Peril at End House. Agatha Christie

He made some inquiries about hiring a car for some afternoon drives and from there slid easily into the topic of the damage sustained by Miss Buckley’s car not long ago.

      Immediately the garage proprietor waxed voluble. Most extraordinary thing he’d ever seen. He proceeded to be technical. I, alas, am not mechanically minded. Poirot, I should imagine, is even less so. But certain facts did emerge unmistakably. The car had been tampered with. And the damage had been something quite easily done, occupying very little time.

      ‘So that is that,’ said Poirot, as we strolled away. ‘The little Nick was right, and the rich M. Lazarus was wrong. Hastings, my friend, all this is very interesting.’

      ‘What do we do now?’

      ‘We visit the post office and send off a telegram if it is not too late.’

      ‘A telegram?’ I said hopefully.

      ‘Yes,’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘A telegram.’

      The post office was still open. Poirot wrote out his telegram and despatched it. He vouchsafed me no information as to its contents. Feeling that he wanted me to ask him, I carefully refrained from doing so.

      ‘It is annoying that tomorrow is Sunday,’ he remarked, as we strolled back to the hotel. ‘We cannot now call upon M. Vyse till Monday morning.’

      ‘You could get hold of him at his private address.’

      ‘Naturally. But that is just what I am anxious not to do. I would prefer, in the first place, to consult him professionally and to form my judgement of him from that aspect.’

      ‘Yes,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘I suppose that would be best.’

      ‘The answer to one simple little question, for instance, might make a great difference. If M. Charles Vyse was in his office at twelve-thirty this morning, then it was not he who fired that shot in the garden of the Majestic Hotel.’

      ‘Ought we not to examine the alibis of the three at the hotel?’

      ‘That is much more difficult. It would be easy enough for one of them to leave the others for a few minutes, a hasty egress from one of the innumerable windows—lounge, smoking-room, drawing-room, writing-room, quickly under cover to the spot where the girl must pass—the shot fired and a rapid retreat. But as yet, mon ami, we are not even sure that we have arrived at all the dramatis personae in the drama. There is the respectable Ellen—and her so far unseen husband. Both inmates of the house and possibly, for all we know, with a grudge against our little Mademoiselle. There are even the unknown Australians at the lodge. And there may be others, friends and intimates of Miss Buckley’s whom she has no reason for suspecting and consequently has not mentioned. I cannot help feeling, Hastings, that there is something behind this—something that has not yet come to light. I have a little idea that Miss Buckley knows more than she told us.’

      ‘You think she is keeping something back?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Possibly with an idea of shielding whoever it is?’

      Poirot shook his head with the utmost energy.

      ‘No, no. As far as that goes, she gave me the impression of being utterly frank. I am convinced that as regards these attempts on her life, she was telling all she knew. But there is something else—something that she believes has nothing to do with that at all. And I should like to know what that something is. For I—I say it in all modesty—am a great deal more intelligent than une petite comme ça. I, Hercule Poirot, might see a connection where she sees none. It might give me the clue I am seeking. For I announce to you, Hastings, quite frankly and humbly, that I am as you express it, all on the sea. Until I can get some glimmering of the reason behind all this, I am in the dark. There must be something—some factor in the case that I do not grasp. What is it? Je me demande ça sans cesse. Qu’est-ce que c’est?’

      ‘You will find out,’ I said, soothingly.

      ‘So long,’ he said sombrely, ‘as I do not find out too late.’