'It's too bad,' she was saying, 'that Mrs Croft can't be here too. We ought to have carried her on a stretcher or something.'
'It's bad luck on poor mother altogether. But she never complains-that woman's got the sweetest nature-Ha! that's a good one.' This as a shower of golden rain showed up in the sky.
The night was a dark one-there was no moon-the new moon being due in three day's time. It was also, like most summer evenings, cold. Maggie Buckley, who was next to me, shivered.
'I'll just run in and get a coat,' she murmured.
'Let me.'
'No, you wouldn't know where to find it.'
She turned towards the house. At that moment Frederica Rice's voice called: 'Oh, Maggie, get mine too. It's in my room.'
'She didn't hear,' said Nick. 'I'll get it, Freddie. I want my fur one-this shawl isn't nearly hot enough. It's this wind.'
There was, indeed, a sharp breeze blowing off the sea.
Some set pieces started down on the quay. I fell into conversation with an elderly lady standing next to me who put me through a rigorous catechism as to life, career, tastes and probable length of stay.
Bang! A shower of green stars filled the sky. They changed to blue, then red, then silver.
Another and yet another.
''Oh!' and then 'Ah!' that is what one says,' observed Poirot suddenly close to my ear. 'At the end it becomes monotonous, do you not find? Brrr! The grass, it is damp to the feet! I shall suffer for this-a chill. And no possibility of obtaining a propertisane!'
'A chill? On a lovely night like this?'
'A lovely night! A lovely night! You say that, because the rain it does not pour down in sheets! Always when the rain does not fall, it is a lovely night. But I tell you, my friend, if there were a little thermometer to consult you would see.'
'Well,' I admitted, 'I wouldn't mind putting on a coat myself.'
'You are very sensible. You have come from a hot climate.'
'I'll bring yours.'
Poirot lifted first one, then the other foot from the ground with a cat-like motion.
'It is the dampness of the feet I fear. Would it, think you, be possible to lay hands on a pair of goloshes?'
I repressed a smile.
'Not a hope,' I said. 'You understand, Poirot, that it is no longer done.'
'Then I shall sit in the house,' he declared. 'Just for the Guy Fawkes show, shall I want only enrhumer myself? And catch, perhaps, afluxion de poitrine?'
`Poirot still murmuring indignantly, we bent our footsteps towards the house. Loud clapping drifted up to us from the quay below where another set piece was being shown-a ship, I believe, with Welcome to Our Visitors displayed across it.
'We are all children at heart,' said Poirot, thoughtfully. 'Les Feux D'Artifices, the party, the games with balls- yes, and even the conjurer, the man who deceives the eye, however carefully it watches-mais qu'est-ce que vous avez?'
I had caught him by the arm, and was clutching him with one hand, while with the other I pointed.
We were within a hundred yards of the house, and just in front of us, between us and the open French window, there lay a huddled figure wrapped in a scarlet Chinese shawl…
'Mon Dieu!' whispered Poirot. 'Mon Dieu…'
Chapter 8 – The Fatal Shawl
I suppose it was not more than forty seconds that we stood there, frozen with horror, unable to move, but it seemed like an hour. Then Poirot moved forward, shaking off my hand. He moved stiffly like an automaton.
'It has happened,' he murmured, and I can hardly describe the anguished bitterness of his voice. 'In spite of everything-in spite of my precautions, it has happened. Ah! miserable criminal that I am, why did I not guard her better. I should have foreseen. Not for one instant should I have left her side.'
'You mustn't blame yourself,' I said.
My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and I could hardly articulate.
Poirot only responded with a sorrowful shake of his head. He knelt down by the body.
And at that moment we received a second shock.
For Nick's voice rang out, clear and gay, and a moment later Nick appeared in the square of the window silhouetted against the lighted room behind.
'Sorry I've been so long, Maggie,' she said. 'But-' Then she broke off-staring at the scene before her.
With a sharp exclamation, Poirot turned over the body on the lawn and I pressed forward to see.
I looked down into the dead face of Maggie Buckley.
In another minute Nick was beside us. She gave a sharp cry.
'Maggie-Oh! Maggie-it-it can't-'
Poirot was still examining the girl's body. At last very slowly he rose to his feet.
'Is she-is-' Nick's voice broke off.
'Yes, Mademoiselle. She is dead.'
'But why? But why? Who could have wanted to kill her?'
Poirot's reply came quickly and firmly.
'It was not her they meant to kill, Mademoiselle! It was you! They were misled by the shawl.'
A great cry broke from Nick.
'Why couldn't it have been me?' she wailed. 'Oh! why couldn't it have been me? I'd so much rather. I don't want to live-now. I'd be glad-willing-happy-to die.'
She flung up her arms wildly and then staggered slightly. I passed an arm round her quickly to support her.
'Take her into the house, Hastings,' said Poirot. 'Then ring up the police.'
'The police?'
'Mais oui! Tell them someone has been shot. And afterwards stay with Mademoiselle Nick. On no account leave her.'
I nodded comprehension of these instructions, and supporting the half-fainting girl, made my way through the drawing-room window. I laid the girl on the sofa there, with a cushion under her head, and then hurried out into the hall in search of the telephone.
I gave a slight start on almost running into Ellen. She was standing there with a most peculiar expression on her meek, respectable face. Her eyes were glittering and she was passing her tongue repeatedly over her dry lips. Her hands were trembling, as though with excitement. As soon as she saw me, she spoke.
'Has-has anything happened, sir?'
'Yes,' I said curtly. 'Where's the telephone?'
'Nothing-nothing wrong, sir?'
'There's been an accident,' I said evasively. 'Somebody hurt. I must telephone.'
'Who has been hurt, sir?'
There was a positive eagerness in her face.
'Miss Buckley. Miss Maggie Buckley.'
'Miss Maggie? Miss Maggie? Are you sure, sir-I mean are you sure that-that it's Miss Maggie?'
'I'm quite sure,' I said. 'Why?'
'Oh!-nothing. I-I thought it might be one of the other ladies. I thought perhaps it might be-Mrs Rice.'
'Look here,' I said. 'Where's the telephone?'
'It's in the little room here, sir.' She opened the door for me and indicated the instrument.
