Chapter 5 – Mr and Mrs Croft
There was dancing that evening at the hotel. Nick Buckley dined there with her friends and waved a gay greeting to us.
She was dressed that evening in floating scarlet chiffon that dragged on the floor. Out of it rose her white neck and shoulders and her small impudent dark head.
'An engaging young devil,' I remarked. 'A contrast to her friend-eh?'
Frederica Rice was in white. She danced with a languorous weary grace that was as far removed from Nick's animation as anything could be.
'She is very beautiful,' said Poirot suddenly.
'Who? Our Nick?'
'No-the other. Is she evil? Is she good? Is she merely unhappy? One cannot tell. She is a mystery. She is, perhaps, nothing at all. But I tell you, my friend, she is an allumeuse.'
'What do you mean?' I asked curiously.
He shook his head, smiling.
'You will feel it sooner or later. Remember my words.'
Presently to my surprise, he rose. Nick was dancing with George Challenger. Frederica and Lazarus had just stopped and had sat down at their table. Then Lazarus got up and went away. Mrs Rice was alone. Poirot went straight to her table. I followed him.
His methods were direct and to the point.
'You permit?' He laid a hand on the back of a chair, then slid into it. 'I am anxious to have a word with you while your friend is dancing.'
'Yes?' Her voice sounded cool, uninterested.
'Madame, I do not know whether your friend has told you. If not, I will. Today her life has been attempted.'
Her great grey eyes widened in horror and surprise. The pupils, dilated black pupils, widened too.
'What do you mean?'
'Mademoiselle Buckley was shot at in the garden of this hotel.'
She smiled suddenly-a gentle, pitying, incredulous smile.
'Did Nick tell you so?'
'No, Madame, I happened to see it with my own eyes. Here is the bullet.'
He held it out to her and she drew back a little.
'But, then-but, then-'
'It is no fantasy of Mademoiselle's imagination, you understand. I vouch for that. And there is more. Several very curious accidents have happened in the last few days. You will have heard-no, perhaps you will not. You only arrived yesterday, did you not?'
'Yes-yesterday.'
'Before that you were staying with friends, I understand. At Tavistock.'
'Yes.'
'I wonder, Madame, what were the names of the friends with whom you were staying.'
She raised her eyebrows.
'Is there any reason why I should tell you that?' she asked coldly. Poirot was immediately all innocent surprise.
'A thousand pardons, Madame. I was most maladroit. But I myself, having friends at Tavistock, fancied that you might have met them there… Buchanan-that is the name of my friends.'
Mrs Rice shook her head.
'I don't remember them. I don't think I can have met them.' Her tone now was quite cordial. 'Don't let us talk about boring people. Go on about Nick. Who shot at her? Why?'
'I do not know who-as yet,' said Poirot. 'But I shall find out. Oh! yes, I shall find out. I am, you know, a detective. Hercule Poirot is my name.'
'A very famous name.'
'Madame is too kind.'
She said slowly: 'What do you want me to do?'
I think she surprised us both there. We had not expected just that.
'I will ask you, Madame, to watch over your friend.'
'I will.'
'That is all.'
He got up, made a quick bow, and we returned to our own table.
'Poirot,' I said, 'aren't you showing your hand very plainly?'
'Mon ami, what else can I do? It lacks subtlety, perhaps, but it makes for safety. I can take no chances. At any rate one thing emerges plain to see.'
'What is that?'
'Mrs Rice was not at Tavistock. Where was she? Ah! but I will find out. Impossible to keep information from Hercule Poirot. See-the handsome Lazarus has returned. She is telling him. He looks over at us. He is clever, that one. Note the shape of his head. Ah! I wish I knew-'
'What?' I asked, as he came to a stop.
'What I shall know on Monday,' he returned, ambiguously.
I looked at him but said nothing. He sighed.
'You have no longer the curiosity, my friend. In the old days-'
'There are some pleasures,' I said, coldly, 'that it is good for you to do without.'
'You mean-?'
'The pleasure of refusing to answer questions.'
'Ah c'est malin.'
'Quite so.'
'Ah, well, well,' murmured Poirot. 'The strong silent man beloved of novelists in the Edwardian age.'
His eyes twinkled with their old glint.
Nick passed our table shortly afterwards. She detached herself from her partner and swooped down on us like a gaily-coloured bird.
'Dancing on the edge of death,' she said lightly.
'It is a new sensation, Mademoiselle?'
'Yes. Rather fun.'
She was off again, with a wave of her hand.
'I wish she hadn't said that,' I said, slowly. 'Dancing on the edge of death. I don't like it.'
'I know. It is too near the truth. She has courage, that little one. Yes, she has courage. But unfortunately it is not courage that is needed at this moment. Caution, not courage-voila ce qu'il nous faut!'
The following day was Sunday. We were sitting on the terrace in front of the hotel, and it was about half-past eleven when Poirot suddenly rose to his feet.
'Come, my friend. We will try a little experiment. I have ascertained that M. Lazarus and Madame have gone out in the car and Mademoiselle with them. The coast is clear.'
'Clear for what?'
'You shall see.'
We walked down the steps and across a short stretch of grass to the sea. A couple of bathers were coming up it. They passed us laughing and talking.
When they had gone, Poirot walked to the point where an inconspicuous small gate, rather rusty on its hinges, bore the words in half obliterated letters, 'End House. Private.' There was no one in sight. We passed quietly through.
In another minute we came out on the stretch of lawn in front of the house. There was no one about. Poirot strolled to the edge of the cliff and looked over. Then he walked towards the house itself. The French windows on to the verandah were open and we passed straight into the drawing-room. Poirot wasted no time there. He opened
