The Hollow

"And this is another cousin of ours^ Edward Angkatell. And Miss Hardcastle."

Poirot acknowledged the introductions with polite bows. Midge felt suddenly that she wanted to laugh hysterically; she controlled herself with an effort.

"And now, my dear," said Sir Henry, "I think that, as you suggested, you had better go back to the house… I will have a word or two here with M. Poirot."

Lady Angkatell looked thoughtfully at them.

"I do hope," she said, "that Gerda is lying down. Was that the right thing to suggest?

I really couldn't think what to say. I mean, one has no precedent. What does one say to a woman who has just killed her husband?"

She looked at them as though hoping that some authoritative answer might be given to her question.

Then she went along the path towards the house. Midge followed her. Edward brought up the rear.

Poirot was left with his host.

Sir Henry cleared his throat. He seemed a little uncertain what to say.

"Christow," he observed at last, "was a very able fellow-a very able fellow."

Poirot's eyes rested once more on the dead man. He still had the curious impression that the dead man was more alive than the living.

He wondered what gave him that impression.

He responded politely to Sir Henry:

"Such a tragedy as this is very unfortunate," he said.

"This sort of thing is more in your line than mine," said Sir Henry. "I don't think I have ever been at close quarters with a murder before. I hope I've done the right thing so far?"

"The procedure has been quite correct," said Poirot. "You have summoned the police and until they arrive and take charge, there is nothing for us to do-except to make sure that nobody disturbs the body or tampers with the evidence."

As he said the last word he looked down into the pool where he could see the revolver lying on the concrete bottom slightly distorted by the blue water.

The evidence, he thought, had perhaps already been tampered with before he, Hercule Poirot, had been able to prevent it…

But no-that had been an accident.

Sir Henry murmured distastefully:

"Think we've got to stand about? A bit chilly. It would be all right, I should think, if we went inside the pavilion?"

Poirot, who had been conscious of damp feet and a disposition to shiver, acquiesced gladly. The pavilion was at the side of the pool farthest from the house and through its open door they commanded a view of the pool and the body and the path to the house along which the police would come.

The pavilion was luxuriously furnished with comfortable settees and gay native rugs.

On a painted iron table a tray was set with glasses and a decanter of sherry.

"I'd offer you a drink," said Sir Henry, "but I suppose I'd better not touch anything until the police come-not, I should imagine, that there's anything to interest them in here. Still, it is better to be on the safe side.

Gudgeon hadn't brought out the cocktails yet, I see. He was waiting for you to arrive." The two men sat down rather gingerly in two wicker chairs near the door so that they I could watch the path from the house.

A constraint settled over them. It was an occasion on which it was difficult to make small talk.

Poirot glanced round the pavilion, noting anything that struck him as unusual. An expensive cape of platinum fox had been flung carelessly across the back of one of the chairs. He wondered whose it was. Its rather ostentatious magnificence did not harmonize with any of the people he had seen up to now. He could not, for instance, imagine it round Lady AngkatelFs shoulders.

It worried him. It breathed a mixture of opulence and self-advertisement-and those characteristics were lacking in anyone he had seen so far.

"I suppose we can smoke," said Sir

Henry, offering his case to Poirot.

Before taking the cigarette, Poirot sniffed the air.

French perfume… an expensive French perfume…

Only a trace of it lingered, but it was there,

[and again the scent was not the scent that associated itself in his mind with any of the occupants of The Hollow…

As he leaned forward to light his cigarette at Sir Henry's lighter, Poirot's glance fell on a little pile of match-boxes-six of them-stacked on a small table near one of the settees.

It was a detail that struck him as definitely odd.

Chapter XII

"Half past two," said Lady Angkatell.

She was in the drawing-room with Midge and Edward. From behind the closed door of Sir Henry's study came the murmur of voices. Hercule Poirot, Sir Henry and Inspector Grange were in there.

Lady Angkatell sighed.

"You know, Midge, I still feel one ought to do something about lunch… It seems, of course, quite heartless to sit down round the table as though nothing had happened.

But after all, M. Poirot was asked to lunch -and he is probably hungry. And it can't be upsetting to him that poor John Christow has been killed, like it is to us… And I must say that though I really do not feel like eating myself. Henry and Edward must be extremely hungry after being out shooting all the morning-"