it?" said Keene. Then he made
what seemed quite an abrupt change of subject. "You know
that kind of Folly place, Mr. Rogers, that you've got up at
the top of your woods?"
"Yes," I said, "what of it? My wife and I had it repaired
and fixed up a bit. We used to go up there occasionally but
not very often. Not lately certainly. Why?"
"Well, we've been hunting about, you know. We looked
into this Folly. It wasn't locked."
"No," I said, "we never bothered to lock it. There was
nothing of value in there, just a few odd bits of furniture."
"We thought it possible old Mrs. Lee had been using it but
we found no traces of her. We did find this, though. I was
going to show it to you anyway." He opened a drawer and
took out a small delicate gold-chased lighter. It was a
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ENDLESS NIGHT


woman's lighter and it had an initial on it in diamonds. The
letter C. "It wouldn't be your wife's, would it?"

"Not with the initial C. No, it's not Ellie's," I said.
"She hadn't anything of that kind. And it's not Miss
Andersen's either. Her name is Greta."

"It was up there where somebody had dropped it. It's a
classy bit of goods--cost money."

"C," I said, repeating the initial thoughtfully. "I can't
think of anyone who's been with us whose initial is O
except Cora," I said. "That's my wife's stepmother. Mrs.
van $tuyvesant, but I really can't see her scrambling up to
the Folly along that very overgrown path. And anyway she
hasn't been staying with us for quite a long time. About a
month. I don't think I've ever seen her using this lighter.
Perhaps I wouldn't notice anyway," I said. "Miss Andersen
might know."

"Well, take it up with you and show it to her."

"I will. But if so, if it's Cora's, it seems odd that we've
never seen it when we've been in the Folly lately. There's
not much stuff there. You'd notice something like this
lying on the floor--it was on the floor?"

"Yes, quite near the divan. Of course a,/body might
use that Folly. It's a handy place, you k xow, bra couple of
lovers to meet any time. The locals I'r. talk'ag about. But
they wouldn't be likely to have an ex ens e thing of this
kind."

"There's Claudia Hardcastle," I said, Out I doubt if
she'd have anything as fancy as this. And v, t would she be
doing in the Folly?"

"She was quite a friend of your wife's, wam't she?"
"Yes," I said, "I think she was Ellie's best friend down
here. And she'd know we wouldn't mind her using the
Folly any time."

"Ah," said Sergeant Keene.

I looked at him rather hard. "You don't think Claudia

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ENDLESS NIGHT

/Hardcastle was a--an enemy of Ellie's do you? That would
be absurd."
"Doesn't seem any reason why she should be, I agree, bu!
you never know with ladies."
"I suppose "I began and then stopped because what
I was going to say would seem perhaps raI,her odd.
"Yes, Mr. Rogers?"
"I believe that Claudia Hardcstle was originally married
to an AmericanaA'nerican named Lloyd. Actually
Bthe name of my wife's principal trustee in America is
Stanford Lloyd. Bu. there must be hundreds of Lloyds and
anyway it would only be a coincidence if it was the same
person. And what would it have to do with all this?"
"It doesn't seem likely. But then
"he stopped.
"The funny thing is that I thought I saw Stanford Lloyd

down here on the day of the--the accident--Having lunch in

the George at Bartington "

"He didn't come to see you?"

I shook my head.

"He was with someone who looked rather like Miss Hard
castle.
But probably it was just a mistake on my part.

You know, I suppose, that it was her brother who built our

house?"

"Does she take an interest in the house?"

"No," I said, "I don't think she likes her brother's type

of architecture." Then I got up. "¥Vell, I won't take any

more of your time. Try and find the gipsy."

"We shan't stop looking, I can tell you that. Coroner

wants her too."

I said good-bye and went out of the police station. In

the queer way that so often happens when you suddenly meet

someone you've been talking about, Claudia Hardcastle

came out of the post office just as I was passing it. We both

stopped. She said with that slight embarrassment that you

have when you meet someone that's been recently bereaved,

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ENDLESS NIGHT

"I'm so terribly sorry, Mike, about Ellie. I won't say any
more. It's beastly when people say things to you. But I
have just--just to say that."
"I know," I said. "You were very nice to Elli¢. You
made her feel at home here. I've been grateful."
"There was one thing I wanted to ask you and I thought
perhaps I'd better do it now before you go to America. I
hear you're going quite soon."
"As soon as I can. I've got a lot to see to there."
"It was only--if you were putting your house on the
market I thought it might bca thing you'd set in motion
before you went away .... And if so--if so, I'd rather like to
have the first refusal of it."
I stared at her. This really did surprise me. It was the
last thing I'd expected.
"You mean you'd like to buy it? I thought you didn't
even care for that type of architecture?"
"My brother ludolfsaid to me that it was the best thing
he'd done. I dare say he knows. I expect you'll want a very
large price for it but I could pay it. Yes, I'd like to have it."
I couldn't help thinking it was odd. She'd never shown the
faintest appreciation of our house when she'd come to it. I
wondered as I'd wondered once or twice before what her
links with her half-brother really were. Had she really a
great devotion to him? Sometimes I'd almost thought that
she disliked him, perhaps hated him. She spoke of him certainly
in a very odd way. But whal :vet her actual emotions
were, he meant something to her.
Meant something im portant.
I shook my head Slowly.
"I can see that you might think I'd want to sell the place
and leave here because of Ellie's death," I said. "But actually
that's not so at all. We lived here and were happy and this
is the place I shall remember her best. I shan't sell Gipsy's
Acre--not for any consideration! You can be quite sure of
that."
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ENDLESS NIGHT


Our eyes met. It was like a kind of tussle between us.
Then hers dropped.

I took my courage in both hands and spoke.

"It's no business of mine, but you were married once.
Was the name of your husband Stanford Lloyd?"

She looked at me for a moment without speaking. Then
she said abruptly:

"Yes," and turned away.


176



CHAPTER XXI

Confusion That's all I can remember when I look back.
Newspapermen asking questions--wanting interviews--masses
of letters and telegrams--Greta coping with them--
The first really startling thing was that Ellie's family
were not as we had supposed in America. It was quite a
shock to find that most of them were actually in England.
It was understandable, perhaps, that Cora van Stuyvesant
should be. She was a very restless woman, always dashing
across to Europe, to Italy, to Paris, to London and back
again to America, to Palm Beach, out West to the ranch;
here, there and everywhere. On the actual day of Ellie's
death she had been not more than fifty miles away still pursuing
her whim of having a house in England. She-had
rushed over to stay in London for two or three days and gone
to fresh house agents for fresh orders to view and had been
touring round the country seeing half a dozen on that
particular day.
Stanford Lloyd, it turned out, had flown over in the same
plane ostensibly for a business meeting in London. These
people learnt of Ellie's death, not from the cables which
we had dispatched to the United States but from the public
press.
An ugly wrangle developed about where Ellie should be
buried. I had assumed it was only natural that she'd be
buried here where she had died. Here where she and I had
lived.
But Ellie's family objected violently to this. They wanted
the body brought to America to be buried with her fore177



ENDLESS NIGHT

bears. Where her grandfather and her father, her mother
and others had been laid to rest. I suppose it was natural,
really, when one comes to think of it.
Andrew Lippincott came down to talk to me about it. He
put the matter in a reasonable way.
"She never left any directions as to where she wished to
be buried," he pointed out to me.
"Why should she?" I demanded hotly. "How old was
she--twenty-one? You don't think at twenty-one you're
going to die. You don't start thinking then the way you
want to be buried. If we'd cver thought about it we'd
assume we'd be buried together somewhere even if we didn't
die at the same time. But who thinks of death in the middle
of life ?"
"A very just observation," said Mr. Lippincott. Then he
said, "I'm afraid you'll also have to come to America, you
know. There's a great deal of business interests you'll have
to look into."
"What sort of business? What have I got to do with
business?"
"You could have a great deal to do with it," he said.
"Don't 'you realise that you're the principal beneficiary
under the vail?"
"You mean because I'm Ellie's next of kin or something?"
"No. Under her will."
"I didn't know she ever made a will."
"Oh yes," said Mr. Lippincott. "Ellie was quite a
businesslike young woman. She'd had to be, you know.
She'd lived in the middle of that kind of thing. She made a
will on coming of age and almost immediately after she was
married. It was lodged with her lawyer in London with a
request that one copy should be sent to me." He hesitated
and then said, "If you do come to the States, which I advise,
I also think that you should place your affairs in the hands
of some reputable lawyer there."
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Because in the case of a vast fortune, large quantities of
real estate, stocks, controlling interests in varying industries,
you will need technical advice."
"I'm not qualified to deal with things like that," I said.
"Really Fm not."
"I quite understand," said Mr. Lippincott.
"Couldn't I place the whole thing in yofir hands?"
"You could do so."
"Well then, why don't I?"
"All the same, I think you should be separately represented.
I am already acting for some members of the family
and a conflict of interests might arise. If you will leave it in
my hands, I will see that your interests are safeguarded by
your being represented by a thoroughly able attorney."
"Thank you," I said, "you're very kind."
"If I may be slightly indiscreet--" he looked a little un-comfortable--it
pleased me rather thinking of Lippincott
being indiscreet.
"Yes?" I said.
"I should advise you to be very careful of anything you
sign. Any business documents. Before you sign anything,
read it thoroughly and carefully."
"Would the kind of document you're talking about mean
anything to me ffI do read it?"
"If it is not all clear to you, you will then hand it over to
your legal adviser."
"Are you warning me against somebody or someone?" I
said, with a suddenly aroused interest.
"That is not at all a proper question for me to answer,"
said Mr. Lippincott. "I will go this far. Where large sums of
money are concerned it is advisable to trust nobody."
$o he was warning me against someone, but he wasn't
going to give me any names. I could see that. Was it
against Cora? Or had he had suspicionstperhaps sus-
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ENDLESS NIGHT


picions of some long standing--of Stanford Lloyd, that
florid banker so full of bonhomie, so rich and carefree, who
had recently been over here "on business"? Might it be
Uncle Frank who might approach me with some plausible
documents. I had a sudden vision of myself, a poor innocent
boob, swimming in a lake surrounded by evilly disposed
crocodiles, all smiling false smiles of amity.

"The world," said Mr. Lippincott, "is a very evil place."

It was perhaps a stupid thing to say, but quite suddenly
I asked him a question.

"Does Ellie's death benefit anyone?" I asked.

He looked at me sharply.

"That's a very curious question. Why do you ak
that?"

"I don't know," I said, "it just came into my head."
"It benefits you," he said.

"Of course," I said. "I take that for granted. I really
meant--does it benefit anyone else?"

Mr. Lippincott was silent for quite a long time.

"If you mean," he said, "does Fenella's will benefit
certain other people in the way of legacies, that is so in a
minor degree. Some old servants, an old governess, one or
two charities but nothing of any particular moment. There's
a legacy to Miss Andersen but not a large one for she has
already, as you probably know, settled a very considerable
sum on Miss Andersen."

I nodded. Ellie had told me she was doing that.

"You were her husband. She had no other near relations.
But I take it that your question did not mean specifically
that."

"I don't know quite what I meant by it," I said. "But
somehow or other, you've succeeded, Mr. Lippincott, in
making me feel suspicious. Suspicious of I don't know whom

or why. Onlymwell suspicious.
I don't understand

finance," I added.

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ENDLESS NIGHT

"No, that is quite apparent. Let me say only that I have
no exact knowledge, no exact suspicions of any kind. At
someone's death there is usually an accounting of their
affairs. This may take place quickly or it may be delayed
for a period of many years."
"What you really mean," I said, "is that some of the others
quite likely might put a few fast ones over and ball up
things generally. Get me perhaps to sign releases--what-ever
you call the things."
"If Fenella's affairs were not, shall we say, in the healthy
state they ought to be, then--yes, possibly her premature
death might be, shall we say, fortunate for someone, we will
name no names, someone perhaps who could cover his
traces more easily if he had a fairly simple person, if I may
say so, like yourself to deal with. I will go that far but I do
not wish to speak further on the matter. It would not be
equitable to do so."
There was a simple funeral service held in the LITTLE
church. If I could have stayed away I would have done so.
I hated all those people who were staring at me lining up
outside the church. Curious eyes. Greta pulled me through
things. I don't think I'd realised until now what a strong,
reliable character she was. She made the arrangements,
ordered flowers, arranged everything. I understood better
now how Ellie had come to depend upon Greta as she had
done. There aren't many Gretas in the world.
The people in the church were mostly our neighbours--some,
even, that we had hardly known. But I noticed one
face that I had seen before, but which I could not at the
moment place. When I got back to the house, Carson told
me there was a genfieman in the drawing-room waiting to
see me.
"I can't see anyone to-day. Send him away.
You

shouldn't have let him in!"

"Excuse me, sir. He said he was a relation."

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ENDLESS NIGHT


"A relation?"

Suddenly I remembered the man I'd seen in the church.
Carson was handing me a card.

It meant nothing to me for a moment. Mr. William R.
Pardoe. I turned it over and shook my head. Then I
handed it to Greta.

"Do you know bY any chance who this is?" I said.
"His face seemed familiar but I couldn't place it. Perhaps
it's one of Ellie's friends."

Greta took it from me and looked at it. Then she said,
"Of course."
"Who is it?"

"Uncle Reuben. You remember. Ellie's cousin. She's
spoken of him to you, surely?"

I remembered then why the face had seemed familiar to
me. Ellie had had several photographs in her sitting-room
of her various relations carelessly placed about the room.
That was why the face had been so familiar. I had seen

it so far only in a photograph.

"I'll come," I mid.

I went out of the room and into the drawing-room.
Mr. Pardoe rose to his feet, and mid,

"Michael Rogers? You may not know my name but your
wife was my cousin. She called me Uncle Reuben always,
but we haven't met, I know. This is the first time I've been
over since your marriage."

"Of course I know who you are," I said.

I don't know quite how to describe Reuben Pardoe. He
was a big burly man with a large face, wide and rather
absent-looking as though he were thinking of something else.
Yet after you had talked to him for a few moments you got
the feeling that he was more on the ball than you would
have thought.

"I don't need to tell you how shocked and grieved I was
to hear of Ellie's death," he mid.

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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Let's skip that," I said. "I'm not up to talking about
it."
"No, no, I can understand that."
He had a certain sympathetic personality and yet there
was something about him that made me vaguely uneasy. I
said, as Greta entered,
"You know Miss Andersen?"
"Of course," he said, "how are you, Greta?"
"Not too bad," said Greta. "How long have you been
over?"
"Just a week or two. Touring around."
Then it came to me. On an impulse I went on. "I saw
you the other day."
"Really? Where?"
"At an auction sale at a place called Bartington Manor."
"I remember now," he said, "yes, yes I think I remember
your face. You were with a man about sixty with a brown
moustache."
,"Yes," I said. "A Major Phillpot."
"You seemed in good spirits," he said, "both of you."
"Never better," I said, and repeated with the strange
wonder that I always felt, "Never better."
"Of course--at that time you didn't kill r what had
happened. That was the date of the as.cide, wasn't it?"
"Yes, we were expecting Ellie to join us for lunch."
"Tragic," said Uncle Reuben. "Really ts' xgic..."
"I had no idea," I said, "that you were in England. I
don't think Ellie had any idea either?" I p:used, waiting
for what he would tell me.
"No," he said, "I hadn't wri. tten. In fact, l didn't know how much time I should have over here, but actually I'd
concluded my business earlier than I thought and I was
wondering if after the sale I'd have the time to drive over
and see you."
"You came over from the States on busine?" I asked.
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ENDLESS NIGHT

"Well, partly yes and partly no. Cora wanted some
advice from me on one or two matters. One concerning this
house she's thinking of buying."
It was then that he told me where Cora had been staying
in England. Again I said,
"We didn't know that."
"She was actually staying not far from here that day," he
said.
"Near here? Was she in a hotel?"
"No, she was staying with a friend."
"I didn't know she had any friends in this part of the
world."
"A woman called--now what was her name?---Hard--something.
Hardcasfie."
"Claudia Hardcastle?" I was surprised.
"Yes. She was qaite a friend of Cora's. Cora knew her
well when she was in the States. Didn't you know?"
"I know very little," I said. "Very little about the family."
I looked at Greta.
"Did you know that Cora knew Claudia Hardcastle ?"
"I don't think I ever heard her speak of her," said Greta.
"So that's why Claudia didn't turn up that day."
"Of course," I said, "he was going with you to shop in
London. You were to meet at Market Chadwell stationm"
"Yes--and she wasn't there. She rang up the house just
after I'd left. Said some American visitor had turned up
unexpectedly and She couldn't leave home."
"I wonder," I said, "if the American visitor could have
been Cora."
"Obviously," said Reuben Pardoe. He shook his head.
"It all seems so confused," he said. He went on, "I understand
the inquest was adjourned."
"Yes," I said.
He drained his cup and got up.
"I won't stay to worry you any more," he said. "If
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ENDLESS NIGHT

there's anything I can do, I'm staying at the Majestic Hotel
in Market Chadwell."
I said I was afraid there wasn't anything he could do and
thanked him. When he had gone away, Greta said,
"What does he want, I wonder? Why did he come over?"
And then sharply: "I wish they'd all go back where they
belong."
"I wonder if it was really Stanford Lloyd I saw at the
George--I only got a glimpse."
"You said he was .with someone who looked like Claudia
so it probably was him. Perhaps he came to see her and
Reuben came to see Clora--what a mix upi"
"I don't like it--all of them milling .round that day."
Greta said things often happened that way--as usual she
was quite cheerful and reasonable about it.

185



CHAPTER XXII

There was nothing more for me to do at Gl?: "s Acre. I
left Greta in charge of the house while I sailed o New York
to wind up things there and to take part in what I felt with
some dread were going to be the most ghastly gold-plated
obsequies for Ellie.
"You're going into the jungle," Greta warned me. "Look after yourself. Don't let them skin you alive."
She was right about that. It was the jungle. I felt it
when I got there. I didn't know about jungles--not that
kind of jungle. I was out of my depth and I knew it. I
wasn't the hunter, I was the hunted. There were people all
round me in the undergrowth, gunning for me. Sometimes,
I expect, I imagined things. Sometimes my suspicions were
iustificd. I remember going to the lawyer supplied for
me by Mr. Lippincott (a most urbane man who treated me
rather as a general practitioner might have done in the
medical profession). I had been advised to get rid of certain
mining properties to which the title deeds were not too
clear.
He asked me who had told me so and I said it was Stanford
Lloyd.
"Well, we must look into it," he said. "A man like
Mr. Lloyd ought to know."
He said to me afterwards,
"There's nothing wrong with your title deeds, and there
is certainly no point in your selling the land in a hurry, as
he seems to have advised you. Hang on to it."
186



ENDLESS NIGHT


I had the feeling then that I'd been right, everybody was
gunning for me. They all knew I was a simpleton when it
came to finance.

The funeral was splendid and, I thought, quite horrible.
Gold-plated, as I had surmised. At the cemetery, masses of
flowers, the cemetery itself like a public park and all the
trimmings of wealthy mourning expressed in monumental
marble. Ellie would have hated it, I was sure of that. But I
suppose her family had a certain right to her.

Four days after my arrival in New York I had news from
Kingston Bhop.

The body of old Mrs. Lee had been found in the disused
quarry on the far side of the hill. She had been dead some
days. There had been accidents there before, and it had
been said that the place ought to be fenced intbut nothing
had been done. A verdict of Accidental Death had been
brought in and a further recommendation to the Council to
fence the place off. In Mrs. Lee's cottage a sum of three
hundred pounds had been found hidden under the floor
boards, all in one pound notes.

Major Phillpot had added in a postscript "I'm sure you
will be sorry to hear that Claudia Hardcasfle was thrown
from her horse and killed out hunting yesterday."

Claudiatkilled? I couldn't believe it! It gave me a very
nasty jolt. Two people--within a fortnight, killed in a
riding accident. It seemed like an almost impossible co-incidence.


I don't want to dwell on that time I spent in New York. I
was a stranger in an alien atmosphere. I felt all the time
that I had to be wary of what I said and what I did. The
Ellie that I had known, the Ellie that had belong.ed pecul-iarly
to me was not there. I saw her now only as an ;American
girl, heiress to a great fortune, surrounded by friends and
connections and distant relatives, one of a family that had
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ENDLESS NIGHT

lived there for five generations. She had come from there
as a comet might have come, visiting my territory.
Now she had gone back to be buffed with her own folk,
to where her own home was. I was glad to have it that way.
I shouldn't have been easy feeling her there in the prim
little cemetery at the foot of the pine woods just outside the
village. No, I shouldn't have been easy.
"Go back where you belong, Ellie," I said to myself.
Now and again that haunting little tune of the song she
used to sing to her guitar came into my mind. I remembered
her fingers gently twanging the strings.
Every Morn and every Night
Some are born to Sweet Delight
and I thought 'That was true of you. You were born to
Sweet Delight. You had Sweet Delight there at Gipsy's
Acre. Only it didn't last very long. Now it's over. You've
come back to where perhaps there wasn't much delight,
where you weren't happy. But you're at home here anyway.
You're among your own folk.'
I wondered suddenly .where I should be when the time
came for me to die. Gipsy's Acre? It could be. My mother
would come and see me laid in my grave--if she wasn't
dead already. But I couldn't think of my mother being dead.
I could think more easily of death for myself. Yes, she'd
come and see me buffed. Perhaps the sternness of her face
would relax. I took my thoughts away from her. I didn't
want to think of her. I didn't want to go near her or see
her.
That last isn't quite true. It wasn't a question of seeing her. It was always with my mother a question of her seeing
me, of her eyes looking through me, of an anxiety that swept
out like a miasma embracing me. I thought: 'Mothers
are the devil! Why have they got to brood over their
children? Why do they feel they know all about their
children? They don't. They don't! She ought to be proud
188



ENDLESS NIGHT


Of me, happy for me, happy for the wonderful life that I've

achieved. She ought
' Then I wrenched my thoughts

away from her again.

How long was I over in the States? I can't even remember.
It seemed an age of walking warily, of being watched by
people with false smiles and enmity in their eyes. I said to
myself every day 'I've got to get through this. I've got to get
through this--and then.' Those were the two words I used.
Used in my own mind, I mean. I used them every day
several times. And then-- They were the two words of the
future. I used them in the same way that I had once used
those other two words. I want....

Everyone went out of their way to be nice to me became
I was rich! Under the terms of Ellie's will I was an ex-tremely
rich man. I felt very odd. I had investments I
didn't understand, shar, stocks, property. And I didn't
know in the least what to do with them all.

The day before I went back to England I had a long
conversation with Mr. Lippincott. I always thought of him
like that in my mind--as Mr. Lippincott. He'd never be-come
Uncle Andrew to me. I told him that I thought of
withdrawing the charge of my investments from Stanford

.loyd.

"Indeed!" His grizzled eyebrow rose. He looked at me
with his shrewd eyes and his poker face and I wondered
what exactly his "indeed" meant.

"Do you think it's all right to do that?" I asked anxiously.
"You have reasom, I presume?"

"No," I said, "I haven't got reasons. A feeling, that's all.
I suppose I can say anything to you?"

"The communication will be privileged, naturally."
"All right," I said, "I just feel that he's a crook?

"Ah." Mr. Lippincott looked interested. "Yes, I should
say your instinct was possibly sound."

$o I knew then that I was right. Stanford Lloyd had been

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ENDLESS NIGHT

playing hanlcy-panky with Ellie's bonds and investments
and all the rest of it. I signed a power of attorney and gave
it to Andrew Lippincott.
"You're willing," I said, "to accept it?"
"As far as financial matters are concerned," said Mr.
Lippincott, "you can trust me absolutely. I will do my best
for you in that respect. I don't think you will have any
reason to complain of my stewardship."
I wondered exactly what he meant by that. He meant
something. I think he meant that he didn't like me, had
never liked me, but financially he would do his best for me
because I had been Ellie's husband. I signed all necessary
papers. He asked me how I was going back to England.
Flying? I said no, I wasn't flying, I was going by sea.
"I've got to have a little time to myself," I said. "I think a
sea voyage will do me good."
• "And you are going to take up your residence--where ?"
"Gipsy's Acre," I said.
"Ah. You propose to live there."
"Yes," I said.
"I thought perhaps you might have put it on the market for sale."
"No," I said, and the no came out rather stronger than I
meant. I wasn't going to part with Gipsy's Acre. Gipsy's
Acre had been part of my dream, the dream that I'd cherished
since I'd been a callow boy.
"Is anybody looking after it while you have been away
in the States?"
I said that I'd le£t Greta Andersen in charge.
"Ah," said Mr. Lippincott, "yes. Greta."
He meant something in the way he said "Greta" but I
didn't take him up on it. If he disliked her, he disliked her.
He always had. It lift an awkward pause, then I changed
my mind. I felt that I'd got to say something.
"She was very good to Ellie,' I said. "She nursed her
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ENDLESS NIGHT

when she was ill, she came and lived with us and looked
after Ellie. I--I can't be grateful enough to her. I'd like you
to understand that. You don't know what she's been like.
You don't know how she helped and did everything after
Ellie was killed. I don't know what I'd have done without
her."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Lippincott. He sounded
drier than you could poss'lbly imagine.
"So you see I owe her a lot."
"A very competent girl," said Mr. Lippincott.
I got up and said good-bye and I thanked him.
"You have nothing for which to thank me," said Mr.
Lippincott, dry as ever.
He added, "I wrote you a short letter. I have sent it by
air mail to Gipsy's Acre. If you are going by sea you will
probably find it waiting there on arrival." Then he said,
"Have a good voyage."
I asked him, rather hesitantly, if he'd known Stanford
Lloyd's wife--a girl called Claudia Hardcastle.
"Ah, you mean his first wife. No I never met her. The
marriage I believe broke up quite soon. After the divorce,
he remarried. That too ended in divorce."
So that was that.
When I got back to my hotel I found a cable. It asked me to come to a hospital in California. It said a friend of
mine, Rudolf Santonix had asked for me, he had not long to
live and he wished to see me before he died.
I changed my passage to a later boat and flew to San
Francisco. He wasn't dead yet, but he was sinking very fast.
They doubted, they said, if he would recover consciousness
before he died, but he had asked for me very urgently. I sat
there in that hospital room watching him, watching what
looked like a shell of the man I knew. He'd always looked
ill, he'd always had a kind of queer transparency about him,
a delicacy, a frailness. He lay now looking a deadly, waxen
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ENDLESS NIGHT

figure. I sat there thinking: 'I wish he'd speak to me. I
wish he'd say SOmething. Just something before he dies.'
I felt so alone, so horribly alone. I'd escaped from
enemies now, I'd got to a friend. My only friend, really.
He was the only person who knew anything about me, except
Mum but I didn't want to think of Mum.
Once or twice I spoke to a nurse, asked her if there wasn't
anything they could do, but she shook her head and said
noncommittally,
"He might recover consciousness or might not."
I sat there. And then at last he stirred and sighed. The
nurse raised him up very gently. He looked at me but I
didn't know whether he recognised me or not. He was just
looking at me as though he looked past me and beyond me.
Then suddenly a difference came into his eyes. I thought
'He does know me, he does see me.' He said something very
faintly and I bent over the bed SO as to catch it. But they
didn't seem words that had any meaning. Then his body
had a sudden spasm and twitch, and he threw his head back
and shouted out:
"You damued fool Why
didn't you go the other
way?"
Then
he just collapsed and died.
I
don't know what he meant---or even if he knew himself what
he was saying.
So
that was the last I saw of $antonix. I wonder if he'd have
heard me if I had said anything to him? I'd like to have
told him once more that the house he'd built me was the
best thing I had in the world. The thing that mattered most
to me. Funny that a house could mean that. I suppose it
was a sort of symbolism about it. Something you want. Something
you want so much that you don't quite know what
it is. But he'd known what it was and he'd given it to me.
And I'd got it. And I was going home to it.
Going
home. That's all I could think about when I got
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ENDLESS NIGHT


on the boat. That and a deadly tiredness at first .... And
then a rising tide of happiness oozing up as it were from the
depths .... I was going home. I was going home...,


Home is the sailor, home from the sea
And the hunter home from the hill..,


193



CHAPTER XXIII


Yes, that was what I was doing. It was all over now. The
last of the fight, the last of the struggle. The last phase of the
journey.

It seemed so long ago to the time of my restless youth.
The days of "I want, I want". But it wasn't long. Less than
a year ....

I went over it all--lying there in my bunk, and thinking.
Meeting Ellie---our times in Regent's Park---our marriage
in the Registrar's office. The house--Santonix building it--the
house completed. Mine, all mine. I was me--me--me
as I wanted to be. As I'd always wanted to be. I'd got
everything I'd wanted and I was going home to it.

Before I left New York I'd written one letter and sent it
off' by air mail to get there ahead of me. I'd written to
Phillpot. Somehow I felt that Phillpot would understand,
though others mightn't.

It was easier to write than to tell him. Anyway, he'd got
to know. Everyone had got to know. Some people probably
wouldn't understand, but I thought he would. He'd seen
for himself how close Ellie and Greta had been, how Ellie
had depended on Greta. I thought he'd realise how I'd
come to depend upon her also, how it would be impossible
for me to live alone in the house where I'd lived with Ellie
unless there was someone there to help me. I don't know if
I put it very well. I did my best.

"I'd like you," I wrote, "to be the first one to know.
You've been so kind to us, and I think you'll be the only
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ENDLESS NIGHT


person to understand. I can't face living all alone at
Gipsy's Acre. I've been thinking all the time I've been in
America and I've decided that as soon as I get home I'm
going to ask Greta to marry me. She's the only person I
can really talk to about Ellie, you see. She'll understand.
Perhaps she won't marry me, but I think she will .... It
will make everything as though there were the three of us
together still."

I wrote the letter three times before I could get it to
express just what I wanted to say. Phillpot ought to get it
two days before my return.

I came up on deck as we were approaching England. I
looked out as the land came nearer. I thought "I wish
Santonix was with me". I did wish it. I wished he could
know how everything was all coming true. Everything I'd
planned---everything I'd thought---everything I'd wanted.

I'd shaken off America, I'd shaken off the crooks and the
ycophants and all the whole lot of them whom I hated
and whom I was pretty sure hated me and looked down on
me for being so low class! I was coming back in triumph. I
was coming back to the pine trees and the curling dangerous
road that made its way up through Gipsy's Acre to the house
on the hilltop. My house! I was coming back to the two
things I wanted. My house--the house that I'd dreamed of,
that I'd planned, that I'd wanted above everything. That
and a wonderful woman .... I'd known always that I'd
meet one day a wonderful woman. I had met her. I'd
seen her and she'd seen me. We'd come together, A wonder-ful
woman. I'd known the moment I saw her that I belonged
to her, belonged to her absolutely and for always. I was
hers. And nowmat last--I was going to her.

Nobody saw me arrive at Kingston Bishop. It was almost
dark and I came by train and I walked from the station,
taking a roundabout side road. I didn't want to meet any
of the people in the village. Not that night ....

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ENDLESS NIGHT


The sun had set when I came up the road to Gipsy's
Acre. I'd told Greta the time I'd arrive. She was up there
in the house waiting for me. At last! We'd done with sub-terfuges
now and all the pretences--the pretence of dis-liking
her--I thought now, laughing to myself, of the part
I'd played, a part I'd played carefully right from the be-ginning.
Disliking Greta, not wanting her to come and stay
with Ellie. Yes, I'd been very careful. Everyone must have
been taken in by that pretence. I remembered the quarrel
we'd faked up so that Ellie should overhear it.

Greta had known me for what I was the first moment we
met. We'd never had any silly illusions about eacl other.
She had the same kind of mind, the same kind of desires as
I had. We wanted the World, nothing less! We wanted to
be on top of the world. We wanted to fulfil every ambition.
We wanted to have everything, deny ourselves nothing. I
remembered how I'd poured out my heart to her when I first
met her in Hamburg, telling my frenzied desire for things.
I hadn't got to conceal my inordinate greed for life from
Greta, she had the same greed herself. She said:

"For all you want out of life you've got to have money."
"Yes," I said, "and I don't see how I'm going to get
it."

"No," said Greta, "you won't get it by hard work.
You're not the kind."

"Work!" I said, "I'd have to work for years! I don't
want to wait. I don't want to be middle-aged." I said
"You know the story about that chap Schliemann how he
worked, toiled, and made a fortune so that he could have his
life's dream come true and go to Troy and dig it up and find
the graves of Troy. He got his dream but he had to wait till
he was forty. But I don't want to wait till I'm a middle-aged
man. Old. One foot in the grave. I want it now
when I'm young and strong. You do too, don't you?" I
said.



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Yes. And I know the way you can do it. It's easy. I
wonder you haven't thought of it already. You can get
girls easily enough, can't you? I can see that. I can feel
it."
"Do you think I care about girls--or ever have really?
There's only one girl I want," I said. "You. And you know
that. I belong to you. I knew it the moment I saw you. I
knew always that I'd meet someone like you. And I have.
I belong to you."
"Yes," said Greta, "I think you do."
"We both want the same things out of life," I said.
"I tell you it's easy," said Greta. "Easy. All you've got
to do is to marry a rich girl, one of the richest girls in the
world. I can put you in the way of doing that."
"Don't be fantastic," I said.
"It's not fantastic, it'll be easy."
"No," I said, "that's no good to me. I don't want to
be the husband of a rich wife. She'll buy me things and
we'll do things and she'll keep me in a golden cage, but that's
not what I want. I don't want to be a fled up slave."
"You needn't be. It's the sort of thing that needn't last
for long. Just long enough. Wives do die, you know."
I stared at her.
"Now you're shocked," she said.
"No," I said, "I'm not shocked."
"I thought you wouldn't be. I thought perhaps
already--?" She looked at me inquiringly, but I wasn't
going to answer that. I had still some self-preservation left. There are some secrets one doesn't want anyone to know.
Not that they were much in the way of secrets, but I didn't
like. to think of them. I didn't like to think of the first one.
Silly though. Puerile. Nothing that mattered. I had had
a boy's passion for a classy wrist-watch that a boy--a
friend of mine at school--had been given. I wanted it. I
wanted it badly. It had cost a lot of money. A rich godfather
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ENDLESS NIGHT

had given it to him. Yes, I wanted that, but I didn't think
I'd ever have a chance of getting it. Then there was the
day we went skating together. The ice wasn't strong enough
to bear. Not that we thought of it beforehand. It just
happened. The ice cracked. I skated across to him. He
was hanging on. He had gone through a hole and he was
hanging on to the ice which was cutting his hands. I went
across to pull him out, of course, but just as I got there I
saw the glint of the wrist-watch. I thought 'Supposing he
goes under and drowns.' I thought how easy it would
be ....
It seemed almost unconsciously, I think, that I unfastened
the strap, grabbed the watch and pushed his head
under instead of trying to pull him out Just
held his
head
under. He couldn't struggle much, he was under the
ice.
People saw and came towards us. They thought I was
trying
to pull him out I They got him out in due course, with
some
diculty. They tried artificial respiration on him
but
it was too late. I hid my treasure away in a special
place
where I kept things now and then. Things I didn't
want
Mum to see because she'd ask me where I got them. She
came
across that watch one day when she was fooling about
with
my socks. Asked me if that wasn't Pete's watch? I said
of
course it wash'trait was one I'd swopped with a boy at
school.
I was always nervous with Mum--I always felt she
knew
too much about me. I was nervous with her when she
found
the watch. She suspected, I think. She couldn't know, of
course. Nobody knew. But she used to look at me. In
a
funny way. Everybody thought I'd tried to rescue Pete.
I
don't think she ever thought so. I think she knew.
She
didn't want to know, but her trouble was that she knew
too
much about me. I felt a bit guilty myself sometimes, but
it
wore off, fairly
soon.
And then later on, when I was in camp. It was during
our
military training time. Chap called Ed and I had been to
a

198



ENDLESS NIGHT

sort of gambling place. I'd had no luck at all, lost every°
thing I had, but Ed had won a packet. He changed lxi
chips and he and I were coming home and he was stuffed
up with notes. His pockets were bulged with them. Then a
couple of toughs came round the corner and went for us.
They were pretty handy with the flick knives they'd got. I got a cut in the arm but Ed got a proper sort of stab. He
went down under it. Then there was a noise of people
coming. The toughs hooked it. I could see that if I was
quick... I was quick! My reflexes are pretty good--I
wrapped a handkerchief round my hand and I pulled out the
knife from Ed's wound and I stuck the knife in again a couple
of times in better places. He gave a gasp and passed out. I
was scared, of course, scared for a second or two and then I
knew it was going to be all right. So I felt--well--naturally
I felt proud of myself for xhinking and acting quick! I
thought 'Poor old Ed, he always was a fool.' It took me no
time at all to transfer those notes to my own pocket I Nothing
like having quick reflexes, seizing your opportunity. The
trouble is the opportunities don't come very often. Some
people, I suppose, get scared when they know they've killed
someone. But I wasn't scared. Not this time.
Mind you, it's not a thing you want to do too often.
Not unless it might be really worth your while. I don't know
how Greta sensed that about me. But she'd known. I don't
mean that she'd known that I'd actually killed a couple of
people. But I think she knew the idea of killing wouldn't
shock me or upset me. I said,
"What's all this fantastic story, Greta?"
She said, "I am in a position to help you. I can bring you
in touch with one of the richest girls in America. I more or
less look after her. I live with her. I have a lot of influence
over her."
"Do you think she'd look at someone like me?" I said.
I didn't believe it for a moment. Why should a rich girl
199



ENDLESS NIGHT


who could have her pick of any attractive sexy man she
liked, go for me?

"You've got a lot of sex appeal," said Greta. "Girls go
for you, don't they."

I grinned and said I didn't do too badly.

"She's never had that kind of thing. She's been looked
after too well. The only young men she's been allowed to
meet are conventional kinds, bankers' sons, tycoons' sons.
She's groomed to make a good marriage in the moneyed
class. They're terrified of her meeting handsome foreigners
who might be after her money. But naturally she's keener on
people like that. They'd be new to her, something she's
never seen before. You've got to make a big play for her.
You've got to fall in love with her at first sight and sweep
her offher feet! It'll be easy enough. She's never had any-one
to make a real sexy approach to her. You could do
it."

"I could try," I said doubtfully.

"We could set it up," said Greta.

"Her family would step in and stop it."

"No, they wouldn't," said Greta, "they wouldn't know
anything about it. Not until it was too late. Not until you'd
got married secretly."

"So that's your idea?"

So we talked about it. We planned. Not in detail, mind
you. Greta went back to America, but she kept in touch
with me. I went on with various jobs. I'd told her about
Gipsy's Acre and that I wanted it, and she said that was just
fine for setting up a romantic story, we laid our plans so
that my meeting with Ellie would take place there. Greta
would work Ellie up about having a house in England
and getting away from her family as soon as she came of
age.

Oh yes, we set it up. Greta was a great planner. I don't
think I could have planned it, but I knew I could play my

200



ENDLESS NIGHT


part all fight. I'd always enjoyed playing a part. And so
that's how it happened. That'a how I met Ellie.

It was fun, all of it. Mad fun because of course there was
always a flak, there was always a danger that it wouldn't
come off. The thing that made me really nervous were the
times that I had to meet Greta. I had to be sure, you sees
that I never gave myself away, by looking at Greta. I tried
not to look at her. We agreed it was best that I should take
a dislike to her, pretend jealousy of her. I carried that ou
all fight. I remember the day she came down to stay. We
staged a quarrel, a quarrel that Ellie could hear. I don't
know whether we overdid it a bit. I don't think so. Some-times
I was nervous that Ellie might guess or something,
but I don't think she did. I don't know. I don't know
really. I never did know about Ellie.

It was very easy to make love to Ellie. She was very
sweet. Yes, she was really sweet. Just sometimes I was afraid
of her because she did things sometimes without telling me.
And she knew things that I never dreamt she knew. But she
loved me. Yes, she loved me. Sometimes--I think I loved
her too ....

I don't mean it was ever like Greta. Greta was the woman
I belonged to. She was sex personified. I was mad for her
and I had to hold myself in. Ellie was something different.
I enjoyed living with her, you know. Yes, that sounds very
queer now I think back to it. I enjoyed living with her very
much.

I'm putting this down now because this is what I was
thinking that evening when I arrived back from America.
When I arrived back on top of the world, having got all I'd
longed for in spite of the risks, in spite of the dangers, in
spite of having done a pretty good murder, though I say it
myself!

Yes, it was a bit tricky, I thought once or twice, but no-body
could tell, not the way we'd done it. Now the risks
201



ENDLESS NIGHT

were over, the dangers were over and here I was coming up
to Oipsy's Acre. Coming as I'd come up it that day after I'd
first seen the poster on the walls, and gone up to look at
the ruins of the old house. {3oming up and rounding the
bend--
And then--it was then I saw tier. I mean it was then I saw
Ellie. Just as I came round the corner of the road in the
dangerous place where the accidents happened. She was there in the same place just where she'd been before, standing
in the shadow of the fir tree. Just aa she'd stood, when she'd
started a little aa she saw me and I'd started, seeing her.
There we'd looked at each other first and I'd come up and
spoken to her, played the part of the young man who's
fallen suddenly in love. Played it jolly well too! Oh, I tell
you I'm a fine actor!
But I hadn't expected to see her now .... I mean, I couldn't see her now, could I? But I was seeing her .... She
was looking--looking straight at me. Only--there was
something that frightened me-omethlng that frightened
me very much. It was, you see, just as though she didn't see
me--I mean I knew she couldn't really be there, I knew
she was dead--but I sam her. She was dead and her body was
buried in the cemetery in the U.S.A. But all the same she
was standing under the fir tree and she was looking at me. No, not at me. She was looking as though she expected to see
me and there was love in her face. The same love that I had
seen one day, one day when she'd been plucking the strings
of her guitar. That day when she'd said to me, "What were
you thinking of?." And I said "Why do you ask me?" and
she said "You were looking at me aa though you loved me.'
I'd said something silly like "Of course I love you."
I stopped dead. I stopped dead there in the road. I was
shaking. I said out loud,
"Ellie."
She didn't move, she just stayed there, looking....
202



ENDLESS NIGHT


Looking straight through me. That's what frightened mo
because I knew if I thought for a minute I'd know why sh.o
didn't see me, and I didn't want to know. No, I didn't want
to know that. I was quite sure that I didn't want to know
that. Looking straight at the place where I was--not seeing
me. I ran then. I ran like a coward, up the rest of the road
to where the lights were shining in my house, until I pulled
myself out of the silly panic that I was in. This was my
triumph. I'd got home. I was the hunter home from the
hills, back to my house, back to the other thing that I'd
wanted more than anything in the world, to the wonderful
woman whom I belonged to body and soul.

And now we'd get married and we'd live in the House.
We'd get all we'd played for! We'd won--Won hands
down!

The door wasn't latched. I went in, stamping my feet,
and through the open door of the library. And there was
Greta standing by the window waiting for me. She was
glorious. She was the most glorious and the most lovely
thing I'd ever seen. She was like a Brunnehilde, a super
Valkyrie with shining golden hair. She smelt and looked and
tasted of sex. We'd denied ourselves so long except for
occasional brief meetings up in the Folly.

I came straight into her arms, a sailor home from the sea
to where he belonged. Yes, it was one of the most wonderful
moments of my life.


Presently we came down to earth. I sat down and she
shoved a small pile of letters towards me. I picked out
almost automatically one with an American stamp. It was
the air mail letter from Lippincott. I wondered what he'd
put in it, why he'd had to write me a letter.

"Well," said Greta with a deep satisfied sigh, "we've
made it."

"V-Day all right," I said.

203



ENDLESS NIGHT

We both laughed, laughed wildly. There was champagno
on the table. I opened it and we drank to each other.
"This place is wonderful," I said, looking round. "It's
more beautiful than I remember it.
Santonix-- But I
haven't told you. $antonix is dead."
"Oh dear," said Greta, "what a pity. So he really was
ill?"
"Of course he was ill. I never wanted to think so. I
went and saw him when he was dying."
Greta gave a little shiver.
"I shouldn't like to do that. Did he say anything?"
"Not really. He said I was a damned fool--I ought to
have gone the other way."
"What did he mean--what way?"
"I don't know what he meant," I said. "I suppose he
was delirious. Didn't know what he was talking about."
"Well, this house is a fine monument to his memory,"
said Greta. "I think we'll stick to it, don't you?"
I stared at her. "Of course. Do you think I'm going to
live anywhere else?"
"We can't live here all the time," said Greta. "Not all
the year round. Buried in a hole like this village?"
"But it's where I want to live--it's where I always meant to live."
"Yes of course. But after all, Mike, we've got all the
money in the world. We can go anywhere! We can go all
over the Continent--we'll go on Safari in Africa. We'll
have adventures. We'll go and look for things--exciting
pictures. We'll go to the Angkor Vat. Don't you want to
have an adventurous life?"
"Well, I suppose so But
we'll always come back here,
won't
we?"
I
had a queer £eeling, a queer feeling that something had
gone wrong somewhere. That's all I'd ever thought of.
My House and Greta. I hadn't wanted anything else. But



ENDLESS NIGHT

she did. I saw that. She was just beginning. Beginning to
want things. Beginning to know she could have them. I
had a sudden cruel foreboding. I began to shiver.
"What's the matter with you, Mike--you're shivering.
Have you caught a cold or something?"
"It's not that," I said.
"What's happened, Mike?"
"I saw Ellie," I said.
"What do you mean, you saw Ellie?'
"As I was walking up the road I turned the corner and
there she was, standing under a fir tree, looking at--I mean
looking towards me."
Greta stared.
"Don't be ridiculous. You--you imagined things."
"Perhaps one does imagine things. This is Gipsy's Acre
after all. Ellie was there all right, looking--looking quite
happy. Just like herself as though she'd--she'd always been
there and was always going to be there."
"Mike I" Greta took hold of my shoulder. She shook me.
"Mike, don't say things like that. Had you been drinking
before you got here?"
"No, I waited till I got here to you. I knew you'd have
champagne waiting for us."
"Well, let's forget Ellie and drink to ourselves."
"It was Ellie," I said obstinately.
"Of course it wasn't Ellie! It was just a trick of the light
--something like that."
"It was Ellie, and she was standing there. She was lookinl
blooking for me and at me. But she couldn't see me. Greta, she couldn't see me." My voice rose. "And I know why. I
know why she couldn't see me."
"What do you mean?"
It was then that I whispered for the first time under my
breath:
"Because that wasn't me. I wasn't there. There was
2O5



ENDLESS NIGH'I

nothing for her to see but Endless Night." Then I shouted
out in a panic-stricken voice "Some are born to Sweet
Delight, and some are born to Endless Night. Me, Greta, me.
"Do you remember, Greta," I said, "how she sat on that
sofa? She used to play that song on her guitar, singing it in
her gentle voice. You must remember.
"'Every night and every morn,'" I sang it under my breath, "'Some to misery are born. Every morn and every night some are
born to sweet delight.' That's Ellie, Greta. She was born to
sweet delight. 'Some are born to sweet delight, some are born to
endless night.' That's what Mum knew about me. She knew
I was born to endless night. I hadn't got there yet. But
she knew. And Santonix knew. He knew I was heading
that way. But it mightn't have happened. There was just
a moment, just one moment, the time Ellie sang that song. I could have been quite happy, couldn't I, really, married
to Ellie? I could have gone on being married to Ellie."
"No, you couldn't," said Greta. "I never thought you
were the type of person who lost your nerve, Mike." She
shook me roughly by the shoulder again. "Wake up."
I stared at her.
"I'm sorry, Greta. What have I been saying?"
"I suppose they got you down over there in the States.
But you did all right, didn't you? I mean, all the investments
are all right?"
"Everything's fixed," I said. "Everything's fixed for our
future. Our glorious, glorious future."
"You speak very queerly. I'd like to know what Lippincott
says in his letter."
I pulled his letter towards me and opened it. There was
nothing inside except a cutting from a paper. Not a new
cutting, it was old and rather rubbed. I stared down at it.
It was a picture of a stree, t. I recognised the street, with
rather a grand building in the background. It was a street
in Hamburg with some people coming towards the photo206




ENDLESS NIGHT

grapher. Two people in the forefront walking arm in arm.
They were Greta and myself. $0 Lippincott hnov.. He'd
known all along that I already knew Greta. Somebody must
have sent him this cutting some time, probably with no
nefarious intention..Just amused perhaps to recognise Miss
Greta Andersen walking along the streets of Hamburg. He
had known I knew Greta and I remembered how particularly
he had asked me whether I had met or not met Greta
Andersen. I had denied it, of course, but he'd known I was
lying. It must have begun his suspicion of me.
I was suddenly afraid of Lippincott. He couldn't suspect,
of course, that I'd killed Ellie. He suspected something,
though. Perhaps he suspected even that.
"Look," I said to Greta, "he knew we knew each other.
He's known it all along. I've always hated that old fox and
he's always hated you," I said. "When he knows that we're
going to marry, he'll suspect." But then I knew that Lippincott
had certainly suspected that Greta and I were going to
marry, he suspected that we knew each other, he suspected
perhaps that we were lovers.
"Mike, will you stop being a panic-stricken rabbit. Yes,
that's what I said. A panic-stricken rabbit. I admired you.
I've always admired you. But now you're falling to pieces.
You're afraid of everyone."
"Don't say that to me."
"Well, it's true."
"Endless night."
I couldn't think of anything else to say. I was still
wondering just what it meant. Endless night. It meant
blackness. It meant that I wasn't there to be seen. I could
see the dead but the dead couldn't see me although I was
living. They couldn't see me because I wasn't really there
The man who loved Ellie wasn't really there. He'd entered
of his own aCcord into endless night.
I bent my head

lower towards the ground.

2O7



ENDLESS NIGHT

"Endless night," I said again.
"Stop saying that," Greta screamed. "Stand up! Be a
man, Mike. Don't give in to this absurd superstitious fancy,."
"How can I help it?" I said. "I've sold my soul to
Gipsy's Acre, haven't I ? Gipsy's Acre's never been safe. It's
never been safe for anyone. It wasn't safe for Ellie and it
isn't safe for me. Perhaps it isn't safe for you."
"What do you mean?"
I got up. I went towards her. I loved her. Yes, I loved
her still with a last tense sexual desire. But love, hate,
desire--aren't they all the same? Three in one and one in three. I could never have hated EIIie, but I hated Greta. I
enjoyed hating her. I hated her with all my heart and with
a leaping joyous wish--I couldn't wait for the safe ways, I
didn't want to wait for them, I came nearer to her.
"You filthy bitch!" I said. "You hateful, glorious,
golden-haired bitch. You're not safe, Greta. You're not
safe from me. Do you understand? I've learnt to enjoy--to
enjoy killing people. I was excited the day that I knew
Ellie had gone out with that horse to her death. I enjoyed
myself all the morning because of killing, but I've never got
near enough to killing until now. This is different. I want
more than just knowing that someone's going to die because
of a capsule they swallowed at breakfast time. I want more
than pushing an old woman over a quarry. I want to use my
hands."
Greta was afraid now. She, whom I'd belonged to ever
since I met her that day in Hamburg, met her and gone on
to pretend illness, to throw up my job, to stay there with her.
Yes, I'd belonged to her then, body and soul. I didn't
belong to her now. I was myself. I was coming into another
kind of kingdom to the one I'd dreamed of.
She was afraid. I loved seeing her afraid and I fastened
my hands round her neck. Yes, even now when I am sitting
here writing down all about myself (which, mind you, is a
208



ENDLESS NIGHT


very happy thing to do)--to write all about yourself and
what you've been through and what you felt and thought
and how you deceived everyone--yes, it's wonderful to do,
yes, I was wonderfully happy when I killed Grela...,


209



CHAPTER XXIV

There isn't really very much to say after that. I mean,
things came to a climax there. One forgets, I suppose, that
there can't be anything better to follow--that you've had it
all. I just sat there for a long time. I don't know when
They came. I don't know whether They all came at once ....
They couldn't have been there all along because they
wouldn't have let me kill Greta. I noticed that God was there
first. I don't mean God, I'm confused, I mean Major
Phillpot. I'd liked him always, he'd been very nice to me.
He was rather like God in some ways, I think. I mean if
God had been a human being and not something super-natural--up
in the sky somewhere. He was a very fair man,
very fair and kind. He looked after things and people. Tried
to do his best for people.
I don't know how much he'd know about me. I remember
the curious way he looked at me that morning in the sale
room when he said that I was "fey". I wonder why he
thought I happened to be fey that day.
Then where we were there with that little crumpled heap
on the ground that was ERie in her riding habit ....
wonder if he knew then or had some idea that I'd had something
to do with it.
After Greta's death, as I say I just sat there in my chair,
staring down at my champagne glass. It was empty.
Everything was very empty, very empty indeed. There was
just one light that we'd switched on, Greta and I, but it was
in the corner. It didn't give much light and the sun--I
210



ENDLESS NIGHT

think the sun must have set a long time ago. I just sat there
and wondered what was going to happen next with a sort
of dull wonder.
Then, I suppose, the people began coming. Perhaps a
lot of people came at once. They came very quietly, if so, or
else I wasn't hearing or noticing anybody.
Perhaps if Santonix had been there he would have told
me what to do. Santonix was dead. He'd gone a different
way to my way, so he wouldn't be any help. Nobody really
would be any help.
After a bit I noticed Dr. Shaw. He was so quiet I hardly
knew he was there at first. He was sitting quite near me, just
waiting for something. After a while I thought he was
waiting for me to speak. I said to him,
"I've come home."
There were one or two other people moving somewhere
behind him. They seemed to be waiting, to be waiting for
something that he was going to do.
"Greta's dead," I said. "I killed her. I expect you'd
better take the body away, hadn't you?"
Somebody somewhere let off a flash bulb. It must have
been a police photographer photographing the body. Br.
Shaw turned his head and said sharply,
"Not yet."
He turned his head round back to me again. I leaned
towards him and said,
"I saw Ellie tonight."
"Did you? Where?"
"Outside standing under a fir tree. It was the place I
first saw her, you know." I paused a moment and then
aid, "She didn't see me .... She couldn't see me because I
wasn't there." And after a while I said, "That upset me. It
upset me very much."
Dr. Shaw said, "It was in the capsule, wasn't it? Cyanide
in the capsule? That's what you gave Ellie that morning?"
211



ENDLESS NIGHT

"It was for her hay fever," I said, "she always took a
capsule as a preventative against her allergy when she went
riding. Greta and I fixed up one or two of the capsules
with wasp stuff from the garden shed and joined them together
again. We did it up in the Folly. Smart, wasn't it?"
And I laughed. It was an odd sort of laugh, I heard it
myself. It was more like a queer little giggle. I said,
"You'd examined all the things she took, hadn't you, when
you came to see her ankle? Sleeping pills, the allergy
capsules, and they were all quite all right, weren't they? No
harm in any of them."
"No harm," said Dr. Shaw. "They were quite innocent.''
"That was rather clever really, wasn't it?" I said.
"You've been quite clever, yes, but not clever enough."
"All the same I don't see how you found out."
"We found out when there was a second death, the death
you didn't mean to happen."
"Claudia Hardcastle?"
"Yes. She died the same way as Ellie did. She fell from
her horse in the hunting field. Claudia was a healthy girl
too, but she just fell from her horse and died. The time
wasn't so long there, you sec. They picked her up almost at
once and there was still the smell of cyanide to go by. If
she'd lain in the open air like Ellie for a couple of hours,
there'd have been nothing4nothing to smell, nothing to
find. I don't see how Claudia got the capsule, though.
Unless you'd left one behind in the Folly. Claudia used to
go to the Folly sometimes. Her fingerprints were there and
she dropped a lighter there."
"We must have been careless. Filling them was rather
tricky."
Then I said,
"You suspected I had something to do with FAlie's death,
212



ENDLESS NIGHT

didn't you? All of you?" I looked round at the shadowy
figures. "Perhaps all of you."
"Very often one knows. But I wasn't sure whether we'd
be able to do anything about it."
"You ought to caution me," I said, reprovingly.
"I'm not a police officer," said Dr. Shaw.
"What are you then?"
"I'm a doctor."
"I don't need a doctor," I said.
"That remains to be seen."
I looked at Phiilpot then,, and I said,
"What areyau doing? Come here to judge me, to preside
at my trial?"
"I'm only a Justice of the Peace," he said. "I'm here as a
friend."
"A friend of mine?" That startled me.
"A friend of Ellie's," he said.
I didn't understand. None of it made sense to me but I
couldn't help feeling rather important. All of them there!
Police and doctors, Shaw and Phillpot who was a busy man
in his way. The whole thing was very complicated. I began
to lose count of things. I was very tired, you see. I used to
get tired suddenly and go to sleep ....
And all the coming and going. People came to see me,
all sorts of people. Lawyers, a solicitor, I think, and
another kind of lawyer with him and doctors. Several
doctors. They bothered me and I didn't want to answer
them.
One of them kept asking me if there was anything I
wanted. I said there was. I said there was only one thing
I wanted. I said I wanted a ball pen and a lot of paper. I
wanted, you see, to write down all about it, how it all came
to happen. I wanted to tell them what I'd felt, what I'd
thought. The more I thought about myself, the more interesting
I thought it would be to everybody. Because I was
213



ENDLESS NIGHT

interesting. I was a eally interesting person and I'd done

interesting things.

The doctors--one doctor, anyway--seemed to t-hln it

was a good idea. I said,

"You always let people make a statement, so why can't I

write my statement out? Some day, perhaps, everybody can

read it."

They let me do it. I couldn't write very long on end. I

used to get tired. Somebody used a phrase like "diminished

responsibility" and somebody else disagreed. All sorts of

things you hear. Sometimes they don't think you're even

]htening. Then I had to appear in Court and I wanted them

to fetch me my best suit because I had to make a good figure

there. It seemed they had had detectives watching me.

For ome time. Those new servants. I think they'd been

engaged or put on my trail by Lippincott. They found out

too many things about me and Greta. Funny, after she was
dead I never thought of Greta much After
I'd killed her
she
didn't seem to matter any more.
I
tried to bring back the splendid triumphant feeling that I'd
had when I strangled her. But even that was gone away...
They
brought my mother to see me quite suddenly one day.
There she was looking at me from the doorway. She didn't
look as anxious as she used to look. I think all she looked
now was sad. She hadn't much to say and nor had I. All
she said was:
"I
tried, Mike. I tried very hard to keep you safe. I failed.
I was always afraid that I should fail."
I
said, "All right, Mum, it wasn't your fault. I chose to go
the way I wanted."
And
I thought suddenly "That's what Santonix said. He was
afraid fox me, too. He hadn't been able to do anything either.
Nobody could have done anything--except perhaps
I myself.... I don't know. I'm not sure. But every now 214



ENDLESS NIGHT

and then I rememberm! remember that day when Ellie said
to me 'what are you thinking of when you look at me like
that?' and I said 'like what?' She said 'aa though you loved
me.' I suppose in a way I did love her. I could have loved
her. She was so sweet, Ellie. Sweet delight .... "
I suppose the trouble with me was that I wanted things

too much, always. Wanted them, too, the easy way, the

greedy way.

That first time, that first day I came to Gipsy's Acre and

met Ellie. Az we were going down the road again we met

Esther. It put it into my head that day, the warnin$ she

gave Ellie, put it in my head to pay her. I knew she was

the kind who would do anything for money. I'd pay her.

She'd start warning Ellie and frightening her, making her feel

that she was in danger. I thought it might make it seem

more possible then that Ellie had died fxom shock. That first

day, I know now, I'm sure of it, Esther was really frightened.

She was really frightened for Ellie. She warned her, warned

her to go away, have nothing to do with Oipay'$ Acre.

She was warning her, of course, to have nothing to do

with mt. I didn't understand that. Ellic didn't understand

either.

Was it mt Ellie was afraid of?. I think it must have been

though she didn't know it herself. She knew there was

something threatening her, she knew there was danger.

Santonix knew the evil in me, too, just like my mother.

Perhaps all three of them knew. Ellie knew but she didn't

mind, she never minded. It's odd, very odd. I know now.

We were very happy together. Yes, very happy. I wish I'd
known then that we were happy I
had flay chance.
Perhaps
everyone has a chance. I--turned my back on it. It
seems odd, doesn't it, that Greta doesn't matter at all? And
even my beautiful house doesn't
matter.
Only Ellie
And Ellie can never find me again--
Endle Night... That's the end of my story----
215

 
 

 

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الكلمات الدلالية (Tags)
اغاثا كريستي, روايات باللغة الانجليزية, على شكل كتابة
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جديد مواضيع قسم أغاثا كريستي , روايات أغاثا كريستي
أدوات الموضوع
انواع عرض الموضوع

تعليمات المشاركة
لا تستطيع إضافة مواضيع جديدة
لا تستطيع الرد على المواضيع
لا تستطيع إرفاق ملفات
لا تستطيع تعديل مشاركاتك

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الساعة الآن 05:13 PM.


 



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