. . . We had a parrot. One morning it was

there in my room with its throat cut --and

I was lying on the bed with the razor

in my hand wet with its blood!"

He leant closer to Poirot.

"Even just lately things have been

killed,3? he whispered. "All around--in

the village--out on the downs. Sheep, young lambs --a collie dog. Father locks me in at night, but sometimes --sometimes

--the door's open in the morning.

I must have a key hidden somewhere but I don't know where I've hidden it. I don't know. It isn't / who do these things --it's

someone else who comes into me --who

269

takes possession of me--who turns me

from a man into a raving monster who

wants blood and who can't drink water...."

Suddenly he buried his face in his

hands.

After a minute or two, Poirot asked:

"I still do not understand why you have

not seen a doctor ?33

Hugh Chandler shook his head. He

said:

"Don't you really understand? Physically

I'm strong. I'm as strong as a bull.

I might live for years --years --shut up

between four walls! That I can't face! It

would be better to go out altogether. . . .

There are ways, you know. An accident,

cleaning a gun ... that sort of thing. Diana

will understand.... I'd rather take my own

way out!3'

He looked defiantly at Poirot, but

Poirot did not respond to the challenge.

Instead he asked mildly:

"What do you eat and drink ?"

Hugh Chandler flung his head back.

He roared with laughter.

"Nightmares after indigestion? Is that

your idea ?33

Poirot merely repeated gently:

270

"What do you eat and drink ?"

"Just what everybody else eats and

drinks."

"No special medicine ? Cachets ? Pills ?"

"Good Lord, no. Do you really think

patent pills would cure my trouble?"

He quoted derisively: " 'Canst though

then minister to a mind diseased ?' "

Hercule Poirot said dryly:

"I am trying to. Does anyone in this

house suffer with eye trouble ?"

Hugh Chandler stared at him. He said:

"Father's eyes give him a good deal of

trouble. He has to go to an oculist fairly

often."

"Ah!" Poirot meditated for a moment

or two. Then he said:

"Colonel Frobisher, I suppose, has

spent much of his life in India ?"

"Yes, he was in the Indian Army. He's

very keen on India — talks about it a lot —

native traditions — and all that."

Poirot murmured "Ah!" again.

Then he remarked:

cc! see that you have cut your chin."

Hugh put his hand up.

"Yes, quite a nasty gash. Father startled

me one day when I was shaving. I'm a bit

271

nervy these days, you know. And I've

had a bit of a rash over my chin and neck.

Makes shaving difficult."

Poirot said:

"You should use a soothing cream."

"Oh, I do. Uncle George gave me one."

He gave a sudden laugh.