The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

"Yes, you know--Bolshies, Reds, all that sort of thing." "Don't be absurd, Henry," said his wife. Mr. Delafontaine collapsed. "Sorry--sorry--I just wondered." Mary Delafontaine looked frankly at Poirot. Her eyes were very blue--the color of forget-menots. "If you can tell us anything, M. Poirot, I should be glad if you would do so. I can assure you that I have a--a reason for asking." Mr. Delafontaine looked alarmed. "Be careful, old girl--you know there may be nothing in it." Again his wife quelled him with a glance. "Well, M. Poirot?" Slowly, gravely, Hercule Poirot shook his head. He shook it with visible regret, but he shook it. "At present, madame," he said, "I fear I must say nothing." He bowed, picked up his hat and moved to the door. Mary Delafontaine came with him into the hall. On the doorstep he paused and looked at her. "You are fond of your garden, I think, madame?" "I? Yes, I spend a lot of time gardening." "Je vous fait mes compliments."

He bowed once more and strode down to the

gate. As he passed out of it and turned to the right he glanced back and registered two impressions --a sallow face watching him from a first-floor window, and a man of erect and soldierly carriage pacing up and down on the opposite side of the street. Hercule Poirot nodded to himself. "Definitive 64 Agatha Chrt

rnent," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole! What move must the cat make now?"

His decision took him to the nearest post office. Here he put through a couple of telephone calls. The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his steps to Charman's Green police station, where he inquired for Inspector Sims.

Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone call through from the chief constable about you.

He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-fice."

The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.

"You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot. Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost before we know it is a case. What put you onto it?"

Poirot drew out the letter he had received and handed it to the inspector. The latter read it with some interest.

"Interesting," he said. "The trouble is, it might mean so many things. Pity she couldn't have been a little more explicit. It would have helped us now."

"Or there might have been no need for help." "You mean?"

"She might have been alive."

"You go as far as that, do you? H'm--I'm not

sure you're wrong."

"I pray of you, inspector, recount to me the facts. I know nothing at all."

HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW? 65

"That's easily done. Old lady was taken bad after dinner on Tuesday night. Very alarming. Convulsions--spasms--what not. They sent for the doctor. By the time he arrived she was dead. Idea was she'd died of a fit. Well, he didn't much like the look of things. He hemmed and hawed and put it with a bit of soft sawder, but he made it clear that he couldn't give a death certificate. And as far as the family go, that's where the matter stands. They're awaiting the result of the post-mortem. We've got a bit farther. The doctor gave us the tip right away--he and the police surgeon did the autopsy together--and the result is in no doubt whatever. The old lady died of a large dose

of strychnine."

"Aha!"

"That's right. Very nasty bit of work. Point is, who gave it to her? It must have been administered very shortly before death. First idea was it was given to her in her food at dinner--but, frankly, that seems to be a washout. They had artichoke soup, served from a tureen, fish pie and apple tart."

"'They' being?"

"Miss Barrowby, Mr. Delafontaine and Mrs. Delafontaine. Miss Barrowby had a kind of nurse-attendant--a half Russian girl--but she didn't eat with the family. She had the remains as they came out from the dining room. There's a maid, but it was her night out. She left the soup on the stove and the fish pie in the oven, and the apple tart was cold. All hree of them ate the same thing--and, apart from that, I don't think you could get strychnine down anyone's throat that way. Stuff's

64 Agatha Christie

merit," he said. "There is a mouse in this hole! What move must the cat make now?"

His decision took him to the nearest post office. Here he put through a couple of telephone calls. The result seemed to be satisfactory. He bent his steps to Charman's Green police station, where he inquired for Inspector Sims.

Inspector Sims was a big, burly man with a hearty manner. "M. Poirot?" he inquired. "I thought so. I've just this minute had a telephone call through from the chief constable about you. He said you'd be dropping in. Come into my of-rice."

The door shut, the inspector waved Poirot to one chair, settled himself in another, and turned a gaze of acute inquiry upon his visitor.

"You're very quick onto the mark, M. Poirot. Come to see us about this Rosebank case almost

before we know it is a case. What put you onto