Agatha Christie - Hercule Poirot 07 - Peril at End House (1932) Read online

  Peril at End House

  A Hercule Poirot Mystery

  Dedication

  To Eden Philpotts

  To whom I shall always be grateful

  for his friendship and the encouragement

  he gave me many years ago

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 The Majestic Hotel

  2 End House

  3 Accidents?

  4 There Must Be Something!

  5 Mr. and Mrs. Croft

  6 A Call Upon Mr. Vyse

  7 Tragedy

  8 The Fatal Shawl

  9 A. to J.

  10 Nick’s Secret

  11 The Motive

  12 Ellen

  13 Letters

  14 The Mystery of the Missing Will

  15 Strange Behaviour of Frederica

  16 Interview with Mr. Whitfield

  17 A Box of Chocolates

  18 The Face at the Window

  19 Poirot Produces a Play

  20 J.

  21 The Person—K.

  22 The End of the Story

  About the Author

  The Agatha Christie Collection

  Related Products

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  One

  THE MAJESTIC HOTEL

  No seaside town in the south of England is, I think, as attractive as St. Loo. It is well-named the Queen of Watering Places and reminds one forcibly of the Riviera. The Cornish coast is to my mind every bit as fascinating as that of the south of France.

  I remarked as much to my friend, Hercule Poirot. “So it said on our menu in the restaurant car yesterday, mon ami. Your remark is not original.”

  “But don’t you agree?”

  He was smiling to himself and did not at once answer my question. I repeated it.

  “A thousand pardons, Hastings. My thoughts were wandering. Wandering indeed to that part of the world you mentioned just now.”

  “The south of France?”

  “Yes. I was thinking of that last winter that I spent there and of the events which occurred.”

  I remembered. A murder had been committed on the Blue Train, and the mystery—a complicated and baffling one—had been solved by Poirot with his usual unerring acumen.

  “How I wish I had been with you,” I said with deep regret.

  “I too,” said Poirot. “Your experience would have been invaluable to me.”

  I looked at him sideways. As a result of long habit, I distrust his compliments, but he appeared perfectly serious. And after all, why not? I have a very long experience of the methods he employs.

  “What I particularly missed was your vivid imagination, Hastings,” he went on dreamily. “One needs a certain amount of light relief. My valet, Georges, an admirable man with whom I sometimes permitted myself to discuss a point, has no imagination whatever.” This remark seemed to me quite irrelevant.

  “Tell me, Poirot,” I said. “Are you never tempted to renew your activities? This passive life—”

  “Suits me admirably, my friend. To sit in the sun—what could be more charming? To step from your pedestal at the zenith of your fame—what could be a grander gesture? They say of me: ‘That is Hercule Poirot!—The great—the unique!—There was never anyone like him, there never will be!’ Eh bien—I am satisfied. I ask no more. I am modest.”

  I should not myself have used the word modest. It seemed to me that my little friend’s egotism had certainly not declined with his years. He leaned back in his chair, caressing his moustache and almost purring with self-satisfaction.

  We were sitting on one of the terraces of the Majestic Hotel. It is the biggest hotel in St. Loo and stands in its own grounds on a headland overlooking the sea. The gardens of the hotel lay below us freely interspersed with palm trees. The sea was of a deep and lovely blue, the sky clear and the sun shining with all the single-hearted fervour an August sun should (but in England so often does not) have. There was a vigorous humming of bees, a pleasant sound—and altogether nothing could have been more ideal.

  We had only arrived last night, and this was the first morning of what we proposed should be a week’s stay. If only these weather conditions continued, we should indeed have a perfect holiday.

  I picked up the morning paper which had fallen from my hand and resumed my perusal of the morning’s news. The political situation seemed unsatisfactory, but uninteresting, there was trouble in China, there was a long account of a rumoured City swindle, but on the whole there was no news of a very thrilling order.

  “Curious thing this parrot disease,” I remarked, as I turned the sheet.

  “Very curious.”

  “Two more deaths at Leeds, I see.”

  “Most regrettable.”

  I turned a page.

  “Still no news of that flying fellow, Seton, in his round-the-world flight. Pretty plucky, these fellows. That amphibian machine of his, the Albatross, must be a great invention. Too bad if he’s gone west. Not that they’ve given up hope yet. He may have made one of the Pacific islands.”

  “The Solomon islanders are still cannibals, are they not?” inquired Poirot pleasantly.

  “Must be a fine fellow. That sort of thing makes one feel it’s a good thing to be an Englishman after all.”

  “It consoles for the defeats at Wimbledon,” said Poirot.

  “I—I didn’t mean,” I began.

  My friend waved my attempted apology aside gracefully.

  “Me,” he announced. “I am not amphibian, like the machine of the poor Captain Seton, but I am cosmopolitan. And for the English I have always had, as you know, a great admiration. The thorough way, for instance, in which they read the daily paper.”

  My attention had strayed to political news.

  “They seem to be giving the Home Secretary a pretty bad time of it,” I remarked with a chuckle.

  “The poor man. He has his troubles, that one. Ah! yes. So much so that he seeks for help in the most improbable quarters.”

  I stared at him.

  With a slight smile, Poirot drew from his pocket his morning’s correspondence, neatly secured by a rubber band. From this he selected one letter which he tossed across to me.

  “It must have missed us yesterday,” he said.

  I read the letter with a pleasurable feeling of excitement.

  “But, Poirot,” I cried. “This is most flattering!”

  “You think so, my friend?”

  “He speaks in the warmest terms of your ability.”

  “He is right,” said Poirot, modestly averting his eyes.

  “He begs you to investigate this matter for him—puts it as a personal favour.”

  “Quite so. It is unneccessary to repeat all this to me. You understand, my dear Hastings. I have read the letter myself.”

  “It is too bad,” I cried. “This will put an end to our holiday.”

  “No, no, calmez vous—there is no question of that.”

  “But the Home Secretary says the matter is urgent.”

  “He may be right—or again he may not. These politicians, they are easily excited. I have seen myself, in the Chambre des Députés in Paris—”

  “Yes, yes, but Poirot, surely we ought to be making arrangements? The express to London has gone—it leaves at twelve o’clock. The next—”

  “Calm yourself, Hastings, calm yourself, I pray of you! Always the excitement, the agitation. We are not going to London today—nor yet tomorrow.”

  “But this summons—”

  “Does not concern
me. I do not belong to your police force, Hastings. I am asked to undertake a case as a private investigator. I refuse.”

  “You refuse?”

  “Certainly. I write with perfect politeness, tender my regrets, my apologies, explain that I am completely desolated—but what will you? I have retired—I am finished.”

  “You are not finished,” I exlaimed warmly.

  Poirot patted my knee.

  “There speaks the good friend—the faithful dog. And you have reason, too. The grey cells, they still function—the order, the method—it is still there. But when I have retired, my friend, I have retired! It is finished! I am not a stage favourite who gives the world a dozen farewells. In all generosity I say: let the young men have a chance. They may possibly do something creditable. I doubt it, but they may. Anyway they will do well enough for this doubtless tiresome affair of the Home Secretary’s.”

  “But, Poirot, the compliment!”

  “Me, I am above compliments. The Home Secretary, being a man of sense, realizes that if he can only obtain my services all will be successful. What will you? He is unlucky. Hercule Poirot has solved his last case.”

  I looked at him. In my heart of hearts I deplored his obstinacy. The solving of such a case as was indicated might add still further lustre to his already worldwide reputation. Nevertheless I could not but admire his unyielding attitude.

  Suddenly a thought struck me and I smiled.

  “I wonder,” I said, “that you are not afraid. Such an emphatic pronouncement will surely tempt the gods.”

  “Impossible,” he replied, “that anyone should shake the decision of Hercule Poirot.”

  “Impossible, Poirot?”

  “You are right, mon ami, one should not use such a word. Eh, ma foi, I do not say that if a bullet should strike the wall by my head, I would not investigate the matter! One is human after all!”

  I smiled. A little pebble had just struck the terrace beside us, and Poirot’s fanciful analogy from it tickled my fancy. He stooped now and picked up the pebble as he went on.

  “Yes—one is human. One is the sleeping dog—well and good, but the sleeping dog can be roused. There is a proverb in your language that says so.”

  “In fact,” I said, “if you find a dagger planted by your pillow tomorrow morning—let the criminal who put it there beware!”

  He nodded, but rather absently.

  Suddenly, to my surprise, he rose and descended the couple of steps that led from the terrace to the garden. As he did so, a girl came into sight hurrying up towards us.

  I had just registered the impression that she was a decidedly pretty girl when my attention was drawn to Poirot who, not looking where he was going, had stumbled over a root and fallen heavily. He was just abreast of the girl at the time and she and I between us helped him to his feet. My attention was naturally on my friend, but I was conscious of an impression of dark hair, an impish face and big dark-blue eyes.

  “A thousand pardons,” stammered Poirot. “Mademoiselle, you are most kind. I regret exceedingly—ouch!—my foot he pains me considerably. No, no, it is nothing really—the turned ankle, that is all. In a few minutes all will be well. But if you could help me, Hastings—you and Mademoiselle between you, if she will be so very kind. I am ashamed to ask it of her.”

  With me on the one side and the girl on the other we soon got Poirot onto a chair on the terrace. I then suggested fetching a doctor, but this my friend negatived sharply.

  “It is nothing, I tell you. The ankle turned, that is all. Painful for the moment, but soon over.” He made a grimace. “See, in a little minute I shall have forgotten. Mademoiselle, I thank you a thousand times. You were most kind. Sit down, I beg of you.”

  The girl took a chair.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “But I wish you would let it be seen to.”

  “Mademoiselle, I assure you, it is a bagatelle! In the pleasure of your society the pain passes already.”

  The girl laughed.

  “That’s good.”

  “What about a cocktail?” I suggested. “It’s just about the time.”

  “Well—” She hesitated. “Thanks very much.”

  “Martini?”

  “Yes, please—dry Martini.”

  I went off. On my return, after having ordered the drinks, I found Poirot and the girl engaged in animated conversation.

  “Imagine, Hastings,” he said, “that house there—the one on the point—that we have admired so much, it belongs to Mademoiselle here.”

  “Indeed?” I said, though I was unable to recall having expressed any admiration. In fact I had hardly noticed the house. “It looks rather eerie and imposing standing there by itself far from anything.”

  “It’s called End House,” said the girl. “I love it—but it’s a tumbledown old place. Going to rack and ruin.”

  “You are the last of an old family, Mademoiselle?”

  “Oh! we’re nothing important. But there have been Buckleys here for two or three hundred years. My brother died three years ago, so I’m the last of the family.”

  “That is sad. You live there alone, Mademoiselle?”

  “Oh! I’m away a good deal and when I’m at home there’s usually a cheery crowd coming and going.”

  “That is so modern. Me, I was picturing you in a dark mysterious mansion, haunted by a family curse.”

  “How marvellous! What a picturesque imagination you must have. No, it’s not haunted. Or if so, the ghost is a beneficent one. I’ve had three escapes from sudden death in as many days, so I must bear a charmed life.”

  Poirot sat up alertly.

  “Escapes from death? That sounds interesting, Mademoiselle.”

  “Oh! they weren’t very thrilling. Just accidents you know.” She jerked her head sharply as a wasp flew past. “Curse these wasps. There must be a nest of them round here.”

  “The bees and the wasps—you do not like them, Mademoiselle? You have been stung—yes?”

  “No—but I hate the way they come right past your face.”

  “The bee in the bonnet,” said Poirot. “Your English phrase.”

  At that moment the cocktails arrived. We all held up our glasses and made the usual inane observations.

  “I’m due in the hotel for cocktails, really,” said Miss Buckley. “I expect they’re wondering what has become of me.”

  Poirot cleared his throat and set down his glass.

  “Ah! for a cup of good rich chocolate,” he murmured. “But in England they make it not. Still, in England you have some very pleasing customs. The young girls, their hats come on and off—so prettily—so easily—”

  The girl stared at him.

  “What do you mean? Why shouldn’t they?”

  “You ask that because you are young—so young, Mademoiselle. But to me the natural thing seems to have a coiffure high and rigid—so—and the hat attached with many hat pins—là—là—là—et là.”

  He executed four vicious jabs in the air.

  “But how frightfully uncomfortable!”

  “Ah! I should think so,” said Poirot. No martyred lady could have spoken with more feeling. “When the wind blew it was the agony—it gave you the migraine.”

  Miss Buckley dragged off the simple wide-brimmed felt she was wearing and cast it down beside her.

  “And now we do this,” she laughed.

  “Which is sensible and charming,” said Poirot, with a little bow.

  I looked at her with interest. Her dark hair was ruffled and gave her an elfin look. There was something elfin about her altogether. The small, vivid face, pansy shaped, the enormous dark-blue eyes, and something else—something haunting and arresting. Was it a hint of recklessness? There were dark shadows under the eyes.

  The terrace on which we were sitting was a little-used one. The main terrace where most people sat was just round the corner at a point where the cliff shelved directly down to the sea.

  From round this corner now there appeared a
man, a red-faced man with a rolling carriage who carried his hands half clenched by his side. There was something breezy and carefree about him—a typical sailor.

  “I can’t think where the girl’s got to,” he was saying in tones that easily carried to where we sat. “Nick—Nick.”

  Miss Buckley rose.

  “I knew they’d be getting in a state. Attaboy—George—here I am.”

  “Freddie’s frantic for a drink. Come on, girl.”

  He cast a glance of frank curiosity at Poirot, who must have differed considerably from most of Nick’s friends.

  The girl performed a wave of introduction.

  “This is Commander Challenger—er—”

  But to my surprise Poirot did not supply the name for which she was waiting. Instead he rose, bowed very ceremoniously and murmured:

  “Of the English Navy. I have a great regard for the English Navy.”

  This type of remark is not one that an Englishman acclaims most readily. Commander Challenger flushed and Nick Buckley took command of the situation.

  “Come on, George. Don’t gape. Let’s find Freddie and Jim.”

  She smiled at Poirot.

  “Thanks for the cocktail. I hope the ankle will be all right.”

  With a nod to me she slipped her hand through the sailor’s arm and they disappeared round the corner together.

  “So that is one of Mademoiselle’s friends,” murmured Poirot thoughtfully. “One of her cheery crowd. What about him? Give me your expert judgement, Hastings. Is he what you call a good fellow—yes?”

  Pausing for a moment to try and decide exactly what Poirot thought I should mean by a “good fellow,” I gave a doubtful assent.

  “He seems all right—yes,” I said. “So far as one can tell by a cursory glance.”

  “I wonder,” said Poirot.

  The girl had left her hat behind. Poirot stooped to pick it up and twirled it round absentmindedly on his finger.

  “Has he a tendresse for her? What do you think, Hastings?”

  “My dear Poirot! How can I tell? Here—give me that hat. The lady will want it. I’ll take it to her.”

  Poirot paid no attention to my request. He continued to revolve the hat slowly on his finger.