her class over deaths.) (2) The reason for Croft and his wife coming to live in lodge. (3) Might supply motive for F. R.'s fear of secret being revealed or for jealousy.
Poirot watched me as I read.
'It is very English, is it not? he remarked, with pride. 'I am more English when I write than when I speak.'
'It's an excellent piece of work,' I said, warmly. 'It sets all the possibilities out most clearly.'
'Yes,' he said, thoughtfully, as he took it back from me. 'And one name leaps to the eye, my friend. Charles Vyse. He has the best opportunities. We have given him the choice of two motives. Ma foi -if that was a list of racehorses, he would start favourite, n'est-ce pas?'
'He is certainly the most likely suspect.'
'You have a tendency, Hastings, to prefer the least likely. That, no doubt, is from reading too many detective stories. In real life, nine times out of ten, it is the most likely and the most obvious person who commits the crime.'
'But you don't really think that is so this time?'
'There is only one thing that is against it. The boldness of the crime! That has stood out from the first. Because of that, as I say, the motive cannot be obvious.'
'Yes, that is what you said at first.' 'And that is what I say again.'
With a sudden brusque gesture he crumpled the sheets of paper and threw them on the floor.
'No,' he said, as I uttered an exclamation of protest. 'That list has been in vain. Still, it has cleared my mind. Order and method! That is the first stage. To arrange the facts with neatness and precision. The next stage-'
'Yes.'
'The next stage is that of the psychology. The correct employment of the little grey cells! I advise you, Hastings, to go to bed.'
'No,' I said. 'Not unless you do. I'm not going to leave you.'
'Most faithful of dogs! But see you, Hastings, you cannot assist me to think. That is all I am going to do-think.'
I still shook my head.
'You might want to discuss some point with me.'
'Well-well-you are a loyal friend. Take at least, I beg of you, the easy-chair.'
That proposal I did accept. Presently the room began to swim and dip. The last thing I remember was seeing Poirot carefully retrieving the crumpled sheets of paper from the floor and putting them away tidily in the waste-paper basket.
Then I must have fallen asleep.
The Peril at End House
Chapter 10 – Nick's Secret
It was daylight when I awoke.
Poirot was still sitting where he had been the night before. His attitude was the same, but in his face was a difference. His eyes were shining with that queer catlike green light that I knew so well.
I struggled to an upright position, feeling very stiff and uncomfortable. Sleeping in a chair is a proceeding not to be recommended at my time of life. Yet one thing at least resulted from it-I awoke not in that pleasant state of lazy somnolence but with a mind and brain as active as when I fell asleep.
'Poirot,' I cried. 'You have thought of something.'
He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.
'Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress-she never wears black? Why did she say last night, “I have nothing to live for-now”?'
I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.
'Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.'
'Well-as to the first-she said she had been worried lately.'
'Precisely. What has she been worried about?'
'And the black dress-well, everybody wants a change sometimes.'
'For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.'
'And the last-well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.'
'No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin's death, to reproach herself for it-yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness-as of a thing no
Poirot watched me as I read.
'It is very English, is it not? he remarked, with pride. 'I am more English when I write than when I speak.'
'It's an excellent piece of work,' I said, warmly. 'It sets all the possibilities out most clearly.'
'Yes,' he said, thoughtfully, as he took it back from me. 'And one name leaps to the eye, my friend. Charles Vyse. He has the best opportunities. We have given him the choice of two motives. Ma foi -if that was a list of racehorses, he would start favourite, n'est-ce pas?'
'He is certainly the most likely suspect.'
'You have a tendency, Hastings, to prefer the least likely. That, no doubt, is from reading too many detective stories. In real life, nine times out of ten, it is the most likely and the most obvious person who commits the crime.'
'But you don't really think that is so this time?'
'There is only one thing that is against it. The boldness of the crime! That has stood out from the first. Because of that, as I say, the motive cannot be obvious.'
'Yes, that is what you said at first.' 'And that is what I say again.'
With a sudden brusque gesture he crumpled the sheets of paper and threw them on the floor.
'No,' he said, as I uttered an exclamation of protest. 'That list has been in vain. Still, it has cleared my mind. Order and method! That is the first stage. To arrange the facts with neatness and precision. The next stage-'
'Yes.'
'The next stage is that of the psychology. The correct employment of the little grey cells! I advise you, Hastings, to go to bed.'
'No,' I said. 'Not unless you do. I'm not going to leave you.'
'Most faithful of dogs! But see you, Hastings, you cannot assist me to think. That is all I am going to do-think.'
I still shook my head.
'You might want to discuss some point with me.'
'Well-well-you are a loyal friend. Take at least, I beg of you, the easy-chair.'
That proposal I did accept. Presently the room began to swim and dip. The last thing I remember was seeing Poirot carefully retrieving the crumpled sheets of paper from the floor and putting them away tidily in the waste-paper basket.
Then I must have fallen asleep.
The Peril at End House
Chapter 10 – Nick's Secret
It was daylight when I awoke.
Poirot was still sitting where he had been the night before. His attitude was the same, but in his face was a difference. His eyes were shining with that queer catlike green light that I knew so well.
I struggled to an upright position, feeling very stiff and uncomfortable. Sleeping in a chair is a proceeding not to be recommended at my time of life. Yet one thing at least resulted from it-I awoke not in that pleasant state of lazy somnolence but with a mind and brain as active as when I fell asleep.
'Poirot,' I cried. 'You have thought of something.'
He nodded. He leaned forward, tapping the table in front of him.
'Tell me, Hastings, the answer to these three questions. Why has Mademoiselle Nick been sleeping badly lately? Why did she buy a black evening dress-she never wears black? Why did she say last night, “I have nothing to live for-now”?'
I stared. The questions seemed beside the point.
'Answer those questions, Hastings, answer them.'
'Well-as to the first-she said she had been worried lately.'
'Precisely. What has she been worried about?'
'And the black dress-well, everybody wants a change sometimes.'
'For a married man, you have very little appreciation of feminine psychology. If a woman thinks she does not look well in a colour, she refuses to wear it.'
'And the last-well, it was a natural thing to say after that awful shock.'
'No, mon ami, it was not a natural thing to say. To be horror-struck by her cousin's death, to reproach herself for it-yes, all that is natural enough. But the other, no. She spoke of life with weariness-as of a thing no
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