'This is what she was referring to, undoubtedly. Well, we have drawn the blank, as you say, here. Let us go up to Mademoiselle's room.'
There was a desk in Nick's room also, but comparatively little was kept in it. Here again, there was no sign of a will. We found the registration book of her car and a perfectly good dividend warrant of a month back. Otherwise there was nothing of importance.
Poirot sighed in an exasperated fashion.
'The young girls-they are not properly trained nowadays. The order, the method, it is left out of their bringing up. She is charming, Mademoiselle Nick, but she is a feather-head. Decidedly, she is a feather-head.'
He was now going through the contents of a chest of drawers.
'Surely, Poirot,' I said, with some embarrassment, 'those are underclothes.'
He paused in surprise.
'And why not, my friend?'
'Don't you think-I mean-we can hardly-'
He broke into a roar of laughter.
'Decidedly, my poor Hastings, you belong to the Victorian era. Mademoiselle Nick would tell you so if she were here. In all probability she would say that you had the mind like the sink! Young ladies are not ashamed of their underclothes nowadays. The camisole, the camiknicker, it is no longer a shameful secret. Every day, on the beach, all these garments will be discarded within a few feet of you. And why not?'
'I don't see any need for what you are doing.'
'Ecoutez, my friend. Clearly, she does not lock up her treasures, Mademoiselle Nick. If she wished to hide anything from sight-where would she hide it? Underneath the stockings and the petticoats. Ah! what have we here?'
He held up a packet of letters tied with a faded pink ribbon.
'The love letters of M. Michael Seton, if I mistake not.'
Quite calmly he untied the ribbon and began to open out the letters.
'Poirot,' I cried, scandalized. 'You really can't do that. It isn't playing the game.'
'I am not playing a game, mon ami.' His voice rang out suddenly harsh and stern. 'I am hunting down a murderer.'
'Yes, but private letters-'
'May have nothing to tell me-on the other hand, they may. I must take every chance, my friend. Come, you might as well read them with me. Two pairs of eyes are no worse than one pair. Console yourself with the thought that the staunch Ellen probably knows them by heart.'
I did not like it. Still I realized that in Poirot's position he could not afford to be squeamish, and I consoled myself by the quibble that Nick's last word had been, 'Look at anything you like.'
The letters spread over several dates, beginning last winter. New Year's Day.
'Darling,-The New Year is in and I'm making good resolutions. It seems too wonderful to be true-that you should actually love me. You've made all the difference to my life. I believe we both knew-from the very first moment we met. Happy New Year, my lovely girl.
'Yours for ever, Michael.' February 8th.
'Dearest Love,-How I wish I could see you more often. This is pretty rotten, isn't it? I hate all this beastly concealment, but I explained to you how things are. I know how much you hate lies and concealment. I do too. But honestly, it might upset the whole apple cart. Uncle Matthew has got an absolute bee in his bonnet about early marriages and the way they wreck a man's career. As though you could wreck mine, you dear angel!
'Cheer up, darling. Everything will come right.
'Yours,
'Michael.'
March 2nd.
'I oughtn't to write to you two days running, I know. But I must. When I was up yesterday I thought of you. I flew over Scarborough. Blessed, blessed, blessed Scarborough -the most wonderful place in the world. Darling, you don't know how I love you!
'Yours, 'Michael.' April 18th.
'Dearest,-The whole thing is fixed up. Definitely. If I pull this off (and I shall pull it off) I shall be able to take a firm line with Uncle Matthew-and if he doesn't like it-well, what do I care? It's adorable of you to be so interested in my long technical descriptions of the Albatross. How I long to take you up in her. Some day! Don't, for goodness' sake, worry about me. The thing isn't half so risky as it sounds. I simply couldn't get killed now that I know you care for me. Everything will be all right, sweetheart. Trust your Michael.'
April 20th.
'You Angel,-Every word you say is true and I shall treasure that letter always. I'm not half good enough for you. You are so different from everybody else. I adore you.
'Your
'Michael.'
The last was undated.
'Dearest,-Well-I'm off tomorrow. Feeling tremendously keen and excited and absolutely certain of success. The old Albatrossis all tuned up. She won't let me down.
'Cheer up, sweetheart, and don't worry. There's a risk, of course, but all life's a risk really. By the way, somebody said I ought to make a will (tactful fellow-but he meant well), so I have-on a half sheet of notepaper-and sent it to old Whitfield. I'd no time to go round there. Somebody once told me that a man made a will of three words, 'All to Mother', and it was legal all right. My will was rather like that-I remembered your name was really Magdala, which was clever of me! A couple of the fellows witnessed it.'
'Don't take all this solemn talk about wills to heart, will you? (I didn't mean that pun. An accident.) I shall be as right as rain. I'll send you telegrams from India and Australia and so on. And keep up heart. It's going to be all right. See?'
'Good night and God bless you,
'Michael.'
Poirot folded the letters together again.
'You see, Hastings? I had to read them-to make sure. It is as I told you.'
'Surely you could have found out some other way?'
'No, mon cher, that is just what I could not do. It had to be this way. We have now some very valuable evidence.'
'In what way?'
'We now know that the fact of Michael's having made a will in favour of Mademoiselle Nick is actually recorded in writing. Anyone who had read those letters would know the fact. And with letters carelessly hidden like that, anyone could read them.'
'Ellen?'
'Ellen, almost certainly, I should say. We will try a little experiment on her before passing out.'
'There is no sign of the will.'
'No, that is curious. But in all probability it is thrown on top of a bookcase, or inside a china jar. We must try to awaken Mademoiselle's memory on that point. At any rate, there is nothing more to be found here.'
Ellen was dusting the hall as we descended.
Poirot wished her good morning very pleasantly as we passed. He turned back from the front door to say: 'You knew, I suppose, that Miss Buckley was engaged to the airman, Michael Seton?'
She stared.
'What? The one there's all the fuss in the papers about?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I never. To think of that. Engaged to Miss Nick.'
'Complete and absolute surprise registered very convincingly,' I remarked, as we got outside.
'Yes. It really seemed genuine.'
'Perhaps it was,' I suggested.
'And that packet of letters reclining for months under the lingerie? No, mon ami.'
