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Authors: Agatha Christie
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bolted my door. When I came here this morning, I came round by theroad. I couldn’t—I simply couldn’t come through the garden. It’s as though my nerve had gone all of a sudden. It’s this thing coming on top of everything else.’
‘What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?’
There was a momentary pause before she replied.
‘I don’t mean anything particular. What the newspapers call “the strain of modern life”, I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes—all that sort of thing. It’s just that I’ve got into a ridiculous—sort of—of state.’
She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.
‘You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.’
‘There isn’t—there really isn’t.’
‘There is something you have not told me.’
‘I’ve told you every single smallest thing.’
She spoke sincerely and earnestly.
‘About these accidents—about the attacks upon you, yes.’
‘Well—then?’
‘But you have not told me everything that is in your heart—in your life…’
She said slowly:
‘Can anyone do that…?’
‘Ah! then,’ said Poirot, with triumph. ‘You admit it!’
She shook her head. He watched her keenly.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, shrewdly. ‘It is not your secret?’
I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.
‘Really and truly, M. Poirot, I’ve told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It’s having no suspicions that’s driving me mad! Because I’m not a fool. I can see that if those “accidents” weren’t accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand—somebody who—knows me. And that’s what is so awful. Because I haven’t the least idea—not the very least—who that somebody might be.’
She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl’s self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of voice, a dreamy far-away voice.
‘Do you know a queer wish I’ve always had? I love End House. I’ve always wanted to produce a play there. It’s got an—an atmosphere of drama about it. I’ve seen all sorts of plays staged there in my mind. And now it’s as though a drama were being acted there. Only I’m notproducing it…I’m in it! I’m right in it! I am, perhaps, the person who—dies in the first act.’
Her voice broke.
‘Now, now, Mademoiselle.’ Poirot’s voice was resolutely brisk and cheerful. ‘This will not do. This is hysteria.’
She turned and looked at him sharply.
‘Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical?’ she asked. ‘She says I am, sometimes. But you mustn’t always believe what Freddie says. There are times, you know when—when she isn’t quite herself.’
There was a pause, then Poirot asked a totally irrelevant question:
‘Tell me, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Have you ever received an offer for End House?’
‘To sell it, do you mean?’
‘That is what I meant.’
‘No.’
‘Would you consider selling it if you got a good offer?’
Nick considered for a moment.
‘No, I don’t think so. Not, I mean, unless it was such a ridiculously good offer that it would be perfectly foolish not to.’
‘ Précisément. ’
‘I don’t want to sell it, you know, because I’m fond of it.’
‘Quite so. I understand.’
Nick moved slowly towards the door.
‘By the way, there are fireworks tonight. Will you come? Dinner at eight o’clock. The fireworks begin at nine-thirty. You can see them splendidly from the garden where it overlooks the harbour.’
‘I shall be enchanted.’
‘Both of you, of course,’ said Nick.
‘Many thanks,’ I said.
‘Nothing like a
‘What do you mean exactly by that, Mademoiselle? On top of everything else?’
There was a momentary pause before she replied.
‘I don’t mean anything particular. What the newspapers call “the strain of modern life”, I suppose. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes—all that sort of thing. It’s just that I’ve got into a ridiculous—sort of—of state.’
She had sunk into a chair and was sitting there, her small fingers curling and uncurling themselves nervously.
‘You are not being frank with me, Mademoiselle. There is something.’
‘There isn’t—there really isn’t.’
‘There is something you have not told me.’
‘I’ve told you every single smallest thing.’
She spoke sincerely and earnestly.
‘About these accidents—about the attacks upon you, yes.’
‘Well—then?’
‘But you have not told me everything that is in your heart—in your life…’
She said slowly:
‘Can anyone do that…?’
‘Ah! then,’ said Poirot, with triumph. ‘You admit it!’
She shook her head. He watched her keenly.
‘Perhaps,’ he suggested, shrewdly. ‘It is not your secret?’
I thought I saw a momentary flicker of her eyelids. But almost immediately she jumped up.
‘Really and truly, M. Poirot, I’ve told you every single thing I know about this stupid business. If you think I know something about someone else, or have suspicions, you are wrong. It’s having no suspicions that’s driving me mad! Because I’m not a fool. I can see that if those “accidents” weren’t accidents, they must have been engineered by somebody very near at hand—somebody who—knows me. And that’s what is so awful. Because I haven’t the least idea—not the very least—who that somebody might be.’
She went over once more to the window and stood looking out. Poirot signed to me not to speak. I think he was hoping for some further revelation, now that the girl’s self-control had broken down.
When she spoke, it was in a different tone of voice, a dreamy far-away voice.
‘Do you know a queer wish I’ve always had? I love End House. I’ve always wanted to produce a play there. It’s got an—an atmosphere of drama about it. I’ve seen all sorts of plays staged there in my mind. And now it’s as though a drama were being acted there. Only I’m notproducing it…I’m in it! I’m right in it! I am, perhaps, the person who—dies in the first act.’
Her voice broke.
‘Now, now, Mademoiselle.’ Poirot’s voice was resolutely brisk and cheerful. ‘This will not do. This is hysteria.’
She turned and looked at him sharply.
‘Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical?’ she asked. ‘She says I am, sometimes. But you mustn’t always believe what Freddie says. There are times, you know when—when she isn’t quite herself.’
There was a pause, then Poirot asked a totally irrelevant question:
‘Tell me, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘Have you ever received an offer for End House?’
‘To sell it, do you mean?’
‘That is what I meant.’
‘No.’
‘Would you consider selling it if you got a good offer?’
Nick considered for a moment.
‘No, I don’t think so. Not, I mean, unless it was such a ridiculously good offer that it would be perfectly foolish not to.’
‘ Précisément. ’
‘I don’t want to sell it, you know, because I’m fond of it.’
‘Quite so. I understand.’
Nick moved slowly towards the door.
‘By the way, there are fireworks tonight. Will you come? Dinner at eight o’clock. The fireworks begin at nine-thirty. You can see them splendidly from the garden where it overlooks the harbour.’
‘I shall be enchanted.’
‘Both of you, of course,’ said Nick.
‘Many thanks,’ I said.
‘Nothing like a
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