“Please, think no more of it,” I told him. “I quite understand. And... you have had my mother as a guest in your home for some days now, so you might understand why I understand, if you catch my drift.”
Jonathan smiled, but the disquietude in his eyes did not shift. He was all snarled up about something. Whatever it was, instinct told me that it was the true reason for his having followed me; the desire to repeat his apology was secondary. “Well, goodnight, then,” I said and turned to go upstairs, suspecting I would not get far before he called me back.
Sure enough... “Inspector Catchpool, may I ask you—doyou know if my father has spoken to Monsieur Poirot yet about this house?”
“Frellingsloe House?”
Jonathan nodded.
“I left them talking earlier, before dinner,” I told him. “I suppose the house might have been mentioned. I have not had a chance to speak to Poirot properly since then, I’m afraid. Was there something in particular—?”
“Yes, there is,” said Jonathan. “It was my idea that Father should ask for your Belgian friend’s help. The man is his hero, after all, so please remind Monsieur Poirot of how very sick he is—how little time he has left. Kindness, sparing his feelings—these things are more important than anything else. Please make sure your friend understands that.”
“What exactly does Arnold...?” I stopped, since there was little point in continuing. Jonathan had turned his back on me and was walking away, uninterested in any comment I may have wished to make.
How extraordinary, I thought—and did not get much further than that. A heavy blanket of exhaustion had descended upon me, making it difficult to reason clearly.
I was about to take off up the stairs when I heard a door close or open, followed by voices. Even for a tired man such as I, these were easily recognizable as belonging to Felix Rawcliffe and Vivienne Laurier.
“Then I do not understand why you allow it to continue,” Rawcliffe was saying.
“It is none of my business.” Vivienne sounded desperate.“I did not ask for any of this. I have done nothing! Why do you care so much about a stranger you have never met?”
“For as long as you allow him to live under this roof—” Rawcliffe began.
“If you want him to leave, get rid of him yourself,” said Vivienne. “Do not worry about what I might want or need. Evidently you care nothing for my feelings.”
“You love him, then,” Rawcliffe said. “If you did not, then you too would want him gone. Admit that you love him and I shall not raise the matter again. Or if you will not, then at least explain to me why you care so little for a stranger. Do we not have a moral duty to others, whether or not they are known to us personally?”
I had no time to reflect upon what all of this might mean; their footsteps were coming closer. I hastened up the stairs to the second floor and was planning to knock on Poirot’s door when I heard shuddering snores. So he was asleep already. Excellent; I decided this meant that he had found Arnold Laurier safe and well—as well as a man could be in his condition, that is.
I was pleased to find that my room—the one opposite Poirot’s—contained my suitcase. I made sure the door was securely closed and then lay down on the bed. My last conscious thought before falling into a deep sleep was, “I must on no account fall asleep while fully dressed.”
20 December 1931
Chapter 10
Poirot’s Bad Dream
I was roused by a loudrat-a-tat-tat. I lurched upwards into a seated position, still half asleep and aware of the words “Someone is firing a gun,” though I could not discern if this was another person’s voice or my own thoughts.
It felt important to move quickly, but I could not. Then I was flat on my back again. When I opened my eyes a few seconds later, I wondered if I had imagined the whole episode. Then I heard it again: a hard rapping on my door. Relief that it was someone knocking and not “the stuttering rifles” rapid rattle’ was short-lived as I noticed it was still fully dark outside. There had to be some sort of crisis if I was needed at this hour.
As quickly as I could, I staggered to the door of my bedroom and opened it. Poirot walked in, wearing a red dressing gown over his pajamas, with a red and gold brocade belt and matching slippers. He looked tired but full of purpose. In his right hand, he held an envelope. There was writing on the front of it, but I could not read it.
“Did you wake me, Catchpool?”
“No.Youwokeme, by banging on the door. Don’t you remember?”
“I knocked on your door because you knocked on mine first. You were shouting.”
I told him I had been fast asleep until a few seconds ago.
He eyed me suspiciously. “You were perhaps sleepwalking?”
“I have never sleep-walked,” I said. “Nor, to my knowledge, have I ever sleep-shouted.”
“I see.” He stood perfectly still in the middle of the room.
