Chapter 11 Chapter Eleven

Hercule Poirot flicked gently the last speck of dust off the shoe.He had dressed meticulously for the noon banquet, and was pleased with the result. He knew quite well what to wear on a Saturday in rural England, but he was not prepared to conform to English ideas.He loves the hipster standards of his city.He is not an English country gentleman.He is Hercule Poirot! He didn't really like the country, he confessed it himself.The weekend cottage--so many of his friends had raved about it--he had persuaded himself to bow to the eulogy and bought the rest.Although the only thing he liked about it was its shape, square like a box.He didn't care about the surrounding scenery, although he knew that this place was regarded as a beautiful area.However, he has no interest in the overly wild and asymmetrical style here.He didn't pay much attention to the trees anytime—they had that slovenly habit of dropping their leaves.He could tolerate aspens, and liked a Chilean pine—but the beeches and oaks in abundance made him stay.This kind of scenery is most suitable for sitting in the car to enjoy in the afternoon when the weather is good.You exclaim "Quelbeaupaysage!" and drive back to a nice hotel.

The best thing about Qi Zhai, he thinks, are the rows of small vegetable gardens masterfully designed by his Belgian gardener, Victor.Meanwhile Françoise, Victor's wife, devoted herself to taking care of his meals. Hercule Poirot passed through the gate, sighed, looked down at his shiny black leather shoes again, adjusted his light gray felt hat, and looked back and forth at the road. . Facing the front of the loft, he shuddered slightly.The Dovecote and the Rest House were erected by two rival builders, and further undertakings after them were nimbly stopped by an international trust to preserve the beauty of the countryside.The two houses represent two different schools of style.Open Debt is a box with a roof, fairly modern and a little dull.The lofts are half-timbered, a perfect display of old world stuff crammed into as small a space as possible.

Hercule Poirot hesitated for a while about how he should get to the Void Manor.He knew that, a little higher than the country road, there was a wicket and a path.The unofficial road is nearly half a mile longer than the detour from the main road.Even so, Hercule Poirot, a strict observant of etiquette, decided to take the long way, make a detour, and approach the house from the main entrance in a proper manner. It was his first visit to Sir Henry and Lady Angcartel.He believed that one should not, and cut corners by not accepting an invitation, especially when one was a socially important figure.It must be admitted that he was delighted to be invited by them.

"Jesuisunpeusnob," he muttered to himself. He still retained the good impression he had made of the Angkatells in Baghdad, especially Mrs. Angkatell. "Une originale!" he thought to himself. His estimate of the time required to walk from the High Road to the Hollow was accurate.It was exactly a minute to one when he rang the bell at the front door.He's happy to have arrived and feels a little tired.He doesn't like to walk. It was the majestic Gjeyn who opened the door, whom Poirot admired very much.His reception, however, was not what he had hoped for. "Ma'am is under the gazebo by the pool, sir. Can you go over there?"

The English enthusiasm for sitting outside displeased Hercule Poirot.Though one has to endure such whims in the heat of summer, thought Poirot, things were different at the end of September. The weather was mild, of course, but with a certain dampness as usual in autumn.How pleasant it would be to be ushered into a cozy drawing-room, perhaps with a fire burning in the fireplace.But no, he was led out of the French windows, across a grassy slope, past a rock garden, and through a small gate, along a path lined closely with young chestnut trees. It was the custom of the Angkatells to invite guests to come at one o'clock.On sunny days, they drank cocktails and sherry in the little gazebo by the pool.Lunchtime was fixed at half past one, when the least punctual guests would have arrived, and this enabled Mrs. Angkater's excellent cook to serve soufflés and similar calculations without much fuss. The delicacies of time.

For Hercule Poirot, the plan did not interest him. "In a moment," he thought, "I'll be back where I started." His feet were getting weaker and weaker, and he tried his best to follow Gazeon's tall body. At that moment, he heard a slight exclamation from ahead of him.This increased his unhappiness to some extent.The sound was dissonant and made in some inappropriate way.He didn't categorize it, didn't really think about it.When he thought about it later, he had trouble recalling exactly what emotion it seemed to convey.frustrated?surprised?or fear?He could only conclude that it indicated something, quite definitely, the unexpected.

Gjeon came out of the chestnut grove.He was standing aside politely to let Poirot pass, clearing his throat in preparation for muttering something like "Mr. Poirot, Mrs. Poirot" in a suitably deferential and respectful tone.Suddenly, this flexibility of his became rigid.He was gasping for breath.That's not the sound a butler should make. Hercule Poirot stepped out and stepped into the open space surrounding the swimming pool.Immediately he also stiffened, but with a bit of displeasure. This is too much - this is really too much!It never occurred to him that the Angkatells could be so superficial.Long walks on the road, disappointments in front of the house - and now this again!The Brits' inappropriate sense of humor!

He was annoyed and bored - oh, very tired.Death was not very interesting to him.But here, in a playful way, they arranged a preparatory scene for him. Because what he was seeing was a very fake murder scene.The body is on the edge of the pool, artistically placed with arms spread out, and there's even some red paint slowly dripping from the concrete edge into the pool.It was a striking corpse, a handsome blond man.Standing next to the torso, holding a revolver in her hand, is a woman.She was a short, stocky, middle-aged woman with an oddly dazed expression. There were three other actors there.Far from the edge of the pool is a tall young woman with dark brown hair that matches the fall foliage, holding a basket full of dahlias.Farther away was a man, a tall, unremarkable man in a shooting suit with a gun on his back.On his left is the housewife, Mrs Angkatell, with a basketful of eggs.

Hercule Poirot knew that several different roads converged at the swimming pool, and that these people arrived here by different roads. Everything here is carefully calculated and completely artificial. He sighed. Emnfin, what do they want him to do?Was he going to pretend to believe this "crime"?Was he going to show panic?Or he will congratulate his mistress with a low bow: "Ah, this is very attractive, what have you got here for me?" Indeed, the whole thing is very stupid--not at all unconventional!Hadn't Queen Victoria said: "Don't we find it funny?" He felt tempted to say the same thing: "I, Hercule Poirot, don't find it funny."

Mrs. Angkatell approached the body.He followed, feeling Gjeyn still panting hard behind him. "He has no part in the secret, that man," thought Hercule Poirot to himself.The other two joined them from the other side of the pool.They were all very attentive now, looking down at the dramatic sprawled body on the edge of the pool. Suddenly, with a moment of extreme shock, with a feeling as if the screen had blurred before the film was in focus, Hercule Poirot realized that there was something real about this artificial scene. For he was looking at, if not a dead man, at least a dying man.

It wasn't red paint running down the sides of the concrete pool either, but real blood.This man had been shot, and had been shot only a very short time before. He shot a quick glance at the woman standing there with the revolver in her hand.Her face was blank, devoid of any feeling, she looked dazed and rather stupid. "Strange," he thought. Did she use up all her affection and passion when she shot it?he wondered.Now that all her emotions have been used up, is there nothing left but an empty shell?Maybe so, he thought. Then he looked down at the shot man and was startled as the dying man's eyes opened.They were a pair of blue eyes with an expression that Poirot could not read, but which he described in his mind as one of great lucidity. Suddenly Poirot had the feeling that, of all these people, only one was truly alive—the dying man. Poirot had never felt so vividly impressed and so alive.The others were only pale blurred images, actors in a distant drama, but this man was real. John Crystal opened his mouth and spoke.His voice is strong, calm and urgent. "Henrietta—" he said. Then his eyelids closed and his head jerked to one side. Hercule Poirot knelt down, stood up after confirmation, and mechanically brushed the dust off his trousers knees. He said, "He's dead." The frame shattered, wobbled, and refocused.Now it's a personal reaction - unimportant events.Poirot felt like a kind of enlarged eye and ear—recording.That's all, recording. He knew that Mrs. Angkatell's hand had come loose from the basket, and that Gjeyn had sprung forward, quickly taking the basket from her. "Leave it to me, ma'am." Mechanically, quite naturally, Mrs. Angkatell muttered: "Thank you, Gazeon." Then she hesitated and said: "Gerda—" The woman with the revolver moved for the first time, and she looked around, at all of them.When she spoke, there was what seemed to be pure bewilderment in her voice. "John's dead," she said, "John's dead." With a sudden authority, the tall young woman with leafy brown hair walked quickly towards her. "Give me that, Gerda," she said. And deftly, she took the revolver from Gerda Crystal's hand before Poirot had time to protest or interfere. Poirot stepped forward quickly. "You can't do that, miss—" The young woman froze nervously when she heard his words.The revolver slipped from her fingers.And she was standing on the edge of the swimming pool, and the revolver made a splash as it fell, and then went into the water. Her lips parted and she let out an "Oh" full of horror, and turned her head to Poirot apologetically. "I'm such a fool," she said, "I'm sorry." Poirot was silent for a moment.He looked into those clear red-brown eyes.They looked at him so calmly that he wondered if his thoughts were correct. He said calmly: "These things should be moved as little as possible. Everything should be left as it is until the police come to see it." Then there was a little commotion there—very faintly, just an uneasy ripple. Mrs. Angkatell muttered disgustedly: "Of course. I guess—yes, the police—" In a calm, melodious, slightly disgusted voice."I'm afraid, Lucy, it's inevitable," said the man in the shooting suit. In the silence and knowingness of that moment came the sound of footsteps and voices, and there was no doubt that they were light steps and cheerful, dissonant voices. Along the path in front of the house came Sir Henry Anglecutle and Mitch Hardcastle, talking and laughing together. Seeing the crowd surrounding the swimming pool, Sir Henry stopped suddenly and exclaimed in astonishment: "What happened? What happened?" His wife replied: "Gerda—" she broke off abruptly, "I mean—John has—" Gerda said in her monotonous, bewildered voice: "John was shot, he's dead." They all looked at her, embarrassed. Then Mrs Angercartel said quickly: "My dear, I think you'd better go back and—and lie down. Perhaps we'd better go back to the house? Henry, you and M. Poirot can stay here and—and wait for the police." "That would be the best arrangement, I think," said Sir Henry.He turned to Gjen. "Can you call the police station, Gdjen? Just tell me exactly what just happened. When the police arrive, take them straight here." Gjeon nodded slightly and said, "Yes, Sir Henry." He looked a little frightened, but he was still the most perfect servant. The tall young woman said, "Come on, Gerda," and taking her hand from the other woman's arm, she led her away, without resistance, down the path to the house, where Gerda Erda seemed to be walking in a dream.Gjeon stepped back a little to let them pass, and followed with a basket of eggs. Sir Henry turned sharply to his wife. "Now, Lucy, what's the matter? What's going on?" Mrs Angkatell spread her blank hands in a lovely gesture of helplessness.Hercule Poirot felt its charm and justification. "My dear, I hardly knew. I stayed with the hens. I heard a gunshot that seemed close, but I didn't think anything of it. After all," she pleaded to all of them said: "One can't do it alone! Then I went down the path to the swimming pool, and John lay there, and Gerda stood beside him with the revolver. Henrietta and Edward arrived almost at the same time— —from there." She nodded to the far side of the pool, where there were two paths through the woods. Hercule Poirot cleared his throat. "Who are they, this John and this Gerda? If I may know," he added apologetically. "Oh, of course." Mrs Angkatell turned to him apologetically. "John is John Crystal, Doctor Crystal. Gerda Crystal is his wife." "And what about the lady who came into the house with Mrs. Crystal?" "My cousin, Henrietta Savnak." A little noise, the man on Poirot's left made a very slight noise. "Henrietta Savnac," thought Poirot, "he doesn't want her to say this—but, after all, this is what I should know..." ("Henrietta!" the dying man had said. He had said it in a most queer way. A way of reminding Poirot of something - about an event... Now, it was What? Whatever it is, it will come to him.) Mrs Angkatell was continuing to speak, determined to fulfill her social duties. "This is our other cousin, Edward Angkatell. And Miss Hardcastle." Poirot bowed politely as he accepted these introductions.Mitch suddenly felt that she wanted to laugh hysterically, and she fought hard to control herself. "Now, my dear," said Sir Henry, "I think you had better go back to the house, as you suggest. I shall have a word with M. Poirot here." Mrs Angkatell looked at them thoughtfully. "I really hope," she said, "that Gerda is already lying down. Is that the right advice? I really can't think of what to say. I mean, there's no precedent for one. What is a woman to say to a woman who has killed her husband?" She looked at them, as if hoping there would be some sort of authoritative answer to her question. Then she walked down the road.Mickey followed her, with Edward at the rear. Poirot leaves with the host. Sir Henry cleared his throat.He seemed a little unsure of what to say. "Krystal," he remarked at last, "is a very capable fellow—a very capable fellow." Poirot's eyes rested on the dead man again.He still had that odd impression that the dead man was more alive than the living. He wondered what had given him that impression. He responded politely to Sir Henry's words. "A tragedy like this is very unfortunate," he said. "You're better at such things than I am," said Sir Henry. "I never thought I'd be so near a murderer before. I hope I've done nothing wrong so far?" "The procedure is quite correct," said Poirot. "You called the police, and until they arrived and took over the place, we had nothing to do—except to make sure that someone tampered with the evidence with the dead body." He looked down at the pool as he spoke the last word.There he could see the revolver lying on the concrete bottom of the pool, slightly touched by the blue water. This evidence, he thought, might have been tampered with before he, Hercule Poirot, could stop it. But that wasn't - it was just an accident. Sir Henry muttered in disgust: "Think we'll have to stand around? It's a little bit of a chill. It's going to be all right, should we think about it, can we go under the awning?" Poirot, already feeling the wetness and the tendency to shudder on the soles of his feet, happily agreed.The open door of the gazebo, which stood on the side of the pool farthest from the house, gave them a view of the pool and the body, and the path leading to the house where the police would walk. The canopy is luxuriously furnished with comfortable benches with backs and arms and colorful local rugs.On a lacquered iron table, a tray held several glasses and a decanter of sherry. "I'd love to buy you a drink," said Sir Henry, "but I think I'd better not move anything until the police come—not move, I should imagine, that anything here will interest them. At last Better be on the safe side. Gjen hasn't brought the cocktail yet, I think he's waiting for you." The two of them sat quite carefully in the two wicker chairs near the door so that they could see the path leading to the house. A bondage permeated between them.This is a difficult occasion to have a conversation. Poirot looked around the awning, noting anything unusual that might attract him.An expensive arctic fox shawl is casually draped over the back of one of the chairs.He wondered whose it belonged to.Its ostentatious grandeur was at odds with anyone he had seen so far.He couldn't, for instance, imagine it wrapping around Mrs. Angkatell's shoulders. It worries him.It smelled of a mixture of affluence and self-promotion—characteristics that had been lacking in anyone he had met so far. "I think we may smoke," said Sir Henry, handing Poirot his case. Before taking his cigarette, Poirot sniffed the air. French Perfume - An expensive French perfume. It left only a trace, and there, again, the scent could not be associated in his mind with any of the denizens of the Hollow Manor. As he leaned forward to light his own cigarette on Sir Henry's lighter, Poirot's eyes fell on a small pile of matchboxes - six - on a small coffee table next to a settee. It was an unquestionably eccentric detail that attracted him.