牙医谋杀案41

II

“I’ve finished my letters,” said Blunt, appearing later in the morning. “Now, M. Poirot, I’m goingto show you my garden.”

The two men went out together and Blunt talked eagerly of his hobby.

The rock garden, with its rare alpine¹ plants, was his greatest joy and they spent some time therewhile Blunt pointed² out certain minute and rare species.

Hercule Poirot, his feet encased in his best patent leather shoes, listened patiently, shifting hisweight tenderly from one foot to the other and wincing³ slightly as the heat of the sun caused theillusion that his feet were gigantic puddings!

His host strolled on, pointing out various plants in the wide border. Bees were humming andfrom near at hand came the monotonous⁴ clicking of a pair of shears⁵ trimming a laurel hedge.

It was all very drowsy⁶ and peaceful.

Blunt paused at the end of the border, looking back. The clip of the shears was quite close by,though the clipper was concealed⁷ from view.

“Look at the vista⁸ down from here, Poirot. The Sweet Williams are particularly fine this year. Idon’t know when I’ve seen them so good—and those are Russell lupins. Marvellous colours.”

Crack! The shot broke the peace of the morning. Something sang angrily through the air.

Alistair Blunt turned bewildered to where a faint thread of smoke was rising from the middle ofthe laurels⁹.

There was a sudden outcry of angry voices, the laurels heaved as two men struggled together. Ahigh-pitched American voice sang out resolutely¹⁰:

“I’ve got you, you damned scoundrel! Drop that gun!”

Two men struggled out into the open. The young gardener who had dug so industriously¹¹ thatmorning was writhing¹² in the powerful grip of a man nearly a head taller.

Poirot recognized the latter at once. He had already guessed from the voice.

Frank Carter snarled¹³:

“Let go of me! It wasn’t me, I tell you! I never did.”

Howard Raikes said:

“Oh, no? Just shooting at the birds, I suppose!”

He stopped—looking at the newcomers.

“Mr. Alistair Blunt? This guy here has just taken a potshot at you. I caught him right in the act.”

Frank Carter cried out:

“It’s a lie! I was clipping the hedge. I heard a shot and the gun fell right here at my feet. I pickedit up—that’s only natural, that is, and then this bloke jumped on me.”

Howard Raikes said grimly:

“The gun was in your hand and it had just been fired!”

With a final gesture, he tossed the pistol to Poirot.

“Let’s see what the dick’s got to say about it! Lucky I got hold of you in time. I guess there areseveral more shots in that automatic of yours.”

Poirot murmured:

“Precisely.”

Blunt was frowning angrily. He said sharply:

“Now then Dunnon—Dunbury—what’s your name?”

Hercule Poirot interrupted. He said:

“This man’s name is Frank Carter.”

Carter turned on him furiously.

“You’ve had it in for me all along! You came spying on me that Sunday. I tell you, it’s not true.

I never shot at him.”

Hercule Poirot said gently:

“Then, in that case, who did?”

He added:

“There is no one else here but ourselves, you see.”

 

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