Chapter 6 Chapter Six Interview with Mr. Weiss

Poirot's breakfast had to be French.He always said that it was hard to see me eating bacon and half-baked eggs, and insisted on explaining his views on breakfast, no matter how familiar I was with them.His breakfast was in bed—coffee and buns.But I still like to go to the dining room and eat the English breakfast: bacon eggs and orange marmalade. When I came downstairs on Monday morning, I glanced into his room, and he was sitting on the bed in a fancy pajamas. "Good morning, Hastings. I was just about to ring for you to come. I wrote a note. Would you please go to Cliff House right away and give it to the lady herself?"

I took that note.Poirot looked at me, sighed, and said: "If you parted your hair in the middle instead of the sides as you do now, you'd definitely look a lot better on your face. Also, if you really wanted to grow a beard, you'd have to grow a lock like mine. A mustache is as beautiful as it needs to be." Thinking of growing a beard on my lips like his, I couldn't help but trembled, and quickly put away the note and left his room. After returning from the Cliff House, I sat with Poirot in the living room.Then it was said that Miss Buckley wanted to see us.Poirot asked the man to show her in.

She came in with a smile on her face, but I noticed that the dark circles under her eyes were getting darker.Handing Poirot a telegram, she said: "Well, I hope this will please you." Poirot read aloud: "At five-thirty this afternoon. Magee." "My nurse and guards are coming," said Nick, "but you are mistaken, M. Poirot. Magee is a mindless fellow, fit only for charity work, and without a sense of humor. After discovering the hidden murderer Freddie was ten times better than her at that, and Jim Lazarus was twenty times better. I always felt like no one really knew Jim."

"Where is Colonel Challenger?" "Oh, George! He can't see anything as long as it's out of sight. But when he sees it, it's hard for his opponent. A man like him can give some points at a showdown." use." She took off her hat and went on: "I've told you to let the man in your note come in if he comes. It seems mysterious. Is he here to set up bugs, alarms, or something?" Poirot shook his head. "No, no, nothing to do with science and instruments, miss. It's just that there are things I want to know." "Oh," said Nick, "it's fun, isn't it?"

"What do you say, mademoiselle?" asked Poirot politely. She stood with her back to us, looking out the window.Turning around again a minute later, the cynically brave look was gone.She pursed her mouth like a child, trying to hold back the tears. "No," she said, "not a funny thing, really. I'm scared—I'm scared, I'm living in terror. I used to think I was brave..." "You are brave, my boy, you are. Hastings and I have admired your courage." "It's true." I added hastily. "No," Nick shook his head. "I'm not being brave. I'm just waiting. Been waiting for that mysterious fifth assassination, and expecting it to happen."

"Yeah, yeah, it's scary." "Last night I dragged the bed into the middle of the room, and closed the windows and locked the door. I have come here today by the high road, and I have not the guts—never have the guts to take the short cut in the garden, I dare not .. all the courage gone in an instant. So many dreadful things have happened, and here comes this." "What do you mean, miss? 'This again'?" She was silent for a moment before answering. "I didn't mean anything. I think it was the 'tension of modern life' that the papers used to say. Too many cocktails, too many cigarettes - all that sort of thing that got me where I am today This level of neuroticism that is used as a laughing stock."

She sat down on a sofa, her little fingers twisted and loosened subconsciously. "You haven't been frank enough with me, miss. There are things you haven't told me." "No—I said it all, really." "There's something you didn't tell me." "Even the most trivial details have been told to you." She meant it. "You did tell all you knew about the accidents—the things that hit you." "So, what else?" "But you didn't tell everything in your heart, everything in your life." She hesitated and said: "This, can anyone do it?"

"Ah, you see," said Poirot triumphantly, "you admit it!" She shook her head, and Poirot watched her hopefully. "Perhaps," he suggested slyly, "it's not your own secret, it concerns someone else..." I seemed to see her eyelids twitch, but almost at the same time she jumped up. "Indeed, M. Poirot, I have told you all the details of these follies. If you think that I know anything of other people's secrets, or that I suspect anyone, you are mistaken. Because No one can doubt that it's driving me crazy. I'm not a fool. If these accidents aren't just accidents, I can see that the person who did them must be right next to me. At least someone Someone who knows me. That's the horror, because I have no idea who this person could be."

She went to the window again and stood there looking out.Poirot gestured to me to be silent.I think he hoped to get some further clues while the girl couldn't help herself. She went on to say in a dreamlike voice: "Do you know that I often have a weird idea? I love Cliff House and always want to put together a play there. The place itself has a theatrical atmosphere. It seems to me that I have seen all kinds of plays staged there. Like. And now, at Cliff House, there's actually a play going on, except I'm not directing it—I'm just one of the characters, maybe, a character who's going to die in the first act."

She choked up and couldn't speak. "Now, madam," said Poirot firmly, "it's not going to happen. The idea is nothing but hysteria." She turned, fixed Poirot sharply in her eyes, and said: "Did Freddie tell you I was hysterical? Sometimes she does. But you can't take her word for it. Sometimes she doesn't even know what she's talking about." There was a pause in the conversation.Poirot then asks a question which has nothing to do with the above: "Tell me, Miss, does anyone want to buy the Cliff Villa?" "You mean, sell it?"

"That's what it means." "No." "If someone offered a good price, would you consider selling it?" Nick thought about it for a while and said: "No, I don't think I'll sell it. Unless he offers a really high price." "good." "I'm not willing to sell it because I like it." "Yes, I can understand." Nick walked slowly towards the door. "One more thing. Will you come to the fireworks tonight? Supper at eight. The fireworks start at half-past nine. You can see them very well from the cliff." "I'm very interested." "Of course, both of you are invited," Nick said. "Thank you very much," I said. "Only a banquet can lift my spirits." After finishing speaking, Nick went out with a smile. "Poor boy," said Poirot. He reached for his hat and carefully brushed off any dust that had settled on it. "Are we going out?" I asked. "Yes, we have some legal questions to ask, my friend." "Of course, I understand." "A man as brilliantly clever as you cannot fail to understand, Hastings." The law firm of Weiss, Terry Vanyen and Wellard was on the town's main street.We walked into a room on the second floor where three clerks were busy writing.Poirot asks to see Mr. Charles Weiss. A clerk picked up the phone and said a few words, apparently got an affirmative answer, then put down the receiver and told us that Mr. Weiss could receive us now.He led us down the corridor, tapped lightly on a door, and stepped aside to let us in. Mr. Weiss rose to greet us from behind a large writing desk piled high with papers. He was a tall, calm, pale young man, wearing spectacles, with a bald forehead, and an expression of unfathomable depth. Poirot had made preparations for this meeting.He took out an unsigned contract and asked Mr. Weiss some technical questions. Mr. Weiss' reply was carefully and precisely worded, and Poirot's suspicions were soon allayed.He also cleared up some ambiguities for Poirot. "You have done me a great favor," said Poirot gruffly. "You always know that the form and the wording of these legal documents are never clear to a foreigner." Weiss asked who had introduced Poirot to him. "Miss Buckley," said Poirot at once, "your cousin, isn't she? A very charming girl. I happened to mention my embarrassment to her, and she sent me to you. I'll come and see on Saturday noon." I passed you—about half-past twelve, but you went out." "Yes, I do. I left the office early on Saturday." "I think it must be lonely for your cousin to live alone in such a big old house?" "yes." "Excuse me, Mr. Weiss, please tell me if there is any possibility of selling that property?" "Not at all, I can say." "You know, I'm not just asking, I have my reasons. I'm looking around for just such a property. The climate in Saint-Loup suits me perfectly. It's true that the house looks in disrepair, I Guess not much has been spent on it. Under the circumstances, wouldn't the lady consider selling it?" "Not at all," said Charles Weiss, shaking his head with great determination. "My cousin loves that house like a demon. Nothing will induce her to sell the property. It's an ancestral home, you know. " "I know that, but—" "It's hard to do. I know my cousin. She has a blind admiration and attachment to that house." A few minutes later we were walking down the street. "My friend," said Poirot, "how does this M. Charles Weiss make an impression on you?" I thought about it and said: "He's a negative guy, and he's a weird naysayer." "You probably still say that he doesn't have a strong personality?" "Exactly. When you meet someone like him in the future, you won't remember where you met him—a most ordinary person." "His appearance is indeed very difficult to impress. Did you notice anything in his conversation that did not correspond to the truth?" "Yes," I said, thinking, "I noticed what he said about the sale of the Cliff House." "Exactly! Would you describe Miss Buckley's love for Cliff Heights as 'obsessed'?" "That claim is exaggerated." "Yes. Attention should be paid to the fact that, as an experienced lawyer, Mr. Weiss is not in the habit of speaking exaggeratedly. His normal way of saying things is to minimize rather than add to the flames. But But he exaggerated and said that Miss loves Zuju like a demon!" "I don't get that impression from what she said this morning," I said. "She spoke reasonably. It was evident that she simply liked the place—as anyone in her position would have had about the house." the same level of affection—that’s all.” "Therefore, one of the two must be lying." Poirot came to this conclusion. "People don't think Wes is a liar." "It is obvious that a man has certain reasons for telling a lie," said Poirot. "Yes, he has something of George Washington in him. Have you noticed anything else, Hastings?" "what?" "He's not in his office at half past twelve on Saturday!"