Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case. Агата Кристи

think, Nurse?’

      ‘Oh yes, Sir William. I really think it would do Mrs Franklin good – if she’s careful not to overtire herself, of course.’

      ‘That’s a date, then,’ said Boyd Carrington. ‘And now you have a good night’s sleep. Get into good fettle for tomorrow.’

      We both wished Mrs Franklin good night and went out together. As we went down the stairs, Boyd Carrington said gruffly: ‘You’ve no idea what a lovely creature she was at seventeen. I was home from Burma – my wife died out there, you know. Don’t mind telling you I completely lost my heart to her. She married Franklin three or four years afterwards. Don’t think it’s been a happy marriage. It’s my idea that that’s what lies at the bottom of her ill health. Fellow doesn’t understand her or appreciate her. And she’s the sensitive kind. I’ve an idea that this delicacy of hers is partly nervous. Take her out of herself, amuse her, interest her, and she looks a different creature! But that damned sawbones only takes an interest in test tubes and West African natives and cultures.’ He snorted angrily.

      I thought that there was, perhaps, something in what he said. Yet it surprised me that Boyd Carrington should be attracted by Mrs Franklin who, when all was said and done, was a sickly creature, though pretty in a frail, chocolate-box way. But Boyd Carrington himself was so full of vitality and life that I should have thought he would merely have been impatient with the neurotic type of invalid. However, Barbara Franklin must have been quite lovely as a girl, and with many men, especially those of the idealistic type such as I judged Boyd Carrington to be, early impressions die hard.

      Downstairs, Mrs Luttrell pounced upon us and suggested bridge. I excused myself on the plea of wanting to join Poirot.

      I found my friend in bed. Curtiss was moving around the room tidying up, but he presently went out, shutting the door behind him.

      ‘Confound you, Poirot,’ I said. ‘You and your infernal habit of keeping things up your sleeve. I’ve spent the whole evening trying to spot X.’

      ‘That must have made you somewhat distrait,’ observed my friend. ‘Did nobody comment on your abstraction and ask you what was the matter?’

      I reddened slightly, remembering Judith’s questions. Poirot, I think, observed my discomfiture. I noticed a small malicious smile on his lips. He merely said, however: ‘And what conclusion have you come to on that point?’

      ‘Would you tell me if I was right?’

      ‘Certainly not.’

      I watched his face closely.

      ‘I had considered Norton –’

      Poirot’s face did not change.

      ‘Not,’ I said, ‘that I’ve anything to go upon. He just struck me as perhaps less unlikely than anyone else. And then he’s – well – inconspicuous. I should imagine the kind of murderer we’re after would have to be inconspicuous.’

      ‘That is true. But there are more ways than you think of being inconspicuous.’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘Supposing, to take a hypothetical case, that if a sinister stranger arrives there some weeks before the murder, for no apparent reason, he will be noticeable. It would be better, would it not, if the stranger were to be a negligible personality, engaged in some harmless sport like fishing.’

      ‘Or watching birds,’ I agreed. ‘Yes, but that’s just what I was saying.’

      ‘On the other hand,’ said Poirot, ‘it might be better still if the murderer were already a prominent personality – that is to say, he might be the butcher. That would have the further advantage that no one notices bloodstains on a butcher!’

      ‘You’re just being ridiculous. Everybody would know if the butcher had quarrelled with the baker.’

      ‘Not if the butcher had become a butcher simply in order to have a chance of murdering the baker. One must always look one step behind, my friend.’

      I looked at him closely, trying to decide if a hint lay concealed in those words. If they meant anything definite, they would seem to point to Colonel Luttrell. Had he deliberately opened a guest house in order to have an opportunity of murdering one of the guests?

      Poirot very gently shook his head. He said: ‘It is not from my face that you will get the answer.’

      ‘You really are a maddening fellow, Poirot,’ I said with a sigh. ‘Anyway, Norton isn’t my only suspect. What about this fellow Allerton?’

      Poirot, his face still impassive, enquired: ‘You do not like him?’

      ‘No, I don’t.’

      ‘Ah. What you call the nasty bit of goods. That is right, is it not?’

      ‘Definitely. Don’t you think so?’

      ‘Certainly. He is a man,’ said Poirot slowly, ‘very attractive to women.’

      I made an exclamation of contempt. ‘How women can be so foolish. What do they see in a fellow like that?’

      ‘Who can say? But it is always so. The mauvais sujet – always women are attracted to him.’

      ‘But why?’

      Poirot shrugged his shoulders. ‘They see something, perhaps, that we do not.’

      ‘But what?’

      ‘Danger, possibly . . . Everyone, my friend, demands a spice of danger in their lives. Some get it vicariously – as in bullfights. Some read about it. Some find it at the cinema. But I am sure of this – too much safety is abhorrent to the nature of a human being. Men find danger in many ways – women are reduced to finding their danger mostly in affairs of sex. That is why, perhaps, they welcome the hint of the tiger – the sheathed claws, the treacherous spring. The excellent fellow who will make a good and kind husband – they pass him by.’

      I considered this gloomily in silence for some minutes. Then I reverted to the previous theme.

      ‘You know, Poirot,’ I said. ‘It will be easy enough really for me to find out who X is. I’ve only got to poke about and find who was acquainted with all the people. I mean the people of your five cases.’

      I brought this out triumphantly, but Poirot merely gave me a look of scorn.

      ‘I have not demanded your presence here, Hastings, in order to watch you clumsily and laboriously following the way I have already trodden. And let me tell you it is not quite so simple as you think. Four of those cases took place in this county. The people assembled under this roof are not a collection of strangers who have arrived here independently. This is not a hotel in the usual sense of the word. The Luttrells come from this part of the world; they were badly off and bought this place and started it as a venture. The people who come here are their friends, or friends recommended by their friends. Sir William persuaded the Franklins to come. They in turn suggested it to Norton, and, I believe, to Miss Cole – and so on. Which is to say that there is a very fair chance of a certain person who is known to one of these people being known to all of these people. It is also open to X to lie wherever the facts are best known. Take the case of the labourer Riggs. The village where that tragedy occurred is not far from the house of Boyd Carrington’s uncle. Mrs Franklin’s people, also, lived near. The inn in the village is much frequented by tourists. Some of Mrs Franklin’s family friends used to put up there. Franklin himself has stayed there. Norton and Miss Cole may have stayed there and probably have.

      ‘No, no, my friend. I beg that you will not make these clumsy attempts to unravel a secret that I refuse to reveal to you.’

      ‘It’s so damned silly. As though I should be likely to give it away. I tell you, Poirot, I’m tired of these jokes about my speaking countenance. It’s not funny.’

      Poirot said quietly: ‘Are you so sure that is the only reason? Do you not realize, my friend, that such