The Hollow hp-24 Page 9

  His estimation of the time required for walking to The Hollow by road was accurate.

  It was exactly one minute to one when he rang the front door bell. He was glad to have arrived and felt slightly tired. He was not fond of walking.

  The door was opened by the magnificent Gudgeon of whom Poirot approved. His reception, however, was not quite as he had hoped.

  "Her ladyship is in the pavilion by the swimming pool, sir. Will you come this way?"

  The passion of the English for sitting out of doors irritated Hercule Poirot. Though one had to put up with this whimsy in the height of Summer, surely, Poirot thought, one should be safe from it by the end of September! The day was mild, certainly, but it had, as Autumn days always had, a certain dampness. How infinitely pleasanter to have been ushered into a comfortable drawingroom with, perhaps, a small fire in the grate.

  But no, here he was being led out through French windows across a slope of lawn, past a rockery and then, through a small gate and along a narrow track between closely planted young chestnuts.

  It was the habit of the Angkatells to invite guests for one o'clock, and on fine days they had cocktails and sherry in the small pavilion by the swimming pool. Lunch itself was scheduled for one-thirty, by which time, the most unpunctual of guests should have managed to arrive, which permitted Lady Angkatell's excellent cook to embark on souffles and such accurately timed delicacies without too much trepidation.

  To Hercule Poirot, the plan did not commend itself.

  "In a little minute," he thought, "I shall be almost back where I started."

  With an increasing awareness of his feet in his shoes he followed Gudgeon's tall figure.

  It was at that moment from just ahead of him that he heard a little cry. It increased, somehow, his dissatisfaction. It was incongruous, in some way unfitting. He did not classify it, nor indeed think about it. When he thought about it afterwards he was hard put to it to remember just what emotions it had seemed to convey. Dismay? Surprise? Horror? He could only say that it suggested, very definitely, the unexpected.

  Gudgeon stepped out from the chestnuts. He was moving to one side, deferentially, to allow Poirot to pass and at the same time clearing his throat preparatory to murmuring, "M. Poirot, m'lady," in the proper subdued and respectful tones when his suppleness became suddenly rigid. He gasped. It was an unbutlerlike noise.

  Hercule Poirot stepped out onto the open space surrounding the swimming pool, and immediately he too stiffened, but with annoyance.

  It was too much-it was really too much!

  He had not suspected such cheapness of the Angkatells. The long walk by the road, the disappointment at the house-and now this! The misplaced sense of humour of the English!

  He was annoyed and he was bored-oh! how he was bored! Death was not, to him, amusing. And here they had arranged for him, by way of a joke, a set piece.

  For what he was looking at was a highly artificial murder scene. By the side of the pool was the body, artistically arranged with an outflung arm and even some red paint dripping gently over the edge of the concrete into the pool. It was a spectacular body, that of a handsome fair-haired man. Standing over the body, revolver in hand, was a woman, a short, powerfully built, middleaged woman with a curiously blank expression.

  And there were three other actors. On the far side of the pool was a tall young woman whose hair matched the Autumn leaves in its rich brown; she had a basket in her hand full of dahlia heads. A little further off was a man, a tall inconspicuous man in a shooting coat carrying a gun. And immediately on his left, with a basket of eggs in her hand, was his hostess, Lady Angkatell.

  It was clear to Hercule Poirot that several different paths converged here at the swimming pool and that these people had each arrived by a different path.

  It was all very mathematical and artificial.

  He sighed. Enfin, what did they expect him to do? Was he to pretend to believe in this "crime"? Was he to register dismay-alarm? Or was he to bow, to congratulate his hostess-"Ah! but it is very charming, what you arrange for me here."

  Really, the whole thing was very stupid -not spirituel at all! Was it not Queen Victoria who had said, "We are not amused"?

  He felt very inclined to say the same. "I, Hercule Poirot, am not amused."

  Lady Angkatell had walked towards the body. He followed, conscious of Gudgeon, still breathing hard, behind him. He is not in the secret, that one, Hercule Poirot thought to himself. From the other side of the pool, the other two people joined them.

  They were all quite close now, looking down on that spectacular sprawling figure by the pool's edge.

  And suddenly, with a terrific shock, with that feeling as of blurring on a cinematography screen before the picture comes into focus, Hercule Poirot realized that this artificially set scene had a point of reality.

  For what he was looking down at was, if not a dead, at least a dying man…

  It was not red paint dripping off the edge of the concrete, it was blood. This man had been shot, and shot a very short time ago.

  He darted a quick glance at the woman who stood there, revolver in hand. Her face was quite blank, without feeling of any kind.

  She looked dazed and rather stupid.

  Curious, he thought.

  Had she, he wondered, drained herself of all emotion, all feeling, in the firing of the shot? Was she now, all passion spent, nothing but an exhausted shell? It might be so, he thought.

  Then he looked down on the shot man, and he started. For the dying man's eyes were open. They were intensely blue eyes and they held an expression that Poirot could not read but which he described to himself as a kind of intense awareness. J And suddenly, or so it felt to Poirot, there seemed to be in all this group of people only one person who was really alive-the man who was at the point of death.

  Poirot had never received so strong an impression of vivid and intense vitality. The others were pale, shadowy figures, actors in a remote drama, but this man was real.

  John Christow opened his mouth and spoke. His voice was strong, unsurprised and urgent. ^Henrietta-f' he said.

  Then his eyelids dropped, his head jerked sideways…

  Hercule Poirot knelt down, made sure, then rose to his feet, mechanically dusting the knees of his trousers.

  "Yes," he said. "He is dead…"

  The picture broke up, wavered, refocused itself. There were individual reactions now -trivial happenings. Poirot was conscious |pf himself as a kind of magnified eyes and pars-recording. Just that, recording. 1 He was aware of Lady AngkatelFs hand relaxing its grip on her basket and Gudgeon springing forward, quickly taking it from her.

  "Allow me, m'lady…"

  Mechanically, quite naturally. Lady Angkatell murmured:

  "Thank you. Gudgeon."

  And then, hesitantly, she said:

  "Gerda-"

  The woman holding the revolver stirred for the first time. She looked round at them all. When she spoke, her voice held what seemed to be pure bewilderment.

  "John's dead," she said. "John's dead…" With a kind of swift authority the tall young woman with the leaf brown hair, came swiftly to her.

  "Give that to me, Gerda," she said.

  And dexterously, before Poirot could protest or intervene, she had taken the revolver out of Gerda Christow's hand.

  Poirot took a quick step forwards.

  "You should not do that, Mademoiselle-"

  The young woman started nervously at the sound of his voice. The revolver slipped through her fingers. She was standing by the edge of the pool and the revolver fell with a splash into the water.

  Her mouth opened and she uttered an "Oh" of consternation, turning her head to look at Poirot apologetically.

  "What a fool I am," she said. "I'm sorry." Poirot did not speak for a moment. He was staring into a pair of clear hazel eyes.

  They met his quite steadily and he wondered if his momentary suspicion had been unjust.

  He said quietly:
>
  "Things should be handled as little as possible.

  Everything must be left exactly as it is for the police to see."

  There was a little stir then-very faint, just a ripple of uneasiness.

  Lady Angkatell murmured distastefully, "Of course. I suppose-yes, the police-"

  In a quiet pleasant voice, tinged with fastidious repulsion, the man in the shooting coat said, "I'm afraid, Lucy, it's inevitable."

  Into that moment of silence and realization, there came the sound of footsteps and voices, assured, brisk footsteps and cheerful, incongruous voices.

  Along the path from the house came Sir Henry Angkatell and Midge Hardcastle, talking and laughing together.

  At the sight of the group round the pool, Sir Henry stopped short, and exclaimed in astonishment:

  "What's the matter? What's happened?"

  His wife answered. "Gerda has-" she broke off sharply. "I mean-John is-"

  Gerda said in her flat, bewildered voice:

  "John has been shot… he's dead…"

  They all looked away from her, embarrassed.

  Then Lady Anglkatell said quickly:

  "My dear, I think you'd better go and- and lie down… perhaps we had better all go back to the hoxise? Henry, you and M. Poirot can stay here and-and wait for the police."

  "That will be the best plan, I think," said Sir Henry. He turned to Gudgeon. "Will you ring up the polic«e station, Gudgeon? Just state exactly what has occurred. When the police arrive, bring them straight out here."

  Gudgeon bent his head a little and said,

  "Yes, Sir Henry." He was looking a little white about the ^ills, but he was still the perfect servant.

  The tall young woman said, "Come, Gerda," and putiting her hand through the other woman's arm she led her unresistingly away and along the path towards the house.

  Gerda walked as though in a dream. Gudgeon stood back a little to let them pass and then followed, carrying the basket of eggs.

  Sir Henry turrned sharply to his wife.

  "Now, Lucy, -what is all this? What happened exactly?"

  Lady AngkaiteH stretched out vague hands, a lovely helpless gesture. Hercule Poirot felt the charm of it and the appeal.

  "My dear, I hardly know… I was down by the hens. I heard a shot that seemed very near, but I didn't really think anything about it. After all," she appealed to them all, "one doesn't! And then I came up the path to the pool and there was John lying there and Gerda standing over him with the revolver.

  Henrietta and Edward arrived almost at the same moment-from over there."

  She nodded towards the farther side of the pool, where two paths ran up into the woods.

  Hercule Poirot cleared his throat.

  "Who were they, this John and this Gerda? If I may know," he added apologetically.

  "Oh, of course." Lady Angkatell turned to him in quick apology. "One forgets-but then one doesn't exactly introduce people-not when somebody has just been killed. John is John Christow, Dr. Christow. Gerda Christow is his wife."

  "And the lady who went with Mrs. Christow to the house?"

  "My cousin, Henrietta Savernake."

  There was a movement, a very faint movement from the man on Poirot's left.

  Henrietta Savernake, thought Poirot, and he does not like that she should say it-but it is, after all, inevitable that I should know… ("Henrietta!" the dying man had said. He had said it in a very curious way. A way that reminded Poirot of something-of some incident … now, what was it? No matter, it would come to him.) Lady Angkatell was going on, determined now on fulfilling her social duties.

  "And this is another cousin of ours, Edward Angkatell. And Miss Hardcastle."

  Poirot acknowledged the introductions with polite bows. Midge felt suddenly that she wanted to laugh hysterically; she controlled herself with an effort.

  "And now, my dear," said Sir Henry, "I think that, as you suggested, you had better go back to the house… I will have a word or two here with M. Poirot."

  Lady Angkatell looked thoughtfully at them.

  "I do hope," she said, "that Gerda is lying down. Was that the right thing to suggest? I really couldn't think what to say. I mean, one has no precedent. What does one say to a woman who has just killed her husband?"

  She looked at them as though hoping that some authoritative answer might be given to her question.

  Then she went along the path towards the house. Midge followed her. Edward brought up the rear.

  Poirot was left with his host.

  Sir Henry cleared his throat. He seemed a little uncertain what to say.

  "Christow," he observed at last, "was a very able fellow-a very able fellow."

  Poirot's eyes rested once more on the dead man. He still had the curious impression that the dead man was more alive than the living.

  He wondered what gave him that impression.

  He responded politely to Sir Henry:

  "Such a tragedy as this is very unfortunate," he said.

  "This sort of thing is more in your line than mine," said Sir Henry. "I don't think I have ever been at close quarters with a murder before. I hope I've done the right thing so far?"

  "The procedure has been quite correct," said Poirot. "You have summoned the police and until they arrive and take charge, there is nothing for us to do-except to make sure that nobody disturbs the body or tampers with the evidence."

  As he said the last word he looked down into the pool where he could see the revolver lying on the concrete bottom slightly distorted by the blue water.

  The evidence, he thought, had perhaps already been tampered with before he, Hercule Poirot, had been able to prevent it…

  But no-that had been an accident.

  Sir Henry murmured distastefully:

  "Think we've got to stand about? A bit chilly. It would be all right, I should think, if we went inside the pavilion?"

  Poirot, who had been conscious of damp feet and a disposition to shiver, acquiesced gladly. The pavilion was at the side of the pool farthest from the house and through its open door they commanded a view of the pool and the body and the path to the house along which the police would come.

  The pavilion was luxuriously furnished with comfortable settees and gay native rugs.

  On a painted iron table a tray was set with glasses and a decanter of sherry.

  "I'd offer you a drink," said Sir Henry, "but I suppose I'd better not touch anything until the police come-not, I should imagine, that there's anything to interest them in here. Still, it is better to be on the safe side.

  Gudgeon hadn't brought out the cocktails yet, I see. He was waiting for you to arrive." The two men sat down rather gingerly in two wicker chairs near the door so that they I could watch the path from the house.

  A constraint settled over them. It was an occasion on which it was difficult to make small talk.

  Poirot glanced round the pavilion, noting anything that struck him as unusual. An expensive cape of platinum fox had been flung carelessly across the back of one of the chairs. He wondered whose it was. Its rather ostentatious magnificence did not harmonize with any of the people he had seen up to now. He could not, for instance, imagine it round Lady AngkatelFs shoulders.

  It worried him. It breathed a mixture of opulence and self-advertisement-and those characteristics were lacking in anyone he had seen so far.

  "I suppose we can smoke," said Sir Henry, offering his case to Poirot.

  Before taking the cigarette, Poirot sniffed the air.

  French perfume… an expensive French perfume…

  Only a trace of it lingered, but it was there, and again the scent was not the scent that associated itself in his mind with any of the occupants of The Hollow…

  As he leaned forward to light his cigarette at Sir Henry's lighter, Poirot's glance fell on a little pile of match-boxes-six of them-stacked on a small table near one of the settees.

  It was a detail that struck him as definitely odd.

  Chapt
er XII

  "Half past two," said Lady Angkatell.

  She was in the drawing-room with Midge and Edward. From behind the closed door of Sir Henry's study came the murmur of voices. Hercule Poirot, Sir Henry and Inspector Grange were in there.

  Lady Angkatell sighed.

  "You know, Midge, I still feel one ought to do something about lunch… It seems, of course, quite heartless to sit down round the table as though nothing had happened.

  But after all, M. Poirot was asked to lunch -and he is probably hungry. And it can't be upsetting to him that poor John Christow has been killed, like it is to us… And I must say that though I really do not feel like eating myself. Henry and Edward must be extremely hungry after being out shooting all the morning-"

  Edward Angkatell said, "Don't worry on my account, Lucy dear."

  "You are always considerate, Edward.

  And then there is David-I noticed that he ate a great deal at dinner last night. Intellectual people always seem to need a good deal of food. Where is David, by the way?"

  "He went up to his room," said Midge, "after he had heard what had happened."

  "Yes-well, that was rather tactful of him. I daresay it made him feel awkward … Of course, say what you like, a murder is an awkward thing-it upsets the servants and puts the general routine out-we were having ducks for lunch-fortunately they are quite nice eaten cold… What does one do about Gerda, do you think? Something on a tray? A little strong soup, perhaps?"

  Really, thought Midge, Lucy is inhuman!

  And then with a qualm she reflected that it was perhaps because Lucy was too human that it shocked one so! Wasn't it the plain unvarnished truth that all catastrophes were hedged round with these little trivial wonderings and surmises? Lucy merely gave utterance to the thoughts which most people did not acknowledge. One did remember the servants, and worry about meals, and one did even feel hungry. She felt hungry herself at this very moment! Hungry, she thought, and at the same time, rather sick… A curious mixture.

  And there was, undoubtedly, just plain awkward embarrassment in not knowing how to react to a quiet commonplace woman whom one had referred to, only yesterday, as "poor Gerda" and who was now, presumably, shortly to be standing in the dock accused of murder.