Peril at End House

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 absent-mindedly 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.

‘Pas encore. Ça m’amuse.’

‘Really, Poirot!’

‘Yes, my friend, I grow old and childish, do I not?’

This was so exactly what I was feeling that I was somewhat disconcerted to have it put into words. Poirot gave a little chuckle, then leaning forward he laid a finger against the side of his nose.

‘But no—I am not so completely imbecile as you think! We will return the hat—but assuredly—but later! We will return it to End House and thus we shall have the opportunity of seeing the charming Miss Nick again.’

‘Poirot,’ I said. ‘I believe you have fallen in love.’