‘How marvellous! What a picturesque imagination you must have. No, it’s not haunted. Or if so, the ghost is a beneficent one. I’ve had three escapes from sudden death in as many days, so I must bear a charmed life.’
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.’
‘She is a pretty girl—eh?’
‘Well—you saw for yourself. Why ask me?’
‘Because, alas! I cannot judge. To me, nowadays, anything young is beautiful. Jeunesse—jeunesse…It is the tragedy of my years. But you—I appeal to you! Your judgement is not up-to-date, naturally, having lived in the Argentine so long. You admire the figure of five years ago, but you are at any rate more modern than I am. She is pretty—yes? She has the appeal to the sexes?’
‘One sex is sufficient, Poirot. The answer, I should say, is very much in the affirmative. Why are you so interested in t
he lady?’
‘Am I interested?’
‘Well—look at what you’ve just being saying.’
‘You are under a misapprehension, mon ami. I may be interested in the lady—yes—but I am much more interested in her hat.’
I stared at him, but he appeared perfectly serious.
He nodded his head at me.
‘Yes, Hastings, this very hat.’ He held it towards me. ‘You see the reason for my interest?’
‘It’s a nice hat,’ I said, bewildered. ‘But quite an ordinary hat. Lots of girls have hats like it.’
‘Not like this one.’
I looked at it more closely.
‘You see, Hastings?’
‘A perfectly plain fawn felt. Good style—’
‘I did not ask you to describe the hat. It is plain that you do not see. Almost incredible, my poor Hastings, how you hardly ever do see! It amazes me every time anew! But regard, my dear old imbecile—it is not necessary to employ the grey cells—the eyes will do. Regard—regard—’
And then at last I saw to what he had been trying to draw my attention. The slowly turning hat was revolving on his finger, and that finger was stuck neatly through a hole in the brim of the hat. When he saw that I had realized his meaning, he drew his finger out and held the hat towards me. It was a small neat hole, quite round, and I could not imagine its purpose, if purpose it had.
‘Did you observe the way Mademoiselle Nick flinched when a bee flew past? The bee in the bonnet—the hole in the hat.’
‘But a bee couldn’t make a hole like that.’
‘Exactly, Hastings! What acumen! It could not. But a bullet could, mon cher!’
‘A bullet?’
‘Mai oui! A bullet like this.’
He held out his hand with a small object in the palm of it.
‘A spent bullet, mon ami. It was that which hit the terrace just now when we were talking. A spent bullet!’
‘You mean—’
‘I mean that one inch of a difference and that hole would not be through the hat but through the head. Now do you see why I am interested, Hastings? You were right, my friend, when you told me not to use the word “impossible”. Yes—one is human! Ah! but he made a grave mistake, that would-be murderer, when he shot at his victim within a dozen yards of Hercule Poirot! For him, it is indeed la mauvaise chance. But you see now why we must make our entry into End House and get into touch with Mademoiselle? Three near escapes from death in three days. That is what she said. We must act quickly, Hastings. The peril is very close at hand.’