Curtain: Poirot's Last Case (8 page)

Poirot listened very attentively. I was hoping that he would be able definitely to pooh-pooh the dreadful suggestion that had by now taken easy control of my mind, but before he had a chance of telling me what he thought, there came a light tap on the door.

It was Nurse Craven. She apologized for disturbing us.

‘I’m sorry, but I thought Doctor was here. The old lady is conscious now and she’s worrying about her husband. She’d like to see him. Do you know where he is, Captain Hastings? I don’t want to leave my patient.’

I volunteered to go and look for him. Poirot nodded approval and Nurse Craven thanked me warmly.

I found Colonel Luttrell in a little morning-room that was seldom used. He was standing by the window looking out.

He turned sharply as I came in. His eyes asked a question. He looked, I thought, afraid.

‘Your wife is conscious, Colonel Luttrell, and is asking for you.’

‘Oh.’ The colour surged up in his cheeks and I realized then how very white he had been before. He said slowly, fumblingly, like an old, old man: ‘She – she – is asking for me? I’ll – I’ll come – at once.’

He was so unsteady as he began shuffling towards the door that I came and helped him. He leaned on me heavily as we went up the stairs. His breathing was coming with difficulty. The shock, as Franklin had prophesied, was severe.

We came to the door of the sick-room. I tapped and Nurse Craven’s brisk, efficient voice called: ‘Come in.’

Still supporting the old man, I went with him into the room. There was a screen round the bed. We came round the corner of it.

Mrs Luttrell was looking very ill – white and frail, her eyes closed. She opened them as we came round the corner of the screen.

She said in a small, breathless voice: ‘George – George . . .’

‘Daisy – my dear . . .’

One of her arms was bandaged and supported. The other, the free one, moved unsteadily towards him. He took a step forward and clasped her frail little hand in his. He said again: ‘Daisy . . .’ And then, gruffly . . . ‘Thank God, you’re all right.’

And looking up at him, seeing his eyes slightly misty and the deep love and anxiety in them, I felt bitterly ashamed of all our ghoulish imaginings.

I crept quietly out of the room. Camouflaged accident indeed! There was no disguising that heartfelt note of thankfulness. I felt immeasurably relieved.

The sound of the gong startled me as I went along the passage. I had completely forgotten the passage of time. The accident had upset everything. Only the cook had gone on as usual and produced dinner at the usual time.

Most of us had not changed and Colonel Luttrell did not appear. But Mrs Franklin, looking quite attractive in a pale pink evening dress, was downstairs for once and seemed in good health and spirits. Franklin, I thought, was moody and absorbed.

After dinner, to my annoyance, Allerton and Judith disappeared into the garden together. I sat around a while, listening to Franklin and Norton discussing tropical diseases. Norton was a sympathetic and interested listener, even if he knew little of the subject under discussion.

Mrs Franklin and Boyd Carrington were talking at the other end of the room. He was showing her some patterns of curtains or cretonnes.

Elizabeth Cole had a book and seemed deeply absorbed in it. I fancied that she was slightly embarrassed and ill at ease with me. Perhaps not unnaturally so after the confidences of the afternoon. I was sorry about it, all the same, and hoped she did not regret all she had told me. I should have liked to have made it clear to her that I should respect her confidence and not repeat it. However she gave me no chance.

After a while I went up to Poirot.

I found Colonel Luttrell sitting in the circle of light thrown by the one small electric lamp that was turned on.

He was talking and Poirot was listening. I think the Colonel was speaking to himself rather than to his listener.

‘I remember so well – yes, it was at a hunt ball. She wore white stuff, called tulle, I think it was. Floated all round her. Such a pretty girl – bowled me over then and there. I said to myself: “That’s the girl I’m going to marry.” And by Jove I brought it off. Awfully pretty way she had with her – saucy, you know, plenty of backchat. Always gave as good as she got, bless her.’

He chuckled.

I saw the scene in my mind’s eye. I could imagine Daisy Luttrell with a young saucy face and that smart tongue – so charming then, so apt to turn shrewish with the years.

But it was as that young girl, his first real love, that Colonel Luttrell was thinking of her tonight. His Daisy.

And again I felt ashamed of what we had said such a few hours previously.

Of course, when Colonel Luttrell had at last taken himself off to bed, I blurted out the whole thing to Poirot.

He listened very quietly. I could make nothing of the expression on his face.

‘So that is what you thought, Hastings – that the shot was fired on purpose?’

‘Yes. I feel ashamed now –’

Poirot waved aside my present feelings.

‘Did the thought occur to you of your own accord, or did someone else suggest it to you?’

‘Allerton said something of the kind,’ I said resentfully. ‘He would, of course.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘Boyd Carrington suggested it.’

‘Ah! Boyd Carrington.’

‘And after all, he’s a man of the world and has experience of these things.’

‘Oh, quite so, quite so. He did not see the thing happen, though?’

‘No, he’d gone for a walk. Bit of exercise before changing for dinner.’

‘I see.’

I said uneasily: ‘I don’t think I really believed that theory. It was only –’

Poirot interrupted me. ‘You need not be so remorseful about your suspicions, Hastings. It was an idea quite likely to occur to anyone given the circumstances. Oh, yes, it was all quite natural.’

There was something in Poirot’s manner I did not quite understand. A reserve. His eyes were watching me with a curious expression.

I said slowly: ‘Perhaps. But seeing now how devoted he really is to her –’

Poirot nodded. ‘Exactly. That is often the case, remember. Underneath the quarrels, the misunderstandings, the apparent hostility of everyday life, a real and true affection can exist.’

I agreed. I remembered the gentle affectionate look in little Mrs Luttrell’s eyes as she looked up at her husband stooping over her bed. No more vinegar, no impatience, no ill temper.

Married life, I mused, as I went to bed, was a curious thing.

That something in Poirot’s manner still worried me. That curious watchful look – as though he were waiting for me to see – what?

I was just getting into bed when it came to me. Hit me bang between the eyes.

If Mrs Luttrell had been killed, it would have been a case
like those other cases
. Colonel Luttrell would, apparently, have killed his wife. It would have been accounted an accident, yet at the same time nobody would have been sure that it was an accident, or whether it had been done on purpose. Insufficient evidence to show it as murder, but quite enough evidence for murder to be suspected.

But that meant – that meant –

What did it mean?

It meant – if anything at all was to make sense – that it was
not
Colonel Luttrell who shot Mrs Luttrell, but X.

And that was clearly impossible. I had seen the whole thing. It was Colonel Luttrell who had fired the shot. No other shot had been fired.

Unless – But surely that would be impossible. No, perhaps not
impossible
– merely highly improbable. But possible, yes . . . Supposing that someone else had waited his moment, and at the exact instant when Colonel Luttrell had fired (at a rabbit), this other person had fired at Mrs Luttrell. Then only the one shot would have been heard. Or, even with a slight discrepancy, it would have been put down as an echo. (Now I come to think of it, there had been an echo, surely.)

But no, that was absurd. There were ways of deciding exactly what weapon a bullet had been fired from. The marks on the bullet must agree with the rifling of the barrel.

But that, I remembered, was only when the police were anxious to establish what weapon had fired the shot. There would have been no enquiry in this business. For Colonel Luttrell would have been quite as certain as everyone else that it was he who had fired the fatal shot. That fact would have been admitted, accepted without question; there would have been no question of tests. The only doubt would have been whether the shot was fired accidentally or with criminal intent – a question that could never be resolved.

And therefore the case fell into line exactly with those other cases – with the case of the labourer Riggs who didn’t remember but supposed he must have done it, with Maggie Litchfield who went out of her mind and gave herself up – for a crime she had not committed.

Yes, this case fell into line with the rest and I knew now the meaning of Poirot’s manner. He was waiting for me to appreciate the fact.

I

I opened the subject with Poirot the following morning. His face lighted up and he wagged his head appreciatively.

‘Excellent, Hastings. I wondered if you would see the similarity. I did not want to prompt you, you understand.’

‘Then I am right. This is another X case?’

‘Undeniably.’

‘But
why
, Poirot? What is the motive?’

Poirot shook his head.

‘Don’t you know? Haven’t you any idea?’

Poirot said slowly: ‘I have an idea, yes.’

‘You’ve got the connection between all these different cases?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well then.’

I could hardly restrain my impatience.

‘No, Hastings.’

‘But I’ve got to know.’

‘It is much better that you should not.’

‘Why?’

‘You must take it from me that it is so.’

‘You are incorrigible,’ I said. ‘Twisted up with arthritis. Sitting here helpless. And still trying to play a lone hand.’

‘Do not figure to yourself that I am playing a lone hand. Not at all. You are, on the contrary, very much in the picture, Hastings. You are my eyes and ears. I only refuse to give you information that might be dangerous.’

‘To me?’

‘To the murderer.’

‘You want him,’ I said slowly, ‘not to suspect that you are on his track? That is it, I suppose. Or else you think that I cannot take care of myself.’

‘You should at least know one thing, Hastings. A man who has killed once will kill again – and again and again and again.’

‘At any rate,’ I said grimly, ‘there hasn’t been another murder this time. One bullet at least has gone wide.’

‘Yes, that was very fortunate – very fortunate indeed. As I told you, these things are difficult to foresee.’

He sighed. His face took on a worried expression.

I went away quietly, realizing sadly how unfit Poirot was now for any sustained effort. His brain was still keen, but he was a sick and tired man.

Poirot had warned me not to try and penetrate the personality of X. In my own mind I still clung to my belief that I had penetrated that personality. There was only one person at Styles who struck me as definitely evil. By a simple question, however, I could make sure of one thing. The test would be a negative one, but would nevertheless have a certain value.

I tackled Judith after breakfast.

‘Where had you been yesterday evening when I met you, you and Major Allerton?’

The trouble is that when you are intent on one aspect of a thing, you tend to ignore all other aspects. I was quite startled when Judith flared out at me.

‘Really, Father, I don’t see what business it is of yours.’

I stared at her, rather taken aback. ‘I – I only asked.’

‘Yes, but
why
? Why do you have to be continually asking questions? What was I doing? Where did I go? Who was I with? It’s really intolerable!’

The funny part of it was, of course, that this time I was not really asking at all where Judith was. It was Allerton I was interested in.

I tried to pacify her.

‘Really, Judith, I don’t see why I can’t ask a simple question.’

‘I don’t see why you want to know.’

‘I don’t particularly. I mean, I just wondered why neither of you – er – seemed to know what had happened.’

‘About the accident, do you mean? I’d been down to the village, if you must know, to get some stamps.’

I pounced on the personal pronoun.

‘Allerton wasn’t with you then?’

Judith gave an exasperated gasp.

‘No, he was not,’ she said in tones of cold fury. ‘Actually, we’d met just near the house and only about two minutes before we met you. I hope you’re satisfied now. But I’d just like to say that if I’d spent the whole day walking around with Major Allerton, it’s really not your business. I’m twenty-one and earning my own living, and how I spend my time is entirely my own business.’

‘Entirely,’ I said, quickly trying to stem the tide.

‘I’m glad you agree.’ Judith looked mollified. She gave a rueful half-smile. ‘Oh, dearest, do try and not come the heavy father quite so much. You don’t know how maddening it is. If you just wouldn’t
fuss
so.’

‘I won’t – I really won’t in future,’ I promised her. Franklin came striding along at this minute.

‘Hullo, Judith. Come along. We’re later than usual.’

His manner was curt and really hardly polite. In spite of myself I felt annoyed. I knew that Franklin was Judith’s employer, that he had a call upon her time and that, since he paid for it, he was entitled to give her orders. Nevertheless, I did not see why he could not behave with common courtesy. His manners were not what one would call polished to anyone, but he did at least behave to most people with a certain amount of everyday politeness. But to Judith, especially of late, his manner was always curt and dictatorial in the extreme. He hardly looked at her when he spoke and merely barked out orders. Judith never appeared to resent this, but I did on her behalf. It crossed my mind that it was especially unfortunate since it contrasted in such a very marked way with Allerton’s exaggerated attention. No doubt John Franklin was a ten times better man than Allerton, but he compared very badly with him from the point of view of attraction.

I watched Franklin as he strode along the path towards the laboratory, his ungainly walk, his angular build, the jutting bones of his face and head, his red hair and his freckles. An ugly man and an ungainly man. None of the more obvious qualities. A good brain, yes, but women seldom fall for brains alone. I reflected with dismay that Judith, owing to the circumstances of her job, practically never came into contact with other men. She had no opportunity of sizing up various attractive men. Compared with the gruff and unattractive Franklin, Allerton’s meretricious charms stood out with all the force of contrast. My poor girl had no chance of appraising him at his true worth.

Supposing that she should come seriously to lose her heart to him? The irritability she had shown just now was a disquieting sign. Allerton, I knew, was a real bad lot. He was possibly something more. If Allerton were X –?

He could be. At the time that the shot was fired he had not been with Judith.

But what was the motive of all these seemingly purposeless crimes? There was, I felt sure, nothing of the madman about Allerton. He was sane – altogether sane – and utterly unprincipled.

And Judith – my Judith – was seeing altogether too much of him.

II

Up to this time, though I had been faintly worried about my daughter, my preoccupation over X and the possibility of a crime occurring at any moment had successfully driven more personal problems to the back of my mind.

Now that the blow had fallen, that a crime had been attempted and had mercifully failed, I was free to reflect on these things. And the more I did so,

the more anxious I became. A chance word spoken one day revealed to me the fact that Allerton was a married man.

Boyd Carrington, who knew all about everyone, enlightened me further. Allerton’s wife was a devout Roman Catholic. She had left him a short time after their marriage. Owing to her religion there had never been any question of divorce.

‘And if you ask me,’ said Boyd Carrington frankly, ‘it suits the blighter down to the ground. His intentions are always dishonourable, and a wife in the background suits the book very well.’

Pleasant hearing for a father!

The days after the shooting accident passed uneventfully enough on the surface, but they accompanied a growing undercurrent of unrest on my part.

Colonel Luttrell spent much time in his wife’s bedroom. A nurse had arrived to take charge of the patient and Nurse Craven was able to resume her ministrations to Mrs Franklin.

Without wishing to be ill-natured, I must admit that I had observed signs on Mrs Franklin’s part of irritation at not being the invalid
en chef
. The fuss and attention that centred round Mrs Luttrell was clearly very displeasing to the little lady who was accustomed to her own health being the main topic of the day.

She lay about in a hammock chair, her hand to her side, complaining of palpitation. No food that was served was suitable for her, and all her exactions were masked by a veneer of patient endurance.

‘I do so hate making a fuss,’ she murmured plaintively to Poirot. ‘I feel so ashamed of my wretched health. It’s so – so
humiliating
always to have to ask people to be doing things for me. I sometimes think ill health is really a crime. If one isn’t healthy and insensitive one isn’t fit for this world and one should just be put quietly away.’

‘Ah no, madame.’ Poirot, as always, was gallant. ‘The delicate exotic flower has to have the shelter of the greenhouse – it cannot endure the cold winds. It is the common weed that thrives in the wintry air, but it is not to be prized higher on that account. Consider my case – cramped, twisted, unable to move, but I – I do not think of quitting life. I enjoy still what I can – the food, the drink, the pleasures of the intellect.’

Mrs Franklin sighed and murmured: ‘Ah, but it’s different for you. You have no one but yourself to consider. In my case, there is my poor John. I feel acutely what a burden I am to him. A sickly useless wife. A millstone hung round his neck.’

‘He has never said that you are that, I am sure.’

‘Oh, not
said
so. Of course not. But men are so transparent, poor dears. And John isn’t any good at concealing his feelings. He doesn’t mean, of course, to be unkind, but he’s – well, mercifully for himself he’s a very insensitive sort of person. He’s no feelings and so he doesn’t expect anyone else to have them. It’s so terribly lucky to be born thick-skinned.’

‘I should not describe Dr Franklin as thick-skinned.’

‘Wouldn’t you? Oh, but you don’t know him as well as I do. Of course I know that if it wasn’t for me, he would be much freer. Sometimes, you know, I get so terribly depressed that I think what a relief it would be to end it all.’

‘Oh, come, madame.’

‘After all, what use am I to anybody? To go out of it all into the Great Unknown . . .’ she shook her head. ‘And then John would be free.’

‘Great fiddlesticks,’ said Nurse Craven when I repeated this conversation to her. ‘She won’t do anything of the kind. Don’t you worry, Captain Hastings. These ones that talk about “ending it all” in a dying-duck voice haven’t the faintest intention of doing anything of the kind.’

And I must say that once the excitement aroused by Mrs Luttrell’s injury had died down, and Nurse Craven was once more in attendance, Mrs Franklin’s spirits improved very much.

On a particularly fine morning Curtiss had taken Poirot down to the corner below the beech trees near the laboratory. This was a favourite spot of his. It was sheltered from any east wind and in fact hardly any breeze could ever be felt there. This suited Poirot, who abhorred draughts and was always suspicious of the fresh air. Actually, I think he much preferred to be indoors but had grown to tolerate the outer air when muffled in rugs.

I strolled down to join him and as I got there Mrs Franklin came out of the laboratory.

She was most becomingly dressed and looked remarkably cheerful. She explained that she was driving over with Boyd Carrington to see the house and give expert advice in choosing cretonnes.

‘I left my handbag in the lab yesterday when I was talking to John,’ she explained. ‘Poor John, he and Judith have driven into Tadcaster – they were short of some chemical reagent or other.’

She sank down on a seat near Poirot and shook her head with a comical expression. ‘Poor dears – I’m so glad I haven’t got the scientific mind. On a lovely day like this it all seems so puerile.’

‘You must not let scientists hear you say that, madame.’

‘No, of course not.’ Her face changed. It grew serious. She said quietly: ‘You mustn’t think, M. Poirot, that I don’t admire my husband. I do. I think the way he just lives for his work is really – tremendous.’

There was a little tremor in her voice.

A suspicion crossed my mind that Mrs Franklin rather liked playing different roles. At this moment she was being the loyal and hero-worshipping wife.

She leaned forward, placing an earnest hand on Poirot’s knee. ‘John,’ she said, ‘is really a – a kind of
saint
. It makes me quite frightened sometimes.’

To call Franklin a saint was somewhat overstating the case, I thought, but Barbara Franklin went on, her eyes shining.

‘He’ll do anything – take any risk – just to advance the sum of human knowledge. That is pretty fine, don’t you think?’

‘Assuredly, assuredly,’ said Poirot quickly.

‘But sometimes, you know,’ went on Mrs Franklin, ‘I’m really nervous about him. The lengths to which he’ll go, I mean. This horrible bean thing he’s experimenting with now. I’m so afraid he’ll start experimenting on himself.’

‘He’d take every precaution, surely,’ I said.

She shook her head with a slight, rueful smile. ‘You don’t know John. Did you never hear about what he did with that new gas?’

I shook my head.

‘It was some new gas they wanted to find out about. John volunteered to test it. He was shut up in a tank for something like thirty-six hours, taking his pulse and temperature and respiration, to see what the after-effects were and if they were the same for men as for animals. It was a frightful risk, so one of the professors told me afterwards. He might easily have passed out altogether. But that’s the sort of person John is – absolutely oblivious of his own safety. I think it’s rather wonderful, don’t you, to be like that?
I
should never be brave enough.’

‘It needs, indeed, high courage,’ said Poirot, ‘to do these things in cold blood.’

Barbara Franklin said: ‘Yes, it does. I’m awfully proud of him, you know, but at the same time it makes me rather nervous, too. Because, you see, guinea pigs and frogs are no good after a certain point. You want the human reaction. That’s why I feel so terrified that John will go and dose himself with this nasty ordeal bean and that something awful might happen.’ She sighed and shook her head. ‘But he only laughs at my fears. He really
is
a sort of saint, you know.’