Peril at End House: A Hercule Poirot Mystery

by Agatha Christie

  ‘Time is short. She arranges for Maggie to come and stay in a few days’ time. Then she has her escapes from death. The picture whose cord she cuts through. The brake of the car that she tampers with. The boulder—that perhaps was natural and she merely invented the story of being underneath on the path.

  ‘And then—she sees my name in the paper. (I told you, Hastings, everyone knew Hercule Poirot!) and she has the audacity to make me an accomplice! The bullet through the hat that falls at my feet. Oh! the pretty comedy. And I am taken in! I believe in the peril that menaces her! Bon! She has got a valuable witness on her side. I play into her hands by asking her to send for a friend.

  ‘She seizes the chance and sends for Maggie to come a day earlier.

  ‘How easy the crime is actually! She leaves us at the dinner table and after hearing on the wireless that Seton’s death is a fact, she starts to put her plan into action. She has plenty of time, then, to take Seton’s letters to Maggie—look through them and select the few that will answer her purpose. These she places in her own room. Then, later, she and Maggie leave the fireworks and go back to the house. She tells her cousin to put on her shawl. Then stealing out after her, she shoots her. Quick, into the house, the pistol concealed in the secret panel (of whose existence she thinks nobody knows). Then upstairs. There she waits till voices are heard. The body is discovered. It is her cue.

  ‘Down she rushes and out through the window.

  ‘How well she played her part! Magnificently! Oh, yes, she staged a fine drama here. The maid, Ellen, said this was an evil house. I am inclined to agree with her. It was from the house that Mademoiselle Nick took her inspiration.’

  ‘But those poisoned sweets,’ said Frederica. ‘I still don’t understand about that.’

  ‘It was all part of the same scheme. Do you not see that if Nick’s life was attempted after Maggie was dead that absolutely settled the question that Maggie’s death had been a mistake.

  ‘When she thought the time was ripe she rang up Madame Rice and asked her to get her a box of chocolates.’

  ‘Then it was her voice?’

  ‘But, yes! How often the simple explanation is the true one! N’est ce pas? She made her voice sound a little different—that was all. So that you might be in doubt when questioned. Then, when the box arrived—again how simple. She fills three of the chocolates with cocaine (she had cocaine with her, cleverly concealed), eats one of them and is ill—but not too ill. She knows very well how much cocaine to take and just what symptoms to exaggerate.

  ‘And the card—my card! Ah! Sapristi—she has a nerve! It was my card—the one I sent with the flowers. Simple, was it not? Yes, but it had to be thought of…’

  There was a pause and then Frederica asked:

  ‘Why did she put the pistol in my coat?’

  ‘I thought you would ask me that, Madame. It was bound to occur to you in time. Tell me—had it ever entered your head that Mademoiselle Nick no longer liked you? Did you ever feel that she might—hate you?’

  ‘It’s difficult to say,’ said Frederica, slowly. ‘We lived an insincere life. She used to be fond of me.’

  ‘Tell me, M. Lazarus—it is not a time for false modesty, you understand—was there ever anything between you and her?’

  ‘No.’ Lazarus shook his head. ‘I was attracted to her at one time. And then—I don’t know why—I went off her.’

  ‘Ah!’ said Poirot, nodding his head sagely. ‘That was her tragedy. She attracted people—and then they “went off her”. Instead of liking her better and better you fell in love with her friend. She began to hate Madame—Madame who had a rich friend behind her. Last winter when she made a will, she was fond of Madame. Later it was different.

  ‘She remembered that will. She did not know that Croft had suppressed it—that it had never reached its destination. Madame (or so the world would say) had got a motive for desiring her death. So it was to Madame she telephoned asking her to get the chocolates. Tonight, the will would have been read, naming Madame her residuary legatee—and then the pistol would be found in her coat—the pistol with which Maggie Buckley was shot. If Madame found it, she might incriminate herself by trying to get rid of it.’

  ‘She must have hated me,’ murmured Frederica.

  ‘Yes, Madame. You had what she had not—the knack of winning love, and keeping it.’

  ‘I’m rather dense,’ said Challenger, ‘but I haven’t quite fathomed the will business yet.’

  ‘No? That’s a different business altogether—a very simple one. The Crofts are lying low down here. Madmoiselle Nick has to have an operation. She has made no will. The Crofts see a chance. They persuade her to make one and take charge of it for the post. Then, if anything happens to her—if she dies—they produce a cleverly forged will—leaving the money to Mrs Croft with a reference to Australia and Philip Buckley whom they know once visited the country.

  ‘But Mademoiselle Nick has her appendix removed quite satisfactorily so the forged will is no good. For the moment, that is. Then the attempts on her life begin. The Crofts are hopeful once more. Finally, I announce her death. The chance is too good to be missed. The forged will is immediately posted to M. Vyse. Of course, to begin with, they naturally thought her much richer than she is. They knew nothing about the mortgage.’

  ‘What I really want to know, M. Poirot,’ said Lazarus, ‘is how you actually got wise to all this. When did you begin to suspect?’

  ‘Ah! there I am ashamed. I was so long—so long. There were things that worried me—yes. Things that seemed not quite right. Discrepancies between what Mademoiselle Nick told me and what other people told me. Unfortunately, I always believed Mademoiselle Nick.

  ‘And then, suddenly, I got a revelation. Mademoiselle Nick made one mistake. She was too clever. When I urged her to send for a friend she promised to do so—and suppressed the fact that she had already sent for Mademoiselle Maggie. It seemed to her less suspicious—but it was a mistake.’

  ‘For Maggie Buckley wrote a letter home immediately on arrival, and in it she used one innocent phrase that puzzled me: “I don’t see why Nick should have telegraphed for me the way she did. Tuesday would have done just as well.” What did that mention of Tuesday mean? It could only mean one thing. Maggie had been coming to stay on Tuesday anyway. But in that case Mademoiselle Nick had lied—or had at any rate suppressed the truth.

  ‘And for the first time I looked at her in a different light. I criticized her statements. Instead of believing them, I said, “Suppose this were not true.” I remembered the discrepancies. “How would it be if every time it was Mademoiselle Nick who was lying and not the other person?”

  ‘I said to myself: “Let us be simple. What has really happened?”

  ‘And I saw that what had really happened was that Maggie Buckley had been killed. Just that! But who could want Maggie Buckley dead?

  ‘And then I thought of something else—a few foolish remarks that Hastings had made not five minutes before. He had said that there were plenty of abbreviations for Margaret—Maggie, Margot, etc. And it suddenly occurred to me to wonder what was Mademoiselle Maggie’s real name?

  ‘Then, tout d’un coup, it came to me! Supposing her name was Magdala! It was a Buckley name, Mademoiselle Nick had told me so. Two Magadala Buckleys. Supposing…

  ‘In my mind I ran over the letters of Michael Seton’s that I had read. Yes—there was nothing impossible. There was a mention of Scarborough—but Maggie had been in Scarborough with Nick—her mother had told me so.

  ‘And it explained one thing which had worried me. Why were there so few letters? If a girl keeps her love letters at all, she keeps all of them. Why these select few? Was there any peculiarity about them?

  ‘And I remembered that there was no name mentioned in them. They all began differently—but they began with a term of endearment. Nowhere in them was there the name—Nick.

  ‘And there was something else, something that I ought to have seen at once�
��that cried the truth aloud.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘Why—this. Mademoiselle Nick underwent an operation for appendicitis on February 27th last. There is a letter of Michael Seton’s dated March 2nd, and no mention of anxiety, of illness or anything unusal. That ought to have shown me that the letters were written to a different person altogether.

  ‘Then I went through a list of questions that I had made. And I answered them in the light of my new idea.

  ‘In all but a few isolated questions the result was simple and convincing. And I answered, too, another question which I had asked myself earlier. Why did Mademoiselle Nick buy a black dress? The answer was that she and her cousin had to be dressed alike, with the scarlet shawl as an additional touch. That was the true and convincing answer, not the other. A girl would not buy mourning before she knew her lover was dead. She would be unreal—unnatural.

  ‘And so I, in turn, staged my little drama. And the thing I hoped for happened! Nick Buckley had been very vehement about the question of a secret panel. She had declared there was no such thing. But if there were—and I did not see why Ellen should have invented it—Nick must know of it. Why was she so vehement? Was it possible that she had hidden the pistol there? With the secret intention of using it to throw suspicion on somebody later?

  ‘I let her see that appearances were very black against Madame. That was as she had planned. As I foresaw, she was unable to resist the crowning proof. Besides it was safer for herself. That secret panel might be found by Ellen and the pistol in it!

  ‘We are all safely in here. She is waiting outside for her cue. It is absolutely safe, she thinks, to take the pistol from its hiding place and put it in Madame’s coat…

  ‘And so—at the last—she failed…’

  Frederica shivered.

  ‘All the same,’ she said. ‘I’m glad I gave her my watch.’

  ‘Yes, Madame.’

  She looked up at him quickly.

  ‘You know about that too?’

  ‘What about Ellen?’ I asked, breaking in. ‘Did she know or suspect anything?’

  ‘No. I asked her. She told me that she decided to stay in the house that night because in her own phrase she “thought something was up”. Apparently Nick urged her to see the fireworks rather too decisively. She had fathomed Nick’s dislike of Madame. She told me that “she felt in her bones something was going to happen”, but she thought it was going to happen to Madame. She knew Miss Nick’s temper, she said, and she was always a queer little girl.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured Frederica. ‘Yes, let us think of her like that. A queer little girl. A queer little girl who couldn’t help herself…I shall—anyway.’

  Poirot took her hand and raised it gently to his lips.

  Charles Vyse stirred uneasily.

  ‘It’s going to be a very unpleasant business,’ he said, quietly. ‘I must see about some kind of defence for her, I suppose.’

  ‘There will be no need, I think,’ said Poirot, gently. ‘Not if I am correct in my assumptions.’

  He turned suddenly on Challenger.

  ‘That’s where you put the stuff, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘In those wrist-watches.’

  ‘I—I—’ The sailor stammered—at a loss.

  ‘Do not try and deceive me—with your hearty good-fellow manner. It has deceived Hastings—but it does not deceive me. You make a good thing out of it, do you not—the traffic in drugs—you and your uncle in Harley Street.’

  ‘M. Poirot.’

  Challenger rose to his feet.

  My little friend blinked up at him placidly.

  ‘You are the useful “boy friend”. Deny it, if you like. But I advise you, if you do not want the facts put in the hands of the police—to go.’

  And to my utter amazement, Challenger did go. He went from the room like a flash. I stared after him open-mouthed.

  Poirot laughed.

  ‘I told you so, mon ami. Your instincts are always wrong. C’est épatant!’

  ‘Cocaine was in the wrist-watch—’ I began.

  ‘Yes, yes. That is how Mademoiselle Nick had it with her so conveniently at the nursing home. And having finished her supply in the chocolate box she asked Madame just now for hers which was full.’

  ‘You mean she can’t do without it?’

  ‘Non, non. Mademoiselle Nick is not a addict. Sometimes—for fun—that is all. But tonight she needed it for a different purpose. It will be a full dose this time.’

  ‘You mean—?’ I gasped.

  ‘It is the best way. Better than the hangman’s rope. But pst! we must not say so before M. Vyse who is all for law and order. Officially I know nothing. The contents of the wrist-watch—it is the merest guess on my part.’

  ‘Your guesses are always right, M. Poirot,’ said Frederica.

  ‘I must be going,’ said Charles Vyse, cold disapproval in his attitude as he left the room.

  Poirot looked from Frederica to Lazarus.

  ‘You are going to get married—eh?’

  ‘As soon as we can.’

  ‘And indeed, M. Poirot,’ said Frederica. ‘I am not the drug-taker you think. I have cut myself down to a tiny dose. I think now—with happiness in front of me—I shall not need a wrist-watch any more.’

  ‘I hope you will have happiness, Madame,’ said Poirot. gently. ‘You have suffered a great deal. And in spite of everything you have suffered, you have still the quality of mercy in your heart…’

  ‘I will look after her,’ said Lazarus. ‘My business is in a bad way, but I believe I shall pull through. And if I don’t—well, Frederica does not mind being poor—with me.’

  She shook her head, smiling.

  ‘It is late,’ said Poirot, looking at the clock.

  We all rose.

  ‘We have spent a strange night in this strange house,’ Poirot went on. ‘It is, I think, as Ellen says, an evil house…’

  He looked up at the picture of old Sir Nicholas.

  Then, with a sudden gesture, he drew Lazarus aside.

  ‘I ask your pardon, but, of all my questions, there is one still unanswered. Tell me, why did you offer fifty pounds for that picture? It would give me much pleasure to know—so as, you comprehend, to leave nothing unanswered.’

  Lazarus looked at him with an impassive face for a minute or two. Then he smiled.

  ‘You see, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘I am a dealer.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘That picture is not worth a penny more than twenty pounds. I knew that if I offered Nick fifty, she would immediately suspect it was worth more and would get it valued elsewhere. Then she would find that I had offered her far more than it was worth. The next time I offered to buy a picture she would not have got it valued.’

  ‘Yes, and then?’

  ‘The picture on the far wall is worth at least five thousand pounds,’ said Lazarus drily.

  ‘Ah!’ Poirot drew a long breath.

  ‘Now I know everything,’ he said happily.

  PERIL AT END HOUSE by Agatha Christie

  Copyright © 1932 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company)

  “Essay by Charles Osborne” excerpted from The Life and Crimes of Agatha Christie. Copyright © 1982, 1999 by Charles Osborne. Reprinted with permission.

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  ePub edition edition published February 2004 ISBN 9780061749278

  This e-book was set from the Agatha Christie Signature Edition published by HarperCollins Publishers, London. />
  First published in Great Britain by Collins 1932

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