idea? What are you doing here? Anything—wrong?’
‘It depends what you call—wrong.’
The Australian nodded. He was a fine-looking man in spite of his bald head and advancing years. His physique was magnificent. He had a heavy, rather underhung face—a crude face, I called it to myself. The piercing blue of his eyes was the most noticeable thing about him.
‘See here,’ he said. ‘I came round to bring little Miss Buckley a handful of tomatoes and a cucumber. That man of hers is no good—bone idle—doesn’t grow a thing. Lazy hound. Mother and I—why, it makes us mad, and we feel it’s only neighbourly to do what we can! We’ve got a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. Neighbours should be matey, don’t you think? Icame in, as usual, through the window and dumped the basket down. I was just going off again when I heard footsteps and men’s voices overhead. That struck me as odd. We don’t deal much in burglars round here—but after all it was possible. I thought I’d just make sure everything was all right. Then I met you two on the stairs coming down. It gave me a bit of a surprise. And now you tell me you’re a bonza detective. What’s it all about?’
‘It is very simple,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘Mademoiselle had a rather alarming experience the other night. A picture fell above her bed. She may have told you of it?’
‘She did. A mighty fine escape.’
‘To make all secure I promised to bring her some special chain—it will not do to repeat the occurrence, eh? She tells me she is going out this morning, but I may come and measure what amount of chain will be needed. Voilà —it is simple.’
He flung out his hands with a childlike simplicity and his most engaging smile.
Croft drew a deep breath.
‘So that’s all it is?’
‘Yes—you have had the scare for nothing. We are very law-abiding citizens, my friend and I.’
‘Didn’t I see you yesterday?’ said Croft, slowly. ‘Yesterday evening it was. You passed our little place.’
‘Ah! yes, you were working in the garden and were so polite as to say good-afternoon when we passed.’
‘That’s right. Well—well. And you’re the Monsieur Hercule Poirot I’ve heard so much about. Tell me, are you busy, Mr Poirot? Because if not, I wish you’d come back with me now—have a cup of morning tea, Australian fashion, and meet my old lady. She’s read all about you in the newspapers.’
‘You are too kind, M. Croft. We have nothing to do and shall be delighted.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You have the measurements correctly, Hastings?’ asked Poirot, turning to me.
I assured him that I had the measurements correctly and we accompanied our new friend.
Croft was a talker; we soon realized that. He told us of his home near Melbourne, of his early struggles, of his meeting with his wife, of their combined efforts and of his final good fortune and success.
‘Right away we made up our minds to travel,’ he said. ‘We’d always wanted to come to the old country. Well, we did. We came down to this part of the world—tried to look up some of my wife’s people—they came from round about here. But we couldn’t trace any of them. Then we took a trip on the Continent—Paris, Rome, the Italian Lakes, Florence—all those places. It was while we were in Italy that we had the train accident.My poor wife was badly smashed up. Cruel, wasn’t it? I’ve taken her to the best doctors and they all say the same—there’s nothing for it but time—time and lying up. It’s an injury to the spine.’
‘What a misfortune!’
‘Hard luck, isn’t it? Well, there it was. And she’d only got one kind of fancy—to come down here. She kind of felt if we had a little place of our own—something small—it would make all the difference. We saw a lot of messy-looking shacks, and then by good luck we found this. Nice and quiet and tucked away—no cars passing, or gramophones next door. I took it right away.’
With the last words
‘It depends what you call—wrong.’
The Australian nodded. He was a fine-looking man in spite of his bald head and advancing years. His physique was magnificent. He had a heavy, rather underhung face—a crude face, I called it to myself. The piercing blue of his eyes was the most noticeable thing about him.
‘See here,’ he said. ‘I came round to bring little Miss Buckley a handful of tomatoes and a cucumber. That man of hers is no good—bone idle—doesn’t grow a thing. Lazy hound. Mother and I—why, it makes us mad, and we feel it’s only neighbourly to do what we can! We’ve got a lot more tomatoes than we can eat. Neighbours should be matey, don’t you think? Icame in, as usual, through the window and dumped the basket down. I was just going off again when I heard footsteps and men’s voices overhead. That struck me as odd. We don’t deal much in burglars round here—but after all it was possible. I thought I’d just make sure everything was all right. Then I met you two on the stairs coming down. It gave me a bit of a surprise. And now you tell me you’re a bonza detective. What’s it all about?’
‘It is very simple,’ said Poirot, smiling. ‘Mademoiselle had a rather alarming experience the other night. A picture fell above her bed. She may have told you of it?’
‘She did. A mighty fine escape.’
‘To make all secure I promised to bring her some special chain—it will not do to repeat the occurrence, eh? She tells me she is going out this morning, but I may come and measure what amount of chain will be needed. Voilà —it is simple.’
He flung out his hands with a childlike simplicity and his most engaging smile.
Croft drew a deep breath.
‘So that’s all it is?’
‘Yes—you have had the scare for nothing. We are very law-abiding citizens, my friend and I.’
‘Didn’t I see you yesterday?’ said Croft, slowly. ‘Yesterday evening it was. You passed our little place.’
‘Ah! yes, you were working in the garden and were so polite as to say good-afternoon when we passed.’
‘That’s right. Well—well. And you’re the Monsieur Hercule Poirot I’ve heard so much about. Tell me, are you busy, Mr Poirot? Because if not, I wish you’d come back with me now—have a cup of morning tea, Australian fashion, and meet my old lady. She’s read all about you in the newspapers.’
‘You are too kind, M. Croft. We have nothing to do and shall be delighted.’
‘That’s fine.’
‘You have the measurements correctly, Hastings?’ asked Poirot, turning to me.
I assured him that I had the measurements correctly and we accompanied our new friend.
Croft was a talker; we soon realized that. He told us of his home near Melbourne, of his early struggles, of his meeting with his wife, of their combined efforts and of his final good fortune and success.
‘Right away we made up our minds to travel,’ he said. ‘We’d always wanted to come to the old country. Well, we did. We came down to this part of the world—tried to look up some of my wife’s people—they came from round about here. But we couldn’t trace any of them. Then we took a trip on the Continent—Paris, Rome, the Italian Lakes, Florence—all those places. It was while we were in Italy that we had the train accident.My poor wife was badly smashed up. Cruel, wasn’t it? I’ve taken her to the best doctors and they all say the same—there’s nothing for it but time—time and lying up. It’s an injury to the spine.’
‘What a misfortune!’
‘Hard luck, isn’t it? Well, there it was. And she’d only got one kind of fancy—to come down here. She kind of felt if we had a little place of our own—something small—it would make all the difference. We saw a lot of messy-looking shacks, and then by good luck we found this. Nice and quiet and tucked away—no cars passing, or gramophones next door. I took it right away.’
With the last words
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