Peril at End House

The girl was no fool. The significance of his tone was not lost on her.

‘Is—anything the matter?’

‘Yes, Mademoiselle. This…’

He held out his hand to her with the bullet on the palm of it. She picked it up with a puzzled frown.

‘You know what that is?’

‘Yes, of course I know. It’s a bullet.’

‘Exactly. Mademoiselle—it was not a wasp that flew past your face this morning—it was this bullet.’

‘Do you mean—was some criminal idiot shooting bullets in a hotel garden?’

‘It would seem so.’

‘Well, I’m damned,’ said Nick frankly. ‘I do seem to bear a charmed life. That’s number four.’

‘Yes,’ said Poirot. ‘That is number four. I want, Mademoiselle, to hear about the other three—accidents.’

She stared at him.

‘I want to be very sure, Mademoiselle, that they were—accidents.’

‘Why, of course! What else could they be?’

‘Mademoiselle, prepare yourself, I beg, for a great shock. What if someone is attempting your life?’

All Nick’s response to this was a burst of laughter. The idea seemed to amuse her hugely.

‘What a marvellous idea! My dear man, who on earth do you think would attempt my life? I’m not the beautiful young heiress whose death releases millions. I wish somebody was trying to kill me—that would be a thrill, if you like—but I’m afraid there’s not a hope!’

‘Will you tell me, Mademoiselle, about those accidents?’

‘Of course—but there’s nothing in it. They were just stupid things. There’s a heavy picture hangs over my bed. It fell in the night. Just by pure chance I had happened to hear a door banging somewhere in the house and went down to find it and shut it—and so I escaped. It would probably have bashed my head in. That’s No. 1.’

Poirot did not smile.

‘Continue, Mademoiselle. Let us pass to No. 2.’

‘Oh, that’s weaker still. There’s a scrambly cliff path down to the sea. I go down that way to bathe. There’s a rock you can dive off. A boulder got dislodged somehow and came roaring down just missing me. The third thing was quite different. Something went wrong with the brakes of the car—I don’t know quite what—the garage man explained, but I didn’t follow it. Anyway if I’d gone through the gate and down the hill, they wouldn’t have held and I suppose I’d have gone slap into the Town Hall and there would have been the devil of a smash. Slight defacement of the Town Hall, complete obliteration of me. But owing to my always leaving something behind, I turned back and merely ran into the laurel hedge.’

‘And you cannot tell me what the trouble was?’

‘You can go and ask them at Mott’s Garage. They’ll know. It was something quite simple and mechanical that had been unscrewed, I think. I wondered if Ellen’s boy (my stand-by who opened the door to you, has got a small boy) had tinkered with it. Boys do like messing about with cars. Of course Ellen swore he’d never been near the car. I think something must just have worked loose in spite of what Mott said.’

‘Where is your garage, Mademoiselle?’

‘Round the other side of the house.’

‘Is it kept locked?’

Nick’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘Oh! no. Of course not.’

‘Anyone could tamper with the car unobserved?’

‘Well—yes—I suppose so. But it’s so silly.’

‘No, Mademoiselle. It is not silly. You do not understand. You are in danger—grave danger. I tell it to you. I! And you do not know who I am?’

‘No?’ said Nick, breathlessly.

‘I am Hercule Poirot.’

‘Oh!’ said Nick, in rather a flat tone. ‘Oh, yes.’

‘You know my name, eh?’

‘Oh, yes.’

She wriggled uncomfortably. A hunted look came into her eyes. Poirot observed her keenly.

‘You are not at ease. That means, I suppose, that you have not read my books.’

‘Well—no—not all of them. But I know the name, of course.’

‘Mademoiselle, you are a polite little liar.’ (I started, remembering the words spoken at the Majestic Hotel that day after lunch.) ‘I forget—you are only a child—you would not have heard. So quickly does fame pass. My friend there—he will tell you.’

Nick looked at me. I cleared my throat, somewhat embarrassed.

‘Monsieur Poirot is—er—was—a great detective,’ I explained.

‘Ah! my friend,’ cried Poirot. ‘Is that all you can find to say? Mais dis donc! Say then to Mademoiselle that I am a detective unique, unsurpassed, the greatest that ever lived!’

‘That is now unnecessary,’ I said coldly. ‘You have told her yourself.’

‘Ah, yes, but it is more agreeable to have been able to preserve the modesty. One should not sing one’s own praises.’

‘One should not keep a dog and have to bark oneself,’ agreed Nick, with mock sympathy. ‘Who is the dog, by the way? Dr Watson, I presume.’

‘My name is Hastings,’ I said coldly.

‘Battle of—1066,’ said Nick. ‘Who said I wasn’t educated? Well, this is all too, too marvellous! Do you think someone really wants to do away with me? It would be thrilling. But, of course, that sort of thing doesn’t really happen. Only in books. I expect Monsieur Poirot is like a surgeon who’s invented an operation or a doctor who’s found an obscure disease and wants everyone to have it.’

‘Sacré tonnerre!’ thundered Poirot. ‘Will you be serious? You young people of today, will nothing make you serious? It would not have been a joke, Mademoiselle, if you had been lying in the hotel garden a pretty little corpse with a nice little hole through your head instead of your hat. You would not have laughed then—eh?’