one and she said, 'Take the other impure box away, nurse. I might have got them mixed up.' Oh! dear, whoever would have thought of such a thing? Seems like an Edgar Wallace, doesn't it?'
Poirot cut short this flood of speech.
'Two boxes, you say? From whom was the other box?'
'There was no name inside.'
'And which was the one that came-that had the appearance of coming-from me? The one by post or the other?'
'I declare now-I can't remember. Shall I go up and ask Miss Buckley?'
'If you would be so amiable.'
She ran up the stairs.
'Two boxes,' murmured Poirot. 'There is confusion for you.'
The nurse returned breathless.
'Miss Buckley isn't sure. She unwrapped them both before she looked inside. But she thinks it wasn't the box that came by post.'
'Eh?' said Poirot, a little confused.
'The box from you was the one that didn't come by post. At least she thinks so, but she isn't quite sure.'
'Diable!' said Poirot, as we walked away. 'Is no one ever quite sure? In detective books-yes. But life-real life- is always full of muddle. Am I sure, myself, about anything at all? No, no-a thousand times, no.'
'Lazarus,' I said.
'Yes, that is a surprise, is it not?'
'Shall you say anything to him about it?'
'Assuredly. I shall be interested to see how he takes it. By the way, we might as well exaggerate the serious condition of Mademoiselle. It will do no harm to let it be assumed that she is at death's door. You comprehend? The solemn face-yes, admirable. You resemble closely an undertaker. C'est tout a fait bien.'
We were lucky in finding Lazarus. He was bending over the bonnet of his car outside the hotel.
Poirot went straight up to him.
'Yesterday evening, Monsieur Lazarus, you left a box of chocolates for Mademoiselle,' he began without preamble.
Lazarus looked rather surprised.
'Yes?'
'That was very amiable of you.'
'As a matter of fact they were from Freddie, from Mrs Rice. She asked me to get them.'
'Oh! I see.'
'I took them round in the car.'
'I comprehend.'
He was silent for a minute or two and then said: 'Madame Rice, where is she?'
'I think she's in the lounge.'
We found Frederica having tea. She looked up at us with an anxious face.
'What is this I hear about Nick being taken ill?'
'It is a most mysterious affair, Madame. Tell me, did you send her a box of chocolates yesterday?'
'Yes. At least she asked me to get them for her.'
'She asked you to get them for her?'
'Yes.'
'But she was not allowed to see anyone. How did you see her?'
'I didn't. She telephoned.'
'Ah! And she said-what?'
'Would I get her a two-pound box of Fuller's chocolates.'
'How did her voice sound-weak?'
'No-not at all. Quite strong. But different somehow. I didn't realize it was she speaking at first.'
'Until she told you who she was?'
'Yes.'
'Are you sure, Madame, that it was your friend?'
Frederica looked startled.
'I-I-why, of course it was. Who else could it have been?'
'That is an interesting question, Madame.'
'You don't mean-'
'Could you swear, Madame, that it was your friend's voice-apart from what she said?'
'No,' said Frederica, slowly, 'I couldn't. Her voice was certainly different. I thought it was the phone-or perhaps being ill…'
'If she had not told you who she was, you would not have recognized it?'
'No, no, I don't think I should. Who was it, M. Poirot? Who was it?'
'That is what I mean to know, Madame.'
The graveness of his face seemed to awaken her suspicions.
'Is Nick-has anything happened?' she asked, breathlessly.
Poirot nodded.
'She is ill-dangerously ill. Those chocolates, Madame-were poisoned.'
'The chocolates I sent her? But that's impossible-impossible!'
'Not impossible, Madame, since Mademoiselle is at death's door.'
'Oh, my God.' She hid her face in her hands, then raised it white and quivering. 'I don't understand-I don't understand. The other, yes, but not this. They couldn't be poisoned. Nobody ever touched them but me and Jim. You're making some dreadful mistake, M. Poirot.'
'It is not I that make a mistake-even though my name was in the box.' She stared at him blankly.
'If Mademoiselle Nick dies-' he said, and made a threatening gesture with his hand.
She gave a low cry.
He turned away, and taking me by the arm, went up to the sitting-room.
He flung his hat on the table.
'I understand nothing-but nothing! I am in the dark. I am a little child. Who stands to gain by Mademoiselle's death? Madame Rice. Who buys the chocolates and admits it and tells a story of being rung up on the telephone that cannot hold water for a minute? Madame Rice. It is too simple-too stupid. And she is not stupid-no.'
'Well, then-'
'But she takes cocaine, Hastings. I am certain she takes cocaine. There is no mistaking it. And there was cocaine in those chocolates. And what did she mean when she said, 'The other, yes, but not this.' It needs explaining, that! And the sleek M. Lazarus-what is he doing in all this? What does she know, Madame Rice? She knows something. But I cannot make her speak. She is not of those you can frighten into speech. But she knows something, Hastings. Is her tale of the telephone true, or did she invent it? If it is true whose voice was it?
'I tell you, Hastings. This is all very black-very black.’
‘Always darkest before dawn,' I said reassuringly. He shook his head.
'Then the other box-that came by post. Can we rule that out? No, we cannot, because Mademoiselle is not sure. It is an annoyance, that!'
He groaned.
I was about to speak when he stopped me.
'No, no. Not another proverb. I cannot bear it. If you would be the good friend-the good helpful friend-'
'Yes,' I said eagerly.
'Go out, I beg of you, and buy me some playing cards.'
I stared.
'Very well,' I said coldly.
I could not but suspect that he was making a deliberate excuse to get rid of me.
Here, however, I misjudged him. That night, when I came into the sitting-room about ten o'clock, I found Poirot carefully building card houses-and I remembered!
