Chapter 5 Chapter 5 The Crofts

There was a dance at the hotel that night.Nick Buckley came to dinner with her friends and greeted us radiantly.This evening she was wearing a garnet red tulle dress, the skirt fluttering on the ground.The snow-white neck and smooth shoulders were bare, and the long satin-like hair, carelessly combed, was really ecstasy. "What a charming goblin!" I remarked. "It's a perfect comparison to her friend, eh?" Wearing a white dance suit.Her dancing posture is languid and her gait is slow. Although it is very different from Nick Chunfeng's vigorous energy, she also has a unique charm.

"She is beautiful," said Poirot suddenly. "Who? Our Nick?" "No--that one. Is she a villain? A good person? Or just depressed? No one knows the mystery. Maybe she's nothing. But I tell you, my friend, she's a lamplighter. " "What does that mean?" I asked curiously. He smiled and shook his head. "You will feel it sooner or later, mark my words." Nick was dancing with George Challenger, and Frederica and Lazarus quit dancing and came back to sit at the table.Lazarus just sat down and got up and walked away, and Mrs. Rice sat there alone.Poirot got up and went towards her, and I followed.

He said bluntly: "Will you allow me?" He put his hand on the back of a chair and sat down in an instant. "I wanted to speak to you while Nick was dancing." "Please." Her voice was cold and dry. "Madam, I don't know if your friend has told you about it. If not, let me tell. Today, someone tried to murder her." Her large gray eyes widened with surprise and horror. "What's going on here?" "Miss Buckley was shot in the garden of this hotel." She smiled suddenly--a gentle, pitiful, suspicious smile. "Did Nick tell you?"

"No, ma'am, I just happened to see it. That's the bullet." She flinched as he took it out. "But, this..." "It's not the lady's imagination, you know, I'm sure it's not just this one time, there's been a couple of very strange accidents in the last few days. You've probably heard, oh , no, you probably haven't heard of it, because you just got here yesterday, have you?" "Yes—yesterday." "Before then, I suppose, you're in Tavistock with some friends." "right." "I should like to know, ma'am, what are the names of those friends who are with you."

She raised her eyebrows and asked coldly: "Is there any reason why I must give their names?" Poirot suddenly showed a look of innocent surprise: "I'm so sorry, ma'am, I'm an informal man, but I have some friends in Tavistock and I just wanted to know if you've seen them there . . . One of them is called Buchanan." Mrs. Rice shook her head. "I don't remember. I don't think I've seen this guy." She softened. "Stop talking about these annoying people and talk about Nick. Who shot her? Why did she kill her?" ?” "I don't know who fired it either," said Poirot, "but I'll find him out. Hey, yes, I'll find out, I, you know? I'm a detective. Hercule Poirot is my name."

"It's a name that everyone knows." "My wife has won the award." She said calmly, "So, what do you want me to do?" This surprised both Poirot and me.I didn't expect her to be so proactive. "We want you, ma'am, to watch over your friend." "I'll do it." "Nothing else. Good-bye, ma'am." He stood up, bowed quickly, and joined me back in our seats. "Poirot," said I, "how did you show all the cards in your hand?" "There's no other way, my friend. It may be tactful, but it's safe. I can't risk it, and it's obvious now."

"What's up?" "Mrs. Rice wasn't in Tavistock the other day. Where is she? Ah, I'll find out. It's not easy to hide from Hercule Poirot! Look, handsome Lazarus is back." Well, she's telling him what just happened. He's looking at us. Just the shape of his head to tell he's a dork. Well, I wonder--" "Know what?" I asked when I heard that there was no more to say. "Want to know what I'll know on Monday," he said perfunctorily, turning around. I looked at him and said nothing.He sighed and said: "Your curiosity will soon be satisfied, my friend. In the past years..."

"In the old days there was a pleasure in which I deeply regretted your intoxication," I said coldly. "Do you mean--" "The joy of not answering my questions." "Oh, what an injustice!" "good!" "Oh, well, well," said Poirot resignedly: "I'm one of those strong, taciturn heroes that Edwardian novelists love." He winked at me as usual. At this moment Nick walked past our table.She left her partner, flew past us like a bird of many colors, and sang to us: "I - on death's - pillow - danced..." "That's a curious way of saying it, miss."

"Yes, how interesting!" She waved to us and floated away. "Why say such an ominous thing?" I said slowly. "'I'm dancing on death's pillow'—I don't like that." "I know that's pretty close to the truth, and the little chap has a bit of courage. Yes, she has courage. Unfortunately, it's not courage that's needed, but prudence." The next day is Sunday.We sat on the balcony in front of the hotel.At about half-past eleven Poirot stood up suddenly. "Come, my friend. Let's do a little experiment. I can now tell you with confidence that Mr. Lazarus and the Mrs. have gone out in the car, and Miss Nick has gone with them." .Now is a great opportunity."

"what chance?" "You'll know." We went down the steps and across a meadow to a door that led to a zigzag path leading to the sea.A couple of men and women who had just finished swimming came up from below, talking and laughing, and passed us.After they had passed, Poirot came to a small inconspicuous doorway.Although the hinges were stained and rusted, a few words could still be read on the door: "Cliff Villa, private property." At this time, there was no one around, so we slipped in. A minute later we were on the lawn in front of the house, and there was no sound.After looking around on the cliff, Poirot turned and walked towards the house.The French windows in the corridor were open, through which we entered the drawing-room, where Poirot did not stop.He opened the door into the main room, where he ran up the stairs to the second floor, and I followed him till at last Poirot entered Nick's bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed, nodding and winking at me.

"Look, my friend, how easy it is! No one will see us coming, and no one will see us going. We can do what we want, and we are perfectly safe. For example, we can file the rope on the picture just right with a file." The ground would break in a few hours. To put it bluntly, if someone happened to see us coming in through that little rusty door at the front of the house, we wouldn't arouse suspicion—everyone knew we were. Family and friends!" "You don't think it's a stranger who committed the crime?" "Yes, Hastings, that's what I mean. It's not going to be the work of a lost psycho. We've got to keep our attention around the family." We left the room without speaking, we all felt that we needed to think about something, but we all stopped at the turn of the stairs.A man is walking towards us.He also stopped when he saw us.His face was obscured in the shadows, but his actions showed that he, too, was frightened.He spoke first, and said loudly in a threatening tone: "What are you doing here? I want to know." "Ah," said Poirot, "sir—Mr. Croft, I suppose?" "Exactly. But you—" "Shall we talk in the drawing room? It might be better that way." The man took a step back, turned around abruptly and walked downstairs.We follow.Entering the drawing room, Poirot closed the door, bent over the man, and said: "Let me introduce myself. I am Hercule Poirot, please advise." That one's face softened a bit. "Oh," he said slowly, "you are the detective. I read about you in the article." "In the Weekly Saint-Loup?" "Le Weekly de Saint-Loup? No, I read about you when I was in Australia. You're a Frenchman, aren't you?" "Belgian, but that's all right. This is my friend, Captain Hastings." "Nice to meet you. But what are you doing here? What's the matter?" "It depends on how you understand the word 'happen'." The Australian nodded.Despite his age and baldness, he was still handsome.A protruding chin under his fleshy cheeks belied his strength of character.I thought his face was coarse, and the most striking feature on his face was his piercing blue eyes. "Look," he said, "I'll bring some cucumbers and tomatoes to Miss Barkley. Her gardener doesn't work, he's a lazy man, and he doesn't grow anything, and we can't stand it. Neighbors have to look out for each other." That's right. We couldn't finish the tomatoes we planted, so I picked some and put them in a basket to send to Miss Buckley. I came in through the French window as usual and put the basket on the ground. I was about to turn back when I heard There were footsteps on the stairs, and the voice of a man talking, so I couldn't help feeling suspicious. Although there are not many gangsters in this area, it is best to be careful after all, so I came in to take a look. You said you were a famous detective, but what happened? thing?" "Very simple," said Poirot, laughing. "The Mademoiselle was frightened that night. A heavy picture fell on the head of her bed. Perhaps she has told you about it?" "Yes, a dangerous thing." "I promised to get her a special chain to hang the picture better. It must never happen again, eh? She told me she was going out this morning and asked me to measure it How long the chain needs to be, that's all - it's simple." Poirot spread out his hands with childlike innocence, and his face was covered with his best beguiling smile. Croft breathed a sigh of relief: "That's all." "Yes. We're all law-abiding citizens—me and my friends. You needn't be paranoid." "I thought I saw you yesterday," said Croft. "It was yesterday evening. You walked through my little garden." "Oh, yes, you were working in the garden and said hello to us." "Yes. So you are M. Hercule Poirot, whom I have heard so much about? Excuse me, M. Poirot, are you free? If you are not busy at the moment, I would like to invite you to come Go down and have a cup of tea—Australian tea. I want my old woman to see you too. She's read all about you in the papers." "You are very kind, Mr. Croft, and we are delighted to have the honour." "Great." Poirot turned to me and asked: "Have you measured the exact length of that chain?" I said I was done, and we left Nick's living room with our new acquaintance. Croft is chatty, and we get a sense of that pretty quickly.He talks about his home near Melbourne, his early struggles, his love affairs, his career and his rise to prominence. "After I succeeded I decided to travel," he said. "We went back to the country we had been missing to see if we could find any of my wife's relatives - she was from around Saint-Loup. We couldn't find any." ...then we went on a trip to the mainland: Paris, Rome, the lakes of Italy, Florence, etc. We've all been there. My poor wife was badly injured in a railway accident in Italy, what a tragedy! I took her all over the place Visited famous doctors, but they all said that there was nothing to do, only to allow time to heal - a long period of bed rest. She injured her spine." "What a misfortune!" "Extreme joy brings sorrow, right? What can I do! She only has one idea, that is, to go back to her hometown and live in her own little world to recuperate quietly. After returning, we went to see many houses for rent, but none of them looked decent. Then, with some luck, I found this little house—regular, quiet, secluded, with no cars driving about, and no gramophone next door that sang all day. I rented it right away." Having said the last sentence, we have arrived at the porter's hut.He imitated the birdsong: "Gee!" There was also a sound from inside: "Gu Yi!" "Come in," said Mr. Croft.After entering the door and up a small flight of stairs, we came to a cozy little bedroom.A slightly fat middle-aged woman was lying on a couch.She has beautiful brown eyes and a sweet smile. "Who do you think this is, Mother?" said Croft, who called his wife Mother. "This is M. Hercule Poirot, the world-renowned detective. I have brought him here to speak to you." "Why, I am beyond happy," cried Mrs. Croft, shaking Poirot's hand warmly. "I've read the detailed report on the case on the blue train. Fortunately you were on that train at the time. I've read many other cases of yours in the papers. I can say I read them because of my spinal problems. Of all the detective stories, there is no better diversion. Bert, my dear, tell Edith to bring you the tea." "Okay, Mom." "Edith has come to nurse me," explained Mrs. Croft, "she has attended to me every morning. We don't like to employ people. Bert was a first-rate cook himself, and he was no better at housekeeping." People can match him. These things and the small garden outside are enough for him to spend time." "Come," came Mr. Croft, carrying a tray, "and here comes the tea, mother. Today is a fine day in our lives." "You will be staying here permanently, I suppose, M. Poirot?" asked Mrs. Croft, bracing herself to pour out her tea. "Ah, ma'am, I'm here on vacation." "But I'm not mistaken. I read in an article that you're retired—you're on vacation forever!" "Oh, ma'am, you can't trust the papers lightly." "Well, it's true. So you're still doing it?" "When I come across a case of interest." "You're not here to do something, are you?" asked Mr. Croft slyly. "You could call it a holiday for anything." "Don't ask such embarrassing questions," said Mrs. Shroft, "or he won't come again in the future. We are ordinary people, M. Poirot, and it's really nice of you to come to have a cup of tea today." It gave us a lot of face and made us so excited." Her gratitude was so natural, so sincere, that I could not help feeling very dear to my heart. Over his tea Mr. Croft said: "It's not a good thing for that painting to fall." "Poor girl was nearly killed," said Mrs. Croft. "She was a piece of wire. When she lived here, it was alive. I heard the neighbors didn't like her very much. The British Small places are like this, petty and old-fashioned. They don't like girls who are lively and lively, but prefer to make a girl who is beautiful and beautiful look lifeless and like a half-aged lady. They call this dignified and stable. So I'm not surprised that Nick doesn't live here very long, and I think it's totally understandable that her nosy, swan-eating cousin couldn't convince her to settle down and settle down here." "Don't gossip behind your back, Millie," said her husband. "Aha," said Poirot, "there is such a connection! Let us trust women's instincts. Charles Weiss, then, is in love with our little friend?" "How can he succeed?" said Mrs. Croft. "She won't marry a country lawyer. I don't think she can be blamed for that, because he's only a pauper after all. I want her to marry the kind The sailor--what's his name? Challenger. Doesn't matter if he's older than she is? Many fashionable marriages are worse than this. Settle down--that's all she needs. Now she's flying around, Even to the Continent, either alone or with that queer Mrs. Rice. Oh! Miss Buckley is a lovely girl, M. Poirot, I know that very well. But I hold her hand for her. Khan. She doesn't look very happy lately, and she looks haunted and disturbing. I have reason to be concerned about her, don't I, Bert?" Mr. Croft rose somewhat suddenly from his chair. "What are you talking about, Millie!" said he. "Mr. Poirot, I wonder if you would be interested in seeing some pictures of Australia?" Our visit thereafter was so prosaic that we need not repeat it.We said goodbye after ten minutes. "Great people," I said to Poirot, of my opinion of them, "simple and unassuming, typical Australians." "You like them?" "Don't you like it?" "They were warm and friendly." "But what? I can see there's a 'but' after that." "They seem to have gone too far," said Poirot thoughtfully. "It's a little too...that for all the pretense of singing birds and insisting on showing us those pictures." "You old suspicious bastard!" "You are right, my friend, I doubt everything. I fear, Hastings, fear--"

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