The Clocks - Christie Agatha. Страница 49

Chapter 28

Colin Lamb’s Narrative

I arrived at Crowdean at eleven o’clock at night, five days later. I went to the Clarendon Hotel, got a room, and went to bed. I’d been tired the night before and I overslept. I woke up at a quarter to ten.

I sent for coffee and toast and a daily paper. It came and with it a large square note addressed to me with the wordsBY HAND in the top left-hand corner.

I examined it with some surprise. It was unexpected. The paper was thick and expensive, the superscription neatly printed.

After turning it over and playing with it, I finally opened it.

Inside was a sheet of paper. Printed on it in large letters were the words:

(Knock three times)

I stared at it, turned it over in my hand-what was all this?

I noted the room number-413-the same as the clocks. A coincidence? Ornot a coincidence.

I had thoughts of ringing the Curlew Hotel. Then I thought of ringing Dick Hardcastle. I didn’t do either.

My lethargy was gone. I got up, shaved, washed, dressed and walked along the front to the Curlew Hotel and got there at the appointed time.

The summer season was pretty well over now. There weren’t many people about inside the hotel.

I didn’t make any inquiries at the desk. I went up in the lift to the fourth floor and walked along the corridor to No. 413.

I stood there for a moment or two: then, feeling a complete fool, I knocked three times…

A voice said, ‘Come in.’

I turned the handle, the door wasn’t locked. I stepped inside and stopped dead.

I was looking at the last person on earth I would have expected to see.

Hercule Poirot sat facing me. He beamed at me. 

‘Une petite surprise, n’est-ce pas?’ he said. ‘But a pleasant one, I hope.’

‘Poirot, you old fox,’ I shouted. ‘How didyou get here?’

‘I got here in a Daimler limousine-most comfortable.’

‘But what are youdoing here?’

‘It was most vexing. They insisted, positively insisted on the redecoration of my apartment. Imagine my difficulty. What can I do? Where can I go?’

‘Lots of places,’ I said coldly.

‘Possibly, but it is suggested to me by my doctor that the air of the sea will be good for me.’

‘One of those obliging doctors who finds out where his patient wants to go, and advises him to go there! Was it you who sent methis?’ I brandished the letter I had received.

‘Naturally-who else?’

‘Is it a coincidence that you have a room whose number is 413?’

‘It is not a coincidence. I asked for it specially.’

‘Why?’

Poirot put his head on one side and twinkled at me.

‘It seemed to be appropriate.’

‘And knocking three times?’

‘I could not resist it. If I could have enclosed a sprig of rosemary it would have been better still. I thought of cutting my finger and putting a bloodstained fingerprint on the door. But enough is enough! I might have got an infection.’

‘I suppose this is second childhood,’ I remarked coldly. ‘I’ll buy you a balloon and a woolly rabbit this afternoon.’

‘I do not think you enjoy my surprise. You express no joy, no delight at seeing me.’

‘Did you expect me to?’

‘Pourquoi pas?Come, let us be serious, now that I have had my little piece of foolery. I hope to be of assistance. I have called up the chief constable who has been of the utmost amiability, and at this moment I await your friend, Detective Inspector Hardcastle.’

‘And what are you going to say to him?’

‘It was in my mind that we might all three engage in conversation.’

I looked at him and laughed. He might call it conversation-but I knew who was going to do the talking.

Hercule Poirot!

Hardcastle had arrived. We had had the introduction and the greetings. We were now settled down in a companionable fashion, with Dick occasionally glancing surreptitiously at Poirot with the air of a man at the Zoo studying a new and surprising acquisition. I doubt if he had ever met anyone quite like Hercule Poirot before!

Finally, the amenities and politeness having been observed, Hardcastle cleared his throat and spoke.

‘I suppose, M. Poirot,’ he said cautiously, ‘that you’ll want to see-well, the whole set-up for yourself? It won’t be exactly easy-’ He hesitated. ‘The chief constable told me to do everything I could for you. But you must appreciate that there are difficulties, questions that may be asked, objections. Still, as you have come down here specially-’

Poirot interrupted him-with a touch of coldness.

‘I came here,’ he said, ‘because of the reconstruction and decoration of my apartment in London.’

I gave a horse laugh and Poirot shot me a look of reproach.

‘M. Poirot doesn’t have to go and see things,’ I said. ‘He has always insisted that you can do it all from an arm-chair. But that’s not quite true, is it, Poirot? Or why have you come here?’

Poirot replied with dignity.

‘I said that it was not necessary to be the foxhound, the bloodhound, the tracking dog, running to and fro upon the scent. But I will admit that for the chase a dogis necessary. A retriever, my friend. A good retriever.’ 

He turned towards the inspector. One hand twirled his moustache in a satisfied gesture.

‘Let me tell you,’ he said, ‘that I am not like the English, obsessed with dogs. I, personally, can live without the dog. But I accept, nevertheless, your ideal of the dog. The man loves and respects his dog. He indulges him, he boasts of the intelligence and sagacity of his dog to his friends. Now figure to yourself, the opposite may also come to pass! The dog is fond of his master. He indulges that master! He, too, boasts of his master, boasts of his master’s sagacity and intelligence. And as a man will rouse himself when he does not really want to go out, and take his dog for a walk because the dog enjoys the walk so much, so will the dog endeavour to give his master what that master pines to have.

‘It was so with my kind young friend Colin here. He came to see me, not to ask for help with his own problem; that he was confident that he could solve for himself, and has, I gather, done so. No, he felt concern that I was unoccupied and lonely so he brought to me a problem that he felt would interest me and give me something to work upon. He challenged me with it-challenged me to do what I had so often told him it was possible to do-sit still in my chair and-in due course-resolve that problem. It may be, I suspect it is, that there was alittle malice, just a small harmless amount, behind that challenge. He wanted, let us say, to prove to me that it was not so easy after all.Mais oui, mon ami, it is true, that! You wanted to mock yourself at me-just a little! I do not reproach you. All I say is, you did not know your Hercule Poirot.’

He thrust out his chest and twirled his moustaches.

I looked at him and grinned affectionately.

‘All right then,’ I said. ‘Give us the answer to the problem-if you know it.’

‘But of course I know it!’

Hardcastle stared at him incredulously.

‘Are you saying youknow who killed the man at 19, Wilbraham Crescent?’

‘Certainly.’

‘And also who killed Edna. Brent?’

‘Of course.’

‘You know the identity of the dead man?’

‘I know who he must be.’

Hardcastle had a very doubtful expression on his face. Mindful of the chief constable, he remained polite. But there was scepticism in his voice.

‘Excuse me, M. Poirot, you claim that you know who killed three people. And why?’