Chapter 18 Chapter 18 The Strange Face on the Window

What happened during the next day is rather vague in my memory.Unfortunately, I woke up with a fever.Ever since I got malaria once, I've always had a high fever when I least expected to be sick.So what happened that day seemed to me like a fantastic dream.Poirot came and went ghostly, reappearing before me every few moments. I think he's very proud of the tricks he has up his sleeve, and his performance is fantastic.The expression of shame and despair is so realistic that it is enough to make all movie stars fall.How he brought into practice his plan--the idea he had confided to me so early in the morning--I don't know, but what is certain is that his drama was well under way.

This is no easy feat as the scam is quite a wide-ranging one.The British usually don't like to engage in large-scale scams, but Poirot's trap this time must be mobilized. First, he took Dr. Graham to his side, and then, with the doctor's assistance, he began to persuade the head nurse and some other concerned personnel in the nursing home to agree with and cooperate with this plan.It was so difficult that, had it not been for the venerable Dr. Graham who helped Poirot, the comedy might have ended before it even started. Then there was the Chief of Police and his cops.On this front, Poirot was once again in trouble from the authorities.At length he persuaded Colonel Weston to reluctantly agree to his plan, but he took no responsibility for the matter, as he had said beforehand.All possible consequences of this trap were to be borne by Poirot himself.Poirot readily agreed.He would agree to anything as long as he was allowed to carry out his plans.

I sat on a big sofa almost all day long, with a blanket on my lap and my eyes closed.Every two or three hours Poirot came to tell me his progress. "Is it better, my friend? You're so miserable! But it's all right, so you don't get caught in the act. I've just ordered a wreath, a huge wreath. It's covered with Lilies, my friend—there are countless lilies that symbolize the pain of life and death. The elegiac couplet is even more croaking: "'Soul sleeps forever. Hercule Poirot mourns with tears.'" "Oh, what a comedy!" After speaking, he left in a hurry.

The next time he came he brought me these words: "I've just had a fight with Mrs. Rice. She's in a good black dress, and her poor friend--how miserable! I sighed pitifully. She said Nick was so bright and lively and jovial." How can I imagine that she is dead for a long time. I nodded and said, "From my point of view, it is ironic that death took away a good-looking person like her, and left the old, weak, sick, and useless." stay in the world.'” "How proud of you." I whispered feebly. "Absolutely not. It's part of my scheme. It takes a whole lot of heart and soul to look like one. After expressing her sadness, Mrs. Rice began to talk about my concerns. She said she Tossing and turning all night, unable to sleep, thinking about those chocolate candies, thinking about this impossible thing. 'Ma'am,' I said, 'how is it impossible? You can see the test report.' She said Said in a trembling voice, 'It's cocaine, you said?' I nodded and she said, 'Ah, God, I don't understand!'"

"It's also possible." "She sees clearly the abyss before her, and she is wise, as I have told you. Yes, she is in danger and she knows it herself." "But I can see you're beginning to believe her innocence." Poirot frowned, less agitated than before. "You've said it very cleverly, Hastings. Yes, I feel sorry for some of the facts. The most important characteristic of the modus operandi of this case is the thoroughness and rigor which leave no trace. But the chocolate was not at all done. So thoughtful, so to speak, as to be ridiculously naive, leaving obvious signs that a blind man could see, and which pointed unmistakably to Mrs. Rice like signposts. Ah, no, that's wrong!"

He sat down at the table. "That means there are three possibilities. Let's check the facts anyway. The chocolate was bought by Mrs. Rice and sent by Mr. Lazarus. In this case, the offender is either one or the other." , or both are criminals. That call is pure fabrication. This is the most obvious case. "Second scenario: It's another box of chocolates poisoned - the one that was mailed - that anyone on our one to ten list can mail (do you remember the list? ? A wide range). But if one box of mail is poisonous, the phone call is true. But why did the criminal make such a phone call? Why use two boxes of chocolates to complicate things? Because The criminal didn't know that Miss Nick would happen to receive two boxes of chocolates at the same time and remove the wrappers at the same time."

I shook my head feebly. I couldn't comprehend anything complicated when my body temperature was as high as thirty-nine degrees. "Third scenario: The poisoned box in the mail was swapped with the non-poisoned one bought by Mrs. Rice. In this case, the call was ingenious and understandable. Mrs. Rice became the scapegoat, She inadvertently made a fool of the real perpetrator. This scenario is logical. But, well, this third scenario is also the most difficult for the perpetrator. How could he have expected that the postman would arrive at the same time as Mr. Lazarus ?And the switch plan wouldn't have worked if the waiter had just sent the non-toxic box upstairs instead of letting it sit on the table for twenty minutes. Yeah, it doesn't make sense, either."

"Unless it's Lazarus," I said. Poirot looked at me. "You have a fever, my friend, and is it still rising?" I nod. "How strange that a few degrees of body temperature can stimulate intelligence! You just made an interesting point, which is so simple that I didn't even think about it. But this brings up a very strange problem: La Mr. Zales is trying to guillotine his darling. This is the fourth case—an incomprehensible one. Oh, complicated, complicated." I closed my eyes, smug at my insight, but I didn't want to think about anything that required me to think, and all I wanted was sleep.

I think Poirot is -- still quoting and quoting, but I can't listen.His voice gradually became erratic and blurred. It was evening when I saw him again. "I cheapened the gift shop by cheating," he claimed. "Everyone orders wreaths. Mr. Croft, Mr. Weiss, Colonel Challenger . . . " That last name struck a chord in my heart. "Listen, Poirot," I said, "you must tell him the truth, or the poor seaman will die of grief." "You've been very kind to him, Hastings." "I like him. He's a good man. You should tell him the secret."

Poirot shook his head. "No, my friend, I do not discriminate." "You don't necessarily doubt him, do you?" "I don't make exceptions for anyone." "Imagine how much pain he will have." "I would like to imagine what an unexpected joy I had prepared for him. Thought her lover was dead—and found she was alive! Think, how few people have ever experienced such a joy!" "How can you be so unreasonable! He will keep the secret." "I don't quite believe it." "He's a man whose life is honor, I bet."

"That makes it all the more difficult for him to keep it a secret. It's an art to keep a secret, and it takes a penchant for acting and a genius to tell a whole bunch of falsehoods quietly. Can he do it—the Challenger Lieutenant Colonel? If he's what you're talking about, he can't do it." "Then you won't tell him?" "I can't risk my strategy. It matters a lot, my dear. After all, pain is a test of the will. Many of your famous priests, including the Cardinal himself, have said so." I could see that he had made up his mind and had to let it go. "I'm going to dinner in casual attire," said Poirot. "I'm playing an old man with a bruised pride, you understand? My self-confidence is utterly shattered—I've lost all of it." I can't eat anything, my dinner doesn't move on the plate, and I have to sigh at the right moment and say something to myself that I don't understand. That's my Looks, I think. But when I get back to my room, I'm going to eat brioche and chocolate cones with great relish. I've had the foresight to prepare fine food, don't you see, sir?" "I just want a few more quinine pills," I said sadly. "Ah, my poor Hastings. Take courage, and everything will be fine to-morrow." "Possibly. The onset of malaria usually does not exceed twenty-four hours." I didn't hear him come back into the room, so I must have fallen asleep. He slept better this time, and when he awoke he found Poirot sitting at the table, absorbed in a book.In front of him was a crumpled sheet of paper that I recognized as the list of people with names from one to ten.This list he once threw away. He nodded to me.Seems to see what I'm thinking. "Yes, my friend, I've picked it up again. I'm looking at it from a different angle now. I've made a new list of the questions that are relevant to each person. These questions may be related to the crime. Nothing, just something I don't understand, something that hasn't been explained. Now I'm going to use my brain to find out." "Where did you write it?" "It's finished. Want to hear it? Do you have the spirit?" "I feel better now." "Lucky! Very well, I'll read it to you. Some of these questions must be boring to you." He cleared his throat. "One. Ellen—why did she stay in the house and not go out to see the fireworks (Miss Nick's testimony and Miss Nick's surprise at this showed that this was abnormal)? What did she suppose was going to happen? Did she let anything happen? Someone (say, the tenth—the unknown person) walked into that house? Was she telling the truth about that alcove? If there was such a thing, why couldn't she remember where it was (Miss seemed clear no such niche, of course she knew there was or wasn't)? If she made it up, then for what? Did she ever read those love letters of Michael Seton? Did she really feel about Miss Nick's engagement? Accident? "Two, her husband—is he really as stupid as his appearance suggests? Does he know what Ellen knows? Is he insane in some way? "Third, her son—at his age and level of personality development, is it normal nature to like to watch massacres? Or is it a kind of pathological, genetic deformity inherited from the father or mother? He used to use toys Ever shot a pistol? "Four. Who is Mr. Croft—where is he from? Did he really post his will, as he swore? And if he didn't, what was his motive? "V. Who is Mrs. Croft—who are the couple? Are they hiding here for some reason? If so, for what reason? Are they related to the Buckley family? ? "6. Mrs. Rice - did she even know about the engagement of Michael Seton and Nick? Was it merely a guess, or did she read their correspondence (so that she would know that Nick was Seton's heir) )? Did she know that she was Miss Nick's chattel (I think she probably did, and Miss Nick would tell her and add that it was insignificant)? Lieutenant Colonel Challenger implied that Lazarus was taken by Miss Nick Is it true that it's fascinating (which would explain the estrangement between two close friends, Mrs. Rice and Miss Nick, in recent months)? The 'boyfriend' mentioned in her letter about drug use was Who? Could it be the 'tenth'? Why was she behaving strangely in this room that day as if she was about to pass out? Did she hear something or see something? Is the call to her to buy chocolates a fact or an elaborate fabrication? What does she mean by saying, 'It was understandable last time, but this time I don't understand at all'? If she is not a criminal, what does she know and won't tell?" "You see," said Poirot, stopping suddenly, "that almost all the important questions concern Mrs. Rice. She is a mystery from beginning to end. This forces me to the conclusion that either she is the criminal, or that she Know who the culprit is, but is that right? Does she really know, or is she just suspicious? Is there any way to get her to talk?" He sighed. "Okay, I'll read on. "Seven. Lazarus--strangely enough, we can hardly ask any questions about him. Just the old one: Was the chocolate swapped? Besides that, there's only one question that seems completely irrelevant, I Inscribed it, too: 'Why pay fifty pounds for a picture that only costs twenty pounds?'" "He's trying to please Nick." I offered my opinion. "You won't use this method to please. He is a businessman, and he won't do business at a loss. If he wants to do something good for Nick, he will lend her money in private." "Anyway, it has nothing to do with the case." "Yes, that's true—but I want to know everything. I study psychology. Do you understand? Let's go back to number eight. "VIII. Colonel Challenger—why did Nick tell him she was engaged to someone else? Was it necessary? Because she didn't tell anyone else. Did he propose to her? What was he to do with his uncle? ?” "His uncle, Poirot?" "That's the doctor, a very questionable character. Did any information about Michael Seton's death get privately to the Admiralty before it was made public?" "I don't understand what you're thinking, Poirot. What if Colonel Challenger had been informed of Seton's death beforehand? It didn't create an incentive to kill the girl he loved." "I agree. You have a good point, but this is what I want to know. I'm a smelly dog." "Nine, Mr. Weiss—why does he tell us that his cousin has a blind attachment and admiration for Cliff Heights? What is the motive for this? Did he receive the will? Is he an honest man, or is he a hypocrite? " "At the end it's ten—ah, that's a guy I wrote about last time who never showed up, a big question mark. Is there such a thing as a 'tenth'?" "Goodness, my friend! What's the matter with you?" I jumped up from the sofa with a yell, and pointed to the window with trembling fingers: "Face, Poirot!" I cried. "The frightful face stuck to the glass! It's gone now, but I see it!" Poirot rushed to throw open the window, and leaned out to have a look. "There's nothing out there," he said thoughtfully. "Aren't you hallucinating, Hastings?" "No! Not a hallucination! I saw a face that looked like a dead man." "There's a balcony outside, and it's within the reach of anyone to eavesdrop on our conversation. Why do you say it's a frightening face?" "That face is dead white, not the face of a living person." "Is it heat, my friend? A face, yes. An ugly face, too. But not a living face—that would be absurd. What you see is a The face is pressed against the glass, which makes it look scary." "It's scary!" I said stubbornly. "Isn't it an acquaintance's face?" "No, definitely not an acquaintance, really." "Oh, not an acquaintance? I doubt you'd be able to recognize a familiar face under the circumstances. I doubt, yes, I doubt..." He thoughtfully gathered up the papers in front of him. "There is at least one thing to be thankful for. If anyone was listening, we were lucky not to mention the real situation of Miss Nick. No matter how much he listened, it was finally not leaked." "It's a pity, though," I said, "that your ingenious scheme seems a bit out of place, and it hasn't paid off so far. Nick is dead, but so what? I've been waiting to see, but so far..." "Ha, you've been sick and slept until now, you only rub your eyes when you yawn, and you say you've been waiting and seeing? Not so fast, I said it would take twenty-four hours to respond, my friend. If If I'm not mistaken, there will be amazing discoveries tomorrow, otherwise, otherwise I've been completely wrong from beginning to end! The last mail is here, look. My hopes are pinned on tomorrow's mail." I awoke limp and weak in the morning, but the fever had subsided and I felt a craving for something to eat, so I ate breakfast with Poirot in our sitting room. "How?" I asked maliciously as he sorted out the letters. "Is there hope—an earth-shattering new discovery?" Poirot had just opened two envelopes, which obviously contained bills, without answering.I think he looks downright depressed now, not at all his usual cocky pretensions. I opened my own letters. The first envelope contained a briefing for a spiritualism seminar. "If we fail this time," I said, "we'll have to go to an archpsychic. What if the spirit of the victim would come back and tell us the name of the murderer, and the law would recognize such testimony? convenient." "But it can't help us a bit," replied Poirot absent-mindedly. "If Nick is killed, I think her soul is as ignorant of who killed her as we are. So even if she dies Finally, he was still able to speak, but he couldn’t provide any valuable clues. Huh, what a miracle.” "what?" "While you were talking about the dead, I opened such a letter," he said, throwing the letter over.The letter was from Mrs Buckley. Dear M. Poirot: Came home to find a letter my poor boy had written us after arriving in Saint-Loup.I'm afraid there's nothing in there that will interest you, but I thought maybe you'd like to take a look. Thank you for your concern. Yours truly Joan Buckley The enclosed letter was so ordinary, so devoid of any sign of impending calamity, that it was sad to see. dear mother: I reached Saint-Loup safely.Quite comfortable on the road.Until Exeter, there were only two other passengers in the carriage besides me. The weather here is wonderful.Nick was healthy and happy--less rested, perhaps, but I saw no reason for her to telegraph me in such a hurry.It's not a bad idea to come on a Tuesday. There is nothing else to write about.We were going to have tea with some neighbours, who were Australians who had rented the porter's cottage.Nick said their enthusiasm was overwhelming.Mrs. Rice and Mr. Lazarus, who is an art dealer, are coming to stay for a while.I'm going to drop this letter in the letter-box by the gate, so I can catch the next mail.Talk to me tomorrow. Love your daughter Maggie And: Nick said she had a reason for telegraphing me, and would tell me after tea.She looked strange and seemed a little nervous. "The voice of the dead," said Poirot quietly, "but it tells us nothing." "The letter-box by the gate," I said casually, "is where Croft says he sent his will." "So—yes. But the whereabouts of that will are too mysterious." "Is there anything interesting in those letters of yours?" "No, Hastings. I'm disappointed. I'm still in the dark and don't understand anything." At this moment the telephone rang and Poirot went to pick up the receiver. I saw his face brighten up.Although he tried his best to act nonchalantly, I could detect his excitement and agitation. That's when he said, "Very well, thank you," hung up the phone, and came back to me with a happy gleam in his eyes. "My friend," he said, "what did I tell you? Look, the reactions are starting to come!" "What happened?" "The call was from Charles Weiss. He informed me that he had received at the post office this morning a will signed by her cousin, Miss Buckley, last February 25." "What? A will?" "Exactly." "A will appeared?" "It's not too late, it's the right time." "Do you think he's telling the truth?" "Or do I think that he's had the will all along—did you mean to say that? Well, it's all kind of weird, but at least one thing's for sure, and that's if Miss Nick is supposed to be dead, we'll have What was found - here it is." "Yes," I said, "you're right. The will that just came up, I suppose, is the one that named Frederica Rice as chattel heir?" "Mr. Weiss said nothing about the will. He did the right thing. There was no reason to doubt that it was not the original will. He told me it was signed by Ellen Wilson and her husband as witnesses." "So we met Frederica Rice again," I said. "This enigmatic person." "Frederica Rice," I said incoherently, "that's a pretty name." "Prettier than the 'Freddy' her friends call her," he grimaced. "'Freddy' isn't a very nice name for a young girl." "'Freddie' is probably the only nickname for Frederica," I said, "unlike Margaret, where you can find half a dozen nicknames. Magee, Margot , March, Peggy, etc." "Yes, then, Hastings, are you feeling happier now? The reaction we've been waiting for has begun." "Of course I am. Tell me, are you expecting this to happen?" "No, not quite. I don't know exactly what I'm expecting. All I know is that there will be some consequences, but we'll have to find out why." "Yes." I said respectfully. "I seemed to be about to say something when the telephone rang just now," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Ah, yes, that letter from Miss Magee. I have to read it again. I have a vague feeling that there is something in it." It makes my hair stand on end, it's weird!" I took the letter off the table and threw it to him. He silently read it from beginning to end.I paced up and down the room, watching the yacht races in the bay through the window. I was startled by a sudden exclamation, and I turned away to see Poirot shaking his head with his hands, looking terribly distressed. "Oh," he moaned, "Jesus! I'm blind--blind!" "What's the matter?" "Complicated—did I say so—incredibly complicated? No, not at all! The mystery is extremely simple—extremely! How did I not think of it? How did I see nothing? Ah, I Poor old man!" "Have mercy, Poirot. What have you discovered? What light has shone into your heart?" "Wait a minute—wait a moment, be quiet. I must hurry to catch the light of inspiration that illuminates everything, and get my thoughts in order." He grabbed the list of suspects and read it silently from beginning to end.There are words in the mouth.Once or twice he nodded emphatically. Then he put the papers back on the table, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.Seeing him motionless, I thought he was exhausted from excitement and fell asleep. Suddenly he sighed and opened his eyes again. "Yeah," he said, "it's all on the right track, and all the stuff that's been bugging me is in place." "You mean, you understand everything?" "Pretty much. I was right about some things, and about everything else, including the basic point, I was terribly wrong from the start. Now it's all clear. I'm sending two telegrams to-day. Ask a few questions, although the answers are all here!" he said, tapping his forehead. "What happened after I got the call back?" I asked curiously. He stood up abruptly. "My friend, do you remember that Miss Nick said she was going to play a play at Cliff House? Tonight we are putting on a play at Cliff House, but it will be directed by Hercule Poirot. Miss Nick also Will play one of the parts." He grinned suddenly. "You know, Hastings, we're going to have a ghost in our play, yes, a ghost! Cliff House has never seen a ghost, and it's going to be used tonight. That ghostly spirit opens the door! No, don't ask," he said hastily when I was about to ask him a few words, "I won't say anything more. Tonight, Hastings, we're going Our comedy, and bringing to light the mystery of the Cliff House. But there is still much to be done, much, much." He ran out of the room.