Curtain hp-39 Page 4

  "I feel so inadequate. I ought, I know, to take more interest in John's work, but I just can't do it. I daresay it's something wrong in me, but -"

  She was interrupted by a snort from Boyd Carrington, who was standing by the fireplace.

  "Nonsense, Babs," he said. "You're all right. Don't worry yourself."

  "Oh, but, Bill dear, I do worry. I get so discouraged about myself. It's all – I can't help feeling it – it's all so nasty. The guinea pigs and the rats and everything. Ugh!" She shuddered. "I know it's stupid, but I'm such a fool. It makes me feel quite sick. I just want to think of all the lovely happy things – birds and flowers, and children playing. You know, Bill."

  He came over and took the hand she held out to him so pleadingly. His face as he looked down at her was changed, as gentle as any woman's. It was, somehow, impressive – for Boyd Carrington was so essentially a manly man.

  "You've not changed much since you were seventeen, Babs," he said. "Do you remember that garden house of yours and the bird bath, and the cocoanuts?"

  He turned his head to me.

  "Barbara and I are old playmates," he said.

  "Oh! Playmates!" she protested.

  "Oh, I'm not denying that you're over fifteen years younger than I am. But I played with you as a tiny tot when I was a young man. Gave you pickabacks, my dear. And then later, I came home to find you a beautiful young lady – just on the point of making your debut in the world – and I did my share by taking you out on the golf links and teaching you to play golf. Do you remember?"

  "Oh, Bill, do you think I'd forget?"

  "My people used to live in this part of the world," she explained to me. "And Bill used to come and stay with his old uncle, Sir Everard, at Knatton."

  "And what a mausoleum it was – and is," said Boyd Carrington. "Sometimes I despair of getting the place livable."

  "Oh, Bill, it could be made marvellous – quite marvellous!"

  "Yes, Babs, but the trouble is I've got no ideas. Baths and some really comfortable chairs – that's all I can think of. It needs a woman."

  "I've told you I'll come and help. I mean it. Really."

  Sir William looked doubtfully towards Nurse Craven.

  "If you're strong enough, I could drive you over. What do you think, Nurse?"

  "Oh yes, Sir William. I really think it would do Mrs Franklin good – if she's careful not to over-tire herself, of course."

  "That's a date, then," said Boyd Carrington. "And now you have a good night's sleep. Get into good fettle for tomorrow."

  We both wished Mrs Franklin "Good night" and went out together. As we went down the stairs, Boyd Carrington said gruffly:

  "You've no idea what a lovely creature she was at seventeen. I was home from Burma – my wife died out there, you know. Don't mind telling you I completely lost my heart to her. She married Franklin three or four years afterwards. Don't think it's been a happy marriage. It's my idea that that's what lies at the bottom of her ill health. Fellow doesn't understand her or appreciate her, And she's the sensitive kind. I've an idea that this delicacy of hers is partly nervous. Take her out of herself, amuse her, interest her, and she looks a different creature! But that damned sawbones only takes an interest in test tubes and West African natives and cultures."

  He snorted angrily.

  I thought that there was, perhaps, something in what he said. Yet it surprised me that Boyd Carrington should be attracted by Mrs Franklin who, when all was said and done, was a sickly creature though pretty in a frail chocolate box way. But Boyd Carrington himself was so full of vitality and life that I should have thought he would merely have been impatient with the neurotic type of invalid. However, Barbara Franklin must have been quite lovely as a girl, and with many men, especially those of the idealistic type such as I judged Boyd Carrington to be, early impressions die hard.

  Downstairs Mrs Luttrell pounced upon us and suggested bridge. I excused myself on the plea of wanting to join Poirot.

  I found my friend in bed. Curtiss was moving around the room tidying up, but he presently went out, shutting the door behind him.

  "Confound you, Poirot," I said. "You and your infernal habit of keeping things up your sleeve. I've spent the whole evening trying to spot X."

  "That must have made you somewhat distrait," observed my friend. "Did nobody comment on your abstraction and ask you what was the matter?"

  I reddened slightly, remembering Judith's questions. Poirot, I think, observed my discomfiture. I noticed a small malicious smile on his lips. He merely said, however:

  "And what conclusion have you come to on that point?"

  "Would you tell me if I was right?"

  "Certainly not."

  I watched his face closely.

  "I had considered Norton -"

  Poirot's face did not change.

  "Not," I said, "that I've anything to go upon. He just struck me as perhaps less unlikely than anyone else. And then he's – well – inconspicuous. I should imagine the kind of murderer we're after would have to be inconspicuous."

  "That is true. But there are more ways than you think of being inconspicuous."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Supposing, to take a hypothetical case, that if a sinister stranger arrives there some weeks before the murder, for no apparent reason, he will be noticeable. It would be better, would it not, if the stranger were to be a negligible personality, engaged in some harmless sport like fishing?"

  "Or watching birds," I agreed. "Yes, but that's just what I was saying."

  "On the other hand," said Poirot, "it might be better still if the murderer were already a prominent personality – that is to say, he might be the butcher. That would have the further advantage that no one notices bloodstains on a butcher!"

  "You're just being ridiculous. Everyone would know if the butcher had quarrelled with the baker."

  "Not if the butcher had become a butcher simply in order to have a chance of murdering the baker. One must always look one step behind, my friend."

  I looked at him closely, trying to decide if a hint lay concealed in those words. If they meant anything definite, they would seem to point to Colonel Luttrell. Had he deliberately opened a guest house in order to have an opportunity of murdering one of the guests?

  Poirot very gently shook his head. He said:

  "It is not from my face that you will get the answer."

  "You really are a maddening fellow, Poirot," I said with a sigh. "Anyway, Norton isn't my only suspect. What about this fellow Allerton?"

  Poirot, his face still impassive, inquired:

  "You do not like him?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Ah. What you call the nasty bit of goods. That is right, is it not?"

  "Definitely. Don't you think so?"

  "Certainly. He is a man," said Poirot slowly, "very attractive to women."

  I made an exclamation of contempt.

  "How women can be so foolish. What do they see in a fellow like that?"

  "Who can say? But it is always so. The mauvais sujet – always women are attracted to him."

  "But why?"

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "They see something, perhaps, that we do not."

  "But what?"

  "Danger, possibly… Everyone, my friend, demands a spice of danger in their lives. Some get it vicariously – as in bullfights. Some read about it. Some find it at the cinema. But I am sure of this – too much safety is abhorrent to the nature of a human being. Men find danger in many ways – women are reduced to finding their danger mostly in affairs of sex. That is why, perhaps, they welcome the hint of the tiger – the sheathed claws – the treacherous spring. The excellent fellow who will make a good and kind husband – they pass him by."

  I considered this gloomily in silence for some minutes. Then I reverted to the previous theme.

  "You know, Poirot," I said. "It will be easy enough really for me to find out who X is. I've only got to poke about and find who
was acquainted with all the people. I mean the people of your five cases."

  I brought this out triumphantly, but Poirot merely gave me a look of scorn.

  "I have not demanded your presence here, Hastings, in order to watch you clumsily and laboriously following the way I have already trodden. And let me tell you it is not quite so simple as you think. Four of those cases took place in this county. The people assembled under this roof are not a collection of strangers who have arrived here independently. This is not a hotel in the usual sense of the word. The Luttrells come from this part of the world; they were badly off and bought this place and started it as a venture. The people who come here are their friends, or friends recommended by their friends. Sir William persuaded the Franklins to come. They in turn suggested it to Norton, and, I believe, to Miss Cole – and so on. Which is to say that there is a very fair chance of a certain person who is known to one of these people being known to all of these people. It is also open to X to lure wherever the facts are best known. Take the case of the labourer Riggs. The village where that tragedy occurred is not far from the house of Boyd Carrington's uncle. Mrs Franklin's people, also, lived near. The inn in the village is much frequented by tourists. Some of Mrs Franklin's family's friends used to put up there. Franklin himself has stayed there. Norton and Miss Cole may have stayed there and probably have.

  "No, no, my friend. I beg that you will not make these clumsy attempts to unravel a secret that I refuse to reveal to you."

  "It's so damned silly. As though I should be likely to give it away. I tell you, Poirot, I'm tired of these jokes about my speaking countenance. It's not funny."

  Poirot said quietly:

  "Are you so sure that is the only reason? Do you not realize, my friend, that such knowledge may be dangerous? Do you not see that I concern myself with your safety?"

  I stared at him open-mouthed. Up till that minute I had not appreciated that aspect of the matter. But it was, of course, true enough. If a clever and resourceful murderer who had already got away with five crimes – unsuspected, as he thought – once awoke to the fact that someone was on his trail, then indeed there was danger for those on his track.

  I said sharply:

  "But then you – you yourself are in danger, Poirot?"

  Poirot, as far as he was able to in his crippled state, made a gesture of supreme disdain.

  "I am accustomed to that; I can protect myself. And see, have I not here my faithful dog to protect me also? My excellent and loyal Hastings!"

  Chapter 6

  Poirot was supposed to keep early hours. I left him therefore to go to sleep and went downstairs, pausing to have a few words with the attendant Curtiss on the way.

  I found him a stolid individual, slow in the uptake, but trustworthy and competent. He had been with Poirot since the latter's return from Egypt. His master's health, he told me, was fairly good, but he occasionally had alarming heart attacks, and his heart was much weakened in the last few months. It was a case of the engine slowly failing.

  Oh, well, it had been a good life! Nevertheless my heart was wrung for my old friend who was fighting so gallantly every step of the downward way. Even now, crippled and weak, his indomitable spirit was still leading him to ply the craft at which he was so expert.

  I went downstairs sad at heart. I could hardly imagine life without Poirot…

  A rubber was just finishing in the drawing room, and I was invited to cut in. I thought it might serve to distract my mind and I accepted. Boyd Carrington was the one to cut out, and I sat down with Norton and Colonel and Mrs Luttrell.

  "What do you say now, Mr Norton," said Mrs Luttrell. "Shall you and I take the other two on? Our late partnership's been very successful."

  Norton smiled pleasantly, but murmured "that perhaps, really, they ought to cut – what?"

  Mrs Luttrell assented, but with rather an ill grace, I thought.

  Norton and I cut together against the Luttrells. I noticed that Mrs Luttrell was definitely displeased by this. She bit her lip, and her charm and Irish brogue disappeared completely for the moment.

  I soon found out why. I played on many future occasions with Colonel Luttrell, and he was not really such a very bad player. He was what I should describe as a moderate player, but inclined to be forgetful. Every now and then he would make some really bad mistake owing to this. But playing with his wife, he made mistake after mistake without ceasing. He was obviously nervous of her, and this caused him to play about three times as badly as was normal. Mrs Luttrell herself was a very good player indeed, though a rather unpleasant one to play with. She snatched every conceivable advantage, ignored the rules if her adversary was unaware of them, and enforced them immediately when they served her. She was also extremely adept at a quick sideways glance into her opponent's hand. In other words, she played to win.

  And I understood soon enough what Poirot had meant by vinegar. At cards her self-restraint failed, and her tongue lashed every mistake her wretched husband made. It was really most uncomfortable for both Norton and myself, and I was thankful when the rubber came to an end.

  We both excused ourselves from playing another on the score of the lateness of the hour.

  As we moved away, Norton rather incautiously gave way to his feelings.

  "I say, Hastings, that was pretty ghastly. It gets my back up to see that poor old boy bullied like that. And the meek way he takes it! Poor chap. Not much of the peppery-tongued Indian colonel about him."

  "Ssh," I warned, for Norton's voice had been raised and I was afraid old Colonel Luttrell would overhear.

  "No, but it is too bad."

  I said with feeling:

  "I shall understand it if he ever takes a hatchet to her."

  Norton shook his head.

  "He won't. The iron's entered into his soul. He'll go on: 'Yes, m'dear, no, m'dear, sorry, m'dear,' pulling at his moustache and bleating meekly until he's put in his coffin. He couldn't assert himself if he tried!"

  I shook my head sadly, for I was afraid Norton was right.

  We paused in the hall and I noticed that the side door to the garden was open and the wind blowing in.

  "Ought we to shut that?" I asked.

  Norton hesitated a minute before saying:

  "Well – er – I don't think everybody's in yet."

  A sudden suspicion darted through my mind.

  "Who's out?"

  "Your daughter, I think – and – er – Allerton."

  He tried to make his voice extra casual, but the information coming on top of my conversation with Poirot made me feel suddenly uneasy.

  Judith – and Allerton. Surely Judith, my clever, cool Judith, would not be taken in by a man of that type? Surely she would see through him? I told myself that repeatedly as I undressed, but the vague uneasiness persisted. I could not sleep and lay tossing from side to side.

  As is the way with night worries, everything gets exaggerated. A fresh sense of despair and loss swept over me. If only my dear wife were alive. She on whose wise judgment I had relied for so many years. She had always been wise and understanding about the children.

  Without her, I felt miserably inadequate. The responsibility for their safety and happiness was mine. Would I be equal to that task? I was not, Heaven help me, a clever man. I blundered – made mistakes. If Judith was to ruin her chances of happiness, if she were to suffer -

  Desperately I switched the light on and sat up.

  It was no good going on like this. I must get some sleep. Getting out of bed, I walked over to the washbasin and looked doubtfully at a bottle of aspirin tablets.

  No, I needed something stronger than aspirin. I reflected that Poirot, probably, would have some sleeping stuff of some kind. I crossed the passage to his room and stood hesitating a minute outside the door. Rather a shame to wake the old boy up.

  As I hesitated, I heard a footfall and looked round. Allerton was coining along the corridor towards me. It was dimly lit and until he came near I could not se
e his face, and wondered for a minute who it was. Then I saw, and stiffened all over. For the man was smiling to himself, and I disliked that smile very much.

  He looked up and raised his eyebrows.

  "Hullo, Hastings, still about?"

  "I couldn't sleep," I said shortly.

  "Is that all? I'll soon fix you up. Come with me."

  I followed him into his room, which was the next one to mine. A strange fascination drove me to study this man as closely as I could.

  "You keep late hours yourself," I remarked.

  "I've never been an early bed-goer. Not when there's sport abroad. These fine evenings aren't made to be wasted."

  He laughed – and I disliked the laugh.

  I followed him into the bathroom. He opened a little cupboard and took out a bottle of tablets.

  "Here you are. This is the real dope. You'll sleep like a log – and have pleasant dreams, too. Wonderful stuff Slumberyl – that's the patent name for it."

  The enthusiasm in his voice gave me a slight shock. Was he a drug taker as well? I said doubtfully:

  "It isn't – dangerous?"

  "'It is if you take too much of it. It's one of the barbiturates – whose toxic dose is very near the effective one." He smiled, the corners of his mouth sliding up his face in an unpleasant way.

  "I shouldn't have thought you could get it without a doctor's prescription," I said.

  "You can't, old boy. Anyway, quite literally, you can't. I've got a pull in that line."

  I suppose it was foolish of me, but I get these impulses. I said:

  "You knew Etherington, I think?"

  At once I knew that I had struck a note of some kind. His eyes grew hard and wary. He said – and his voice had changed – it was light and artificial:

  "Oh yes – I knew Etherington. Poor chap." Then, as I did not speak, he went on: "Etherington took drugs, of course – but he overdid it. One's got to know when to stop. He didn't. Bad business. That wife of his was lucky. If the sympathy of the jury hadn't been with her, she'd have hanged."

  He passed me over a couple of the tablets. Then he said casually:

  "Did you know Etherington well?"