Poirot Investigates - Agatha Christie - 3

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But now that the need for secrecy has gone by, I feel it is only just that England should know that debt it owes to my quaint little friend, whose marvellous brain so ably averted a great catastrophe. One evening, after dinner, I will not particularise the date. It suffices to say that it was at the time when peace by negotiation was the parrot cry of England's enemies. My friend and I were sitting in his rooms. After being invalidated out of the army, I had been given a recruiting job. And it had become my custom to drop in on Poirot in the evenings after dinner and talk with him of any cases of interest that he might have had on hand. I was attempting to discuss with him the sensational news of the day, no less than the attempted assassination of Mr David McAdham, England's prime minister. The account in the newspapers had evidently been carefully censored. No details were given. Save that the prime minister had had a marvellous escape, the bullet just grazing his cheek. I considered that our police must have been shamefully careless for such an outrage to be possible. I could well understand that the German agents in England would be willing to risk much for such an achievement. Fighting Mac, as his own party had nicknamed him, had strenuously and unequivocally combated the pacifist influence which was becoming so prevalent. He was more than England's prime minister. He was England. And to have removed him from his sphere of influence would have been a crushing and paralyzing blow to Britain. Poirot was busy mopping a grey suit with a minute sponge. Never was there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were his passion. Now, with the odor of benzine filling the air, he was quite unable to give me his full attention. In a little minute I am with you, my friend. I have all but finished. The spot of Greece he is not good, huh? I remove him. So, mm-hmm. He waved his sponge. I smiled as I lit another cigarette. Anything interesting on? I inquired after a minute or two. Ah, mm-hmm. I assist her. How do you call it? A charlotte to find her husband. A difficult affair, needing to act. For I have a little idea that when he is found he will not be pleased. What would you? For my part I sympathize with him. He was a man of discrimination to lose himself. I laughed. Ah, at last! The spot of Greece he is gone. I am at your disposal. Well, I was asking you what you thought of this attempt to assassinate Maccabon. On fontilage, replied Poirot promptly, one can hardly take it seriously. To fire with the rifle never does it succeed. It is a device from the past. Well, it was very near succeeding this time, I reminded him. Poirot shook his head impatiently. He was about to reply when the landlady thrust her head round the door and informed him that there were two gentlemen below who wanted to see him. They won't give their names, sir, but they say as it is very important. Let them mount, said Poirot, carefully folding his grey trousers. In a few minutes the two visitors were ushered in, and my heart gave a leap as in the foremost I recognized no lesser personage than Lord Ester, leader of the House of Commons. Whilst his companion, Mr. Bernard Dodge, was also a member of the War Cabinet and, as I knew, a close personal friend of the Prime Minister. Mr. Poirot, said Lord Ester interrogatively, my friend bowed. The great man looked at me and hesitated. Um, my business is private. Oh, you may speak freely before Captain Hastings, said my friend, nodding to me to remain. He has not all the gifts, no, but I answer for his discretion. Lord Ester still hesitated, but Mr. Dodge broke in abruptly. Oh, come on, then let's beat about the bush. As far as I can see, the whole of England will know the whole we're in soon enough times everything. Pray be seated, Mr. Poirot politely. Will you take the big chair, my lord? Lord Ester started slightly. You know me? Poirot smiled. Certainly? I read the little papers with the pictures. How should I not know you? Well, Mr. Poirot, I've come to consult you upon a matter of the most vital urgency. I must ask for absolute secrecy. You have the word of her, cute Poirot. I can say no more, said my friend, grand, delicately. When it concerns the Prime Minister, we are in grave trouble. We're up a tree, interposed Mr. Dodge. But the injury is serious, then, I asked. What injury? Well, the bullet wound. Oh, that! cried Mr. Dodge contemptuously. That's old history! Well, as my colleague Serds continued Lord Ester, that affair is over and done with. Luckily, it failed. I wish I could say as much for the second attempt. Ah, there has been a second attempt, then. Yes, though not of the same nature. Mr. Poirot, the Prime Minister, has disappeared. What? He has been kidnapped. Impossible! I cried, stupefied. Poirot, through a withering glance at me, which I knew, enjoined me to keep my mouth shut. Now, unfortunately, impossible as it seems, it is only too true. Continued his lordship. Poirot looked at Mr. Dodge. You said just now, Mr. Ester, that time was everything. What did you mean by that? The two men exchanged glances, and then Lord Ester said, You have heard, Mr. Poirot, of the approaching Allied conference. My friend nodded. For obvious reasons, no details have been given of when and where it is to take place. But, although it has been kept out of the newspapers, the date is, of course, widely known in diplomatic circles. The conference is to be held tomorrow, Thursday evening, at Versailles. Now, you perceive the terrible gravity of the situation. I will not conceal from you that the Prime Minister's presence at the conference is a vital necessity. The pacifist propaganda, started and maintained by the German agents in our midst, has been very active. It is the universal opinion that the turning point of the conference will be the strong personality of the Prime Minister. His absence may have the most serious results, possibly a premature and disastrous peace. And we have no one who can be sent in his place. He alone can represent England. Poirot's face had grown very grave. Then you regard the kidnapping of the Prime Minister as a direct attempt to prevent his being present at the conference. Oh, most certainly I do. He was actually on his way to France at the time. And the conference is to be held at nine o'clock tomorrow night. Poirot drew an enormous watch from his pocket. Hmm, it is now a quarter to nine. Yes, twenty-four hours, said Mr. Dodge thoughtfully. And a quarter, amended Poirot, do not forget a quarter, Monsieur. It may come in useful. Now for the details, the abduction, did it take place in England or in France? In France. Mr. McAdham crossed to France this morning. He was to stay tonight as the guest of the Commander-in-Chief, proceeding tomorrow to Paris. He was conveyed across the channel by destroyer. At Boulogne, he was met by a car from General Headquarters and one of the Commander-in-Chief's ADCs. Ahead? Well, they started from Boulogne, but they never arrived. What? Monsieur Poirot, it was a bogus car and a bogus ADC. The real car was found in a side road, with the chauffeur and the ADC neatly gagged and bound. And the bogus car is still at large. Poirot made a gesture of impatience. Incredible! Surely it cannot escape attention for long. Well, so we thought. It seemed merely a question of searching thoroughly. That part of France is under military law. We were convinced that the car could not go long unnoticed. The French police and our own Scotland yard men and the military are straining every nerve. It is, as you say, incredible. But nothing has been discovered. At that moment a tap came at the door and a young officer entered with a heavily sealed envelope which he handed to Lord Astaire. Just through from France, I brought it on here as you direct in. The minister tore it open eagerly and uttered an exclamation. The officer withdrew. Ah, here is news at last. This telegram has just been decoded. They have found the second car. Also the secretary Daniels chloroformed, gagged and bound in an abandoned farm near... We can't mention the name here. Now he remembers nothing except something being pressed against his mouth and nose from behind and struggling to free himself. The police are satisfied as to the genuineness of his statement. And they have found nothing else? No. Not the prime minister's dead body? Then there is hope. But it is strange. Why after trying to shoot him this morning are they now taking so much trouble to keep him alive? Dodge shook his head. Oh, one thing's quite certain. They determined at all costs to prevent his attending the conference. If it is humanly possible, the prime minister shall be there. God grant it is not too late. Now, monsieur, you are counting to me everything from the beginning. I must know about this shooting affair as well. Last night the prime minister accompanied by one of his secretaries, Captain Daniels. The same who accompanied him to France? Yes. As I was saying, they motored down to Windsor where the prime minister was granted an audience. Early this morning he returned to town and it was on the way that the attempted assassination took place. One moment, if you please. Who is this Captain Daniels? You have his dossier? Lord Esther smiled. I thought you would ask me that. We do not know very much about him. He is of no particular family. He has served in the English army and is an extremely able secretary, being an exceptionally fine linguist. I believe he speaks seven languages. It is for that reason that the prime minister chose him to accompany him to France. Has he any relatives in England? Two aunts. Mrs Everard, who lives at Hampstead, and a Miss Daniels, who lives near Ascot. Ascot? That is near to Windsor, is it not? Yes. Well, the point has not been overlooked, but it has led to nothing. You regard the Captain Daniels then as above suspicion? A shade of bitterness crept into Lord Esther's voice as he replied, No, Monsieur Poirot, in these days I should hesitate before I pronounced anyone above suspicion. Très bien. Now I understand, my lord, that the prime minister would, as a matter of course, be under vigilant police protection, which ought to render any assault upon him an impossibility? Lord Esther bowed his head. That is so. The prime minister's car was closely followed by another car containing detectives in plain clothes. Mr McAdham knew nothing of these precautions. He is personally a most fearless man and would be inclined to sweep them away arbitrarily. But naturally the police make their own arrangements. In fact, the Premier's chauffeur, Oh Murphy, is a CID man. Oh Murphy? That is a name of Ireland, is it not so? Yes, yes, he's an Irishman. From what part of Ireland? I can't declare, I believe. Tia, but proceed, my lord. The Premier started for London. The car was a closed one. He and Captain Daniel sat inside. The second car followed as usual. But, unluckily, for some unknown reason the prime minister's car deviated from the main road. At the point where the road curves interrupted Poirot, yes, but how did you know? Ah, c'est évident. Continue. For some unknown reason, continued Lord Astaire, the Premier's car left the main road. The police car, unaware of the deviation, continued to keep for the high road. At a short distance down the unfrequented lane, the prime minister's car was suddenly held up by a band of masked men. The chauffeur, ah, that brave Oh Murphy, murmured Poirot thoughtfully, the chauffeur, momentarily taken aback, jammed on the brakes. The prime minister put his head out of the window. Instantly a shot rang out, then another. The first one grazed his cheek. The second, fortunately, went wide. The chauffeur, now realising the danger, instantly forged straight ahead, scattering the band of men. A near escape, I ejaculated with a shiver. But Mr. McCaddon refused to make any fuss over the slight wound he had received. He declared it was only a scratch. He stopped at a local cottage hospital where it was dressed and bound up. He did not, of course, reveal his identity. He then drove, as per schedule, straight to Charin Cross, where a special train for Dover was awaiting him. And after a brief account of what had happened had been given to the anxious police by Captain Daniels, he duly departed for France. At Dover he went on board the waiting destroyer. At Boulogne, as you know, the bogus car was waiting for him, carrying the Union jack and correct in every detail. Is that all you have to tell me? Yes. There is no other circumstance that you have omitted, my lord. Well, there is one rather peculiar thing. Yes. The prime minister's car did not return home after leaving the prime minister at Charin Cross. Three, two, sun. EasyJet's big orange sale is now on, with up to £400 off package holidays and up to 20% off flights. Book now at easyjet.com. Get out there. Selected dates and flights, sale and fifth of May. Holidays minimum spend and after protected, season fees apply. At Ben and Jerry's, we had a thought our cookie dough ice cream is already loaded with chunks. It's a classic for a reason. Could we make it even more cookier? Go on. The best way to top it was the bottom it. Let's just clarify that with cookies. Introducing the new Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich. Our legendary ice cream packed with cookie dough chunks between soft vanilla and cocoa marbled cookies. No spoon needed. More ways to enjoy cookie dough. Count me in. The new Ben and Jerry's cookie dough ice cream sandwich. The police were anxious to interview a Murphy so a search was instituted at once. The search was discovered standing outside a certain unsavory little restaurant in Soho, which is well known as a meeting place of German agents. And the chauffeur? The chauffeur was nowhere to be found. He too had disappeared. So, Seboire thoughtfully, there are two disappearances, the Prime Minister in France and Omerphy in London. He looked keenly at Lord Astaire, who made a gesture of despair. I can only tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that if anyone had suggested to me yesterday that Omerphy was a traitor, I should have laughed in his face. And today? Well, today I do not know what to think. Poirot nodded gravely. He looked at his turnip of a watch again. I understand that I have cut the blanche, Monsieur, in every way I mean. I must be able to go where I choose and how I choose. Oh, perfectly. There is special train leaving for Dover in one hour's time, with a further contingent from Scotland Yard. You shall be accompanied by a military officer and a CID man who will hold themselves at your disposal in every way. Is that satisfactory? Quite. One more question before you leave, Monsieur. What made you come to me? I am, well, unknown, obscure in this great London of yours. Well, we sought you out on the express recommendation and wish of a very great man of your own country. Como? My old friend, the Prefé? Lord Astaire shook his head. One higher than the Prefé, one whose word was once law in Belgium and shall be again. That England has sworn. Poirot's hand flew swiftly to a dramatic salute. Amen to that. Ha, ha, but my master does not forget. Ah, Monsieur, I, Erkul Poirot, will serve you faithfully. Heaven only send that it will be in time. But this is dark, dark. I cannot see. Well, Poirot, I cried impatiently as the door closed behind the ministers. What do you think? My friend was busy packing a minute suitcase with quick deft movements. He shook his head thoughtfully. I don't know what to think. My brains desert me. Well, why, as you said, kidnap him when a knock on the head would do as well, I amused. Pardon me, mon ami, but they did not quite say that. It is undoubtedly far more their affair to kidnap him. But why? Because uncertainty creates panic. That is one reason. Where the Prime Minister did it would be a terrible calamity, but the situation would have to be faced. But now you have paralysis. Will the Prime Minister reappear or will he not? Is he dead or alive? Nobody knows. And until they know, nothing definite can be done. And as I tell you, uncertainty breeds panic, which is what Le Boche are playing for. Then again, if the kidnappers are holding him secretly somewhere, they have the advantage of being able to make terms with both sides. The German government is not a liberal paymaster as a rule, but no doubt they can be made to discourage substantial remittances in such a case as this. And sadly, they run no risk of the Hangman's rope. Decidedly kidnapping is their affair. Then if that is so, why should they first try to shoot him? Poirot made a gesture of anger. That is just what I do not understand. It is inexplicable, stupid. They have all their arrangements made, and very good arrangements too, for the abduction. And yet they imperiled the whole affair by a melodramatic attack, worthy of a cinema, and quite as unreal. It is almost impossible to believe in it, with its band of masked men, not twenty miles from London. Or perhaps there were two quite separate attempts, which happened irrespective of each other, I suggested. Ah, no, no, no, no, no. That would be too much of a coincidence. Then further, who is the traitor? There must have been a traitor in the first affair, anyway. But who was it? Daniels or O'Murphy? It must have been one of the two, or why did a car leave the main road? We cannot suppose that the Prime Minister connived at his own assassination. Did O'Murphy take that turning of his own accord, or was it Daniels who told him to do so? Well, surely it must have been O'Murphy's doing. Yes, because if it was Daniels, the Prime Minister would have heard the order and would have asked the reason. But they are all together too many whys in this affair, and they contradict each other. If O'Murphy is an honest man, why did he leave the main road? But if he was a dishonest man, why did he start a car again when only two shots had been fired? Thereby an old probability saving the Prime Minister's life. And again, if he was honest, why did he immediately on leaving Charon Cross drive to a well-known rendezvous of German spies? Ah, it looks bad, I said. Let us look at a case with method. What have we for and against these two men? Take O'Murphy first. Against? That his conduct in leaving the main road was suspicious. That he is an Irishman from County Clair. That he has disappeared in a highly suggestive manner. Yeah. Now, four. That his promptness in restarting the car saved the Prime Minister's life. That he is a Scotland Yard man, and obviously from the post allotted to him a trusted detective. Now for Daniels. There is not much against him except the fact that nothing is known of his antecedents and that he speaks too many languages for a good Englishman. Pardon my name, but as linguists you are deplorable. Now, him, we have the fact that he was found gagged, bound and chloroformed, which does not look as though he had anything to do with the matter. Well, he might have gagged and bound himself to divert suspicion. Poirot shook his head. No, the French police would make no mistake of that kind. Besides, once he had attained his object and the Prime Minister was safely abducted, there would not be much point in his remaining behind. His accomplices could have gagged and chloroformed him, of course, but I failed to see what object they hoped to accomplish by it. He can be of little use to them now, for until the circumstance is concerning the Prime Minister have been cleared up, he is bound to be closely watched. Perhaps he hoped to start the police on a false scent. Then why did he not do so? He merely says that something was pressed over his nose and mouth and that he remembers nothing more. No, there is no false scent there. It sounds remarkably like the truth. Well, I said glancing at the clock. I suppose we'd better start for the station. You may find more clues in France. Possibly, mon ami, but I doubt it. It is incredible to me that the Prime Minister has not been discovered in that limited area where the difficulty of concealing him must be tremendous. If the military and the police of two countries have not found him, how shall I? At Charin Cross we were met by Mr. Dodge. This is Detective Barnes of Scotland Yard and Major Norman. They will hold themselves entirely at your disposal. Now, good luck to you. It's a bad business, but I've not given up hope. Must be off now. And the Minister strode rapidly away. We chatted in a desultory fashion with Major Norman. In the centre of the little group of men on the platform, I recognised a little ferret-faced fellow talking to a tall, fair man. He was an old acquaintance of Poirot's, Detective Inspector Japp, supposed to be one of the smartest of Scotland Yards officers. He came over and greeted my friend cheerfully. I heard you were on this job too. Smart bit of work. So far they've got away with the goods all right, but I can't believe they can keep him hidden long. Our people are going through France with a tooth comb, and so are the French. I can't help feeling it's only a matter of hours now. Well, yes, that is, if he's still alive, remarked the tall detective gloomily. Japp's face fell. But somehow I've got the feeling he's still alive all right. Poirot nodded. Oh, yes, yes, he's alive. But can he be found in time? I, like you, did not believe he could be hidden so long. The whistle blew, and we all trooped up into the Pullman car. Then, with a slow, unwilling jerk, the train drew out of the station. It was a curious journey. The Scotland Yard men crowded together. Maps of northern France were spread out, and eager forefingers traced the lines of roads and villages. Each man had his own pet theory. Poirot showed none of his usual locustity, but sat staring in front of him with an expression on his face that reminded me of a puzzled child. I talked to Norman, whom I found quite an amusing fellow. While unarriving at Dover, Poirot's behaviour moved me to intense amusement. The little man, as he went on board the boat, clutched desperately at my arm. The wind was blowing lustily. Oh, mon Dieu, he murmured, this is terrible. Oh, have courage, Poirot! I cried. You'll succeed. You'll find him, I'm sure of it. Oh, mon ami, you mistake my emotion. It is this villainous sea that troubles me. The mal-de-mer, huh? He's horrible suffering. When you manage procurement for multiple facilities, every order matters. But when it's for a hospital system, they matter even more. Granger gets it, and knows there's no time for managing multiple suppliers and no room for shipping delays. That's why Granger offers millions of products in fast, dependable delivery, so you can keep your facility stocked, safe, and running smoothly. Call 1-800-GRANGER, click Granger.com, or just stop by. Granger, for the ones who get it done. Oh, I said rather take in a bag. The first throb of the engines was felt, and Poirot groaned and closed his eyes. Look, Major Norman has a map of northern France, if you would like to study it. Poirot shook his head impatiently. Oh, no, no, no, but no, leave me, my friend, see you. Just think, the stomach and the brain must be in harmony. L'Avergie has a method most excellent for averting the malde-mer. If you breathe in and out slowly, so... In turning the head from left to right and counting six between each breath, I left him to his gymnastic endeavours and went on back. As we came slowly into Beloyne Harbour, Poirot appeared, neat and smiling, and announced to me in a whisper that L'Avergie's system had succeeded to a marvel. Japs' forefinger was still tracing imaginary roots on his map. Nonsense, the car started from Beloyne, here they branched off. Now, my idea is that they transferred the Prime Minister to another car, see? Well, said the tall detective, I shall make for the sea-ports. Ten to one they've smuggled him on board a ship. Japs shook his head. No, no, no, no, no, too obvious. The order went out at once to close all the ports. The day was just breaking as we landed. Major Norman touched Poirot on the arm. Are there's a military car here waiting for you, sir? Oh, thank you, Mr. But for the moment I do not propose to leave Beloyne. What? No, we will enter this hotel here by the key. He suited the action to the word, demanded and was accorded a private room. We three followed him, puzzled and uncomprehending. He shot a quick glance at us. Ah, it is not so that a good detective should act, eh? I perceive your thought. He must be full of energy, eh? He must rush to and fro, eh? He should prostrate himself from the dusty road and seek the marks of tiles through a little glass, eh? He must gather up the cigarette end, the fallen match, eh? That is your idea, is it not? His eyes challenged us. But I, Erkyl Poirot, tell you that it is not so. The true clues are within here. He tapped his forehead. See you, I need not have left London. It would have been sufficient for me to sit quietly in my rooms there. All that matters is the little grass cells within. Secretly and silently they do their part, until suddenly I call for a map and lay my finger on a spot, so. And I say, the Prime Minister is there. And it is so. With method and logic one can accomplish anything. This frantic rush into France was a mistake. It is playing a child's game of hide and seek. But now, though it may be too late, I will set to work the right way from within. Silence, my friends, I beg of you. And for five long hours the little man sat motionless, blinking his eyelids like a cat, his green eyes flickering and becoming steadily greener and greener. The Scotland Yard man was obviously contemptuous. The poor man was bored and impatient, and I myself found the time pass with wearisome slowness. Finally I got up and strolled as noiselessly as I could to the window. The matter was becoming a farce. I was secretly concerned for my friend. If he failed, I would have preferred him to fail in a less ridiculous manner. Out of the window I idly watched the daily leave boat, belching forth columns of smoke as she lay alongside the key. I was enraged by Poirot's voice close to my elbow. Mise-Mie, let us start. I turned. An extraordinary transformation had come over my friend. His eyes were flickering with excitement. His chest was swelled to the uttermost. I have been an imbecile, my friends, but I see daylight at last. Major Norman moved hastily to the door. Well, I'll order the car. No, there is no need. I shall not use it. Thank heaven the wind has fallen. What do you mean you're going to walk, sir? No, my young friend, I am no Saint Peter. I prefer to cross the sea by boat. But across the sea? Yes. To work with method one must begin from the beginning, and the beginning of this affair was in England. Therefore we return to England. At three o'clock we stood once more upon Charing Cross's platform. To all our ex-postulations Poirot turned a deaf ear and reiterated again and again that the start of the beginning was not a waste of time, but the only way. On the way over he had conferred with Norman in a low voice and the latter had dispatched a sheaf of telegrams from Dover. Owing to the special passes held by Norman we got through everywhere in record time. In London a large police car was awaiting for us with some plain clothesmen, one of whom handed a typewritten sheet of paper to my friend. He answered my inquiring glance. A list of the cottage hospitals with a certain radius west of London. I wired for it from Dover. We were world rapidly through the London streets. We were on the Bath Road. On we went through Hammersmith, Chiswick and Brentford. I began to see our objective. Through Windsor and so on to Ascot. My heart gave a leap. Ascot was where Daniels had an aunt living. We were after him then, not O' Murphy. We duly stopped at the gate of a trim villa. Poirot jumped out and rang the bell. I saw a perplexed frown dimming the radiance of his face. Plainly he was not satisfied. The bell was answered. He was ushered inside. In a few moments he reappeared and climbed into the car with a short sharp shake of his head. My hopes began to die down. It was past four now. Even if he found certain evidence incriminating Daniels, what would be the good of it unless he could ring from someone the exact spot in France where they were holding the Prime Minister? Our return progress towards London was an interrupted one. We deviated from the main road more than once and occasionally stopped at a small building which I had no difficulty in recognizing as a cottage hospital. Poirot only spent a few minutes at each, but at every halt his radiant assurance was more and more restored. He whispered something to Norman to which the latter replied, Ah yes, if you turn off to the left you'll find them waiting by the bridge. We turned up a side road and in the failing light I discerned a second car waiting by the side of the road. It contained two men in plain clothes. Poirot got down and spoke to them and then we started off in a northerly direction, the other car following close behind. We drove for some time. Our objective being obviously one of the northern suburbs of London. Finally we drove up to the front door of a tall house standing a little back from the road in its own grounds. Norman and I were left with the car. Poirot and one of the detectives went up to the door and rang. A neat parlor maid opened it. The detective spoke, I'm a police officer and I have a warrant to search this house. The girl gave a little scream and a tall, handsome woman of middle age appeared behind her in the hall. Shut the door, Edith, they're burglars I expect. But Poirot swiftly inserted his foot in the door and at the same time blew a whistle. Instantly the other detectives ran up and poured into the house shutting the door behind them. Norman and I spent about five minutes cursing our forced inactivity. Finally the door reopened and the men emerged escorting three prisoners, a woman and two men. The woman and one of the men were taken to the second car. The other man was placed in our car by Poirot himself. I must go with the others, my friend, but have great care of these gentlemen. You do not know him, no? Eh bien, let me present to you Monsieur O'Murphy. O'Murphy? I gaped at him open-mouthed as we started again. He was not handcuffed, but I did not fancy he would try to escape. He sat there staring in front of him as though dazed. Anyway, Norman and I would be more than a match for him. To my surprise we still kept a northerly route. We were not returning to London then. I was much puzzled. Suddenly as the car slowed down I recognized that we were close to Hendon Aerodrome. Immediately I grasped Poirot's idea. He proposed to reach France by aeroplane. Oh, it was a sporting idea, but on the face of it impracticable. A telegram would be far quicker. Time was everything. He must leave the personal glory of rescuing the Prime Minister to others. As we drew up, Major Norman jumped out, and a plain clothesman took his place. He conferred with Poirot for a few minutes and then went off riskily. I too jumped out and caught Poirot by the arm. I congratulate you, old fellow. They've told you the hiding place, but look here, you must wire to France at once. You'll be too late if you go yourself. Poirot looked at me curiously for a minute or two. Unfortunately... 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I cried impatiently, as Poirot, Norman, and I moted back to London. How in the world did they manage to smuggle him back to England? There was no need to smuggle him back, replied Poirot dryly. The Prime Minister has never left England. He was kidnapped on his way from Windsor to London. What? I will make all clear. The Prime Minister was in his car, his secretary beside him. Suddenly a pad of chloroform is clapped on his face. But by whom? By the clever linguistic captain Daniels. As soon as the Prime Minister is unconscious, Daniel speaks of the speaking tube and directs Omar Faye to turn to the right, which the chauffeur quite unsuspicious does. A few yards down that unfrequent road, a large car is standing, apparently broken down. Each driver signals to a Murphy to stop. A Murphy slows up. The stranger approaches. Daniels leans out of the window, and probably with the aid of an instantaneous anesthetic, such as ethyl chloride, the chloroform trick is repeated. In a few seconds the two helpless men are dragged out and transferred to the other car, a pair of substitutes take their places. Impossible! Badut too. Have you not seen musical turns imitating celebrities with marvelous accuracy? Nothing is easier than to personate a public character. The Prime Minister of England is far easier to understand than Mr. John Smith of Clapham say. As for Omar Faye's double, no one was going to take much notice of him until after the departure of the Prime Minister, and by then he would have made himself scarce. He drives straight from Charing Cross to the meeting place of his friends. He goes in as Omar Faye, but he emerges as someone quite different. Omar Faye has disappeared, leaving a conveniently suspicious trail behind him. But the man who personated the Prime Minister was seen by everyone. He was not seen by anyone who knew him privately or intimately, and Daniels shielded him from contact with anyone as much as possible. Moreover, his face was bandaged up, and anything unusual in his manner would be put down to the fact that he was suffering from shock as a result of the attempt upon his life. Mr. McAdam has a weak throat and always spares his voice as much as possible before any great speech. The deception was perfectly easy to keep up as far as France, but there it would be impractical and impossible, so the Prime Minister disappears. The police of this country hurry across the channel, and no one bothers to go into the details of the first attack. To sustain the illusion that the abduction has taken place in France, Daniels is gagged and chloroformed in a convincing manner. And the man who has enacted the part of the Prime Minister rids himself of his disguise. He and the bogus chauffeur may be arrested as suspicious characters, but no one will dream of suspecting their real part in their drama, and they will eventually be released for lack of evidence. And the real Prime Minister? He and Omerphy were driven straight to the house of Mrs. Everard at Hampstead, Daniels' so-called aunt. In reality, she is Frau Bertha Ebental, and the police have been looking for her for some time. It is a valuable little present that I have made them to say nothing of Daniels. Nah, it was a clever plan, but he did not reckon on the cleverness of Erkul Poirot. I think my friend might well be excused his moment of vanity. When did you first begin to suspect the truth of the matter? When I began to work the right way, from within. I could not make that shooting affair fit in, but when I saw that the net result of it was that the Prime Minister went to France with his face bound up, I began to comprehend. And when I visited all the cottage hospitals between Windsor and London, I found that no one answering to my description had had his face bound up and dressed that morning. I was sure. After that it was child's play for a mind like mine. The following morning, Poirot showed me a telegram he had just received. It had no place of origin and was unsigned. It ran in time. Later in the day the evening papers published an account of the Allied conference. They laid particular stress on the magnificent ovation according to Mr David Macallum, whose inspiring speech had produced a deep and lasting impression. The Tragedy at Marsden Manor I had been called away from town for a few days, and on my return found Poirot in the act of strapping up his small valise. Ah! Alabona, I think I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me. Well, you're called away on a case then? Oh yes, though I am bound to admit that on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr Mal Trivelles, who a few weeks ago ensured his life with him for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds. Yes, I said much interested. There was of course the usual suicide clause in the policy. In the event of his committing suicide within a year, the premiums would be forfeited. Mr Mal Trivelles was duly examined by the company's own doctor, and although he was a man slightly past the prime of life, was passed as being in quite sundown. However, on Wednesday last, the day before yesterday, the body of Mr Mal Trivelles was found in the grounds of its house in Essex, Marsden Manor, and the cause of his death is described as some kind of internal hemorrhage. Of that in itself would be nothing remarkable, but sinister rumors as to Mr Mal Trivelles financial position have been in the air of late, and the Northern Union have ascertained beyond any possible doubt that the deceased gentlemen stood upon the verge of bankruptcy. Now, that all this matters considerably. Mal Trivelles had a beautiful young wife, and it is suggested that he got together all the ready money he could for the purpose of paying the premiums on a life insurance for his wife's benefit and then committed suicide. Such a thing is not uncommon. In any case, my friend Alfred Wright, who is a director of the Northern Union, has asked me to investigate the facts of the case, but as I told him, I am not very hopeful of success. If the cause of death had been heart failure, I should have been more sanguine. Heart failure may always be translated as the inability of the local GP to discover what his patient really did die of, but a hemorrhage seems fairly definite. Still, we can but make some necessary inquiries. Five minutes to pack your bags as things, and we will take a taxi to Liverpool Street. About an hour later, we are lighted from a great eastern train at the little station of Marsden-Lee. Inquiries at the station yielded the information that Marsden-Mannah was about a mile distant. Cuirot decided to walk, and we betook ourselves along the main street. What's our plan of campaign? I asked. First, I will call upon the doctor. I have ascertained that there is only one doctor in Marsden-Lee, Dr. Ralph Bernard. Ah! Here we are, at his house. The housing question was a kind of superior cottage, standing back a little from the road. A brass plate on the gate bore the doctor's name. We passed up the path and rang the bell. We proved to be fortunate in our call. It was the doctor's consulting hour, and for the moment there were no patients waiting for him. Dr. Bernard was an elderly man, high-shouldered and stooping, with a pleasant vagueness of manner. Cuirot introduced himself and explained the purpose of our visit, adding that insurance companies were bound to investigate fully in a case of this kind. Oh! Of course, of course, said Dr. Bernard vaguely. I suppose, whereas he was such a rich man, his life was in short for a big sum. You consider him a rich man, Dr.? The doctor looked rather surprised. Well, was he not? He kept two cars, you know, and Marsden-Manner is a pretty big place to keep up, although I believe he bought it very cheap. But I understand that he had had considerable losses of lead. Zeboiro watching the door narrowly. The latter, however, merely shook his head sadly. Is that so? Well, indeed. It's fortunate for his wife, then, that there is this life insurance. It is a very beautiful and charming young creature, but terribly unstrung by this sad catastrophe. The mass of nerves, poor thing. I try to spare her all I can, but, of course, I was bound to be considerable. You had been attending Mr. Maltrevers recently? My dear sir, I never attended him. What? No, I understand Mr. Maltrevers was a Christian scientist or something of that kind. But you examined the body? Certainly. I was fetched by one of the under-gardeners. And the cause of death was clear? Yes, there was blood on the lips, but most of the breathing must have been internal. Was he still lying where he had been found? Yes, the body hadn't been touched. He was lying at the edge of a small plantation. He had evidently been out shooting rooks, whereas a small rook rifle they beside him. The hemorrhage must have occurred quite suddenly. Gastric ulcer without a doubt. And there's no question of his having been shot, eh? My dear sir... No, no, no, I demand pardon. I said, why are you humbling? But if my memory is not at fault, in the case of a recent murder, the doctor gave first a verdi-failure at failure, altering it when the local constable pointed out that there was a bullet wound through the head. You will not find any bullet wounds on the body of Mr. Maltrevers, said Dr. Bernard Dryley. Now, gentlemen, if there is nothing farther, we took the hint. Good morning, and many thanks to you, doctor, for so kindly answering our questions. Oh, oh, by the way, you saw no need for an autopsy, eh? Certainly not. The doctor became quite apoplectic. The cause of death was clear. And in my profession, we say no need to distress unduly the relatives of a dead patient. And turning, the doctor slammed the door sharply in our faces. And what do you think of Dr. Bernard Hastings, eh? Inquire poro as we proceeded on our way to the manor. What, rather an old ass? Exactly! Your judgements of character are always profound, my friend. I clasped at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A twinkle, however, came into his eye, and he added slightly, that is to say, where there is no question of a beautiful woman. I looked at him coldly. On our arrival at the manor house, the door was opened to us by a middle-aged parlor maid. Poirot handed her his card and a letter from the insurance company for Mrs. Miltrevers. She showed us into a small morning room and retired to tell her mysteries. About ten minutes elapsed, and then the door was opened, and a slender figure in widow's weeds stood upon the threshold. Mr. Poirot? She faltered. Oh, madame! Poirot sprang gallantly to his feet and hastened towards her. I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way, but what will you, eh, les affaires? They know no mercy. Mrs. Miltrevers permitted him to lead her to a chair. Her eyes were red with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or eight and very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth. It is something about my husband's insurance, is it? But must I be bothered now? So soon? Courage, madame Adam! Courage! You see, your letter's bound insured his life for rather large sum, and in such a case the company always has to satisfy its serif as to a few details. They have empowered me to act for them. You can rest assured that I will do all in my power to render the matter not too unpleasant for you. Will you rock out to meet briefly the sad events of Wednesday? Well, I was changing for tea when my maid came up. One of the gardeners had just run to the house. He had found— Her voice trailed away. Poirot pressed her hand sympathetically. I comprehend. Enough. Now, you had seen your husband earlier in the afternoon? Well, not since lunch. I had walked down to the village for some stamps, and I believe he was out pottering round the grounds. Shooting rooks? Yes. He usually took his little rook rifle with him. And I heard one or two shots in the distance. And where is this little rook rifle now? In the hole, I think. The ones who get it done. She led the way out of the room and found and handed the little weapon to Poirot, who examined it cursorily. Oh, two shots fired, I see. He observed as he handed it back. And now, Madame, if I might see— He paused delicately. The servant shall take you. She murmured, averting her head. The parlour maid summoned, led Poirot upstairs. I remained with a lovely and unfortunate woman. It was hard to know whether to speak or remain silent. I assayed one or two general reflections to which she responded absently, and in a very few minutes Poirot rejoined us. I thank you for all your courtesy, Madame. I do not think you need be troubled any further with this matter. Oh, by the way, do you know anything of your husband's financial position—she shook her head. Nothing, whatever. I'm very stupid over business things. Oh, I see. Then you can give us no clue as to why he suddenly decided to ensure his life. He had not done so previously, I understand. Well, we'd only been married a little over a year. But as to why he insured his life, it was because he had absolutely made up his mind that he would not live long. He had a strong premonition of his own death. I gather that he had had one hemorrhage already, and that he knew that another one would prove fatal. I tried to dispel these gloomy fears of his but without avail. Alas! He was only too right. Tears in her eyes. She bade us a dignified farewell. Poirot made a characteristic gesture as we walked down the drive together. Eh bien, that is that. Back to London, my friend. There appears to be no mouse in this muscle. And yet—yet what? A slight discrepancy that is old. You noticed it? No, you did not. Still, life is full of discrepancies, and assuredly the man cannot have taken his life. There is no poison that could fill his mouth with blood. No, no, no. I must resign myself to the fact that all here is clear and aboveboard. Oh! But who is this? A tall young man was striding up the drive towards us. He passed us without making any sign, but I noted that he was not ill-looking, with a lean, deeply bronzed face that spoke of life in a tropic climb. A gardener who was sweeping up leaves had paused for a minute in his task, and Poirot ran quickly up to him. Tell me, I pray you, who is that gentleman? Do you know him? Oh, well, I don't remember his name, sir, though I did hear it. He was staying down here last week for a night. Tuesday he was. Quick! My name is, let us follow him. We hastened up the drive after the retreating figure. We caught a glimpse of a black-robed figure on the terrace at the side of the house. Our quarry swerved, and we after him, so that we were witnesses. Mrs. Maltravers almost staggered where she stood, and her face blanched noticeably. You! she gasped. I thought you were on the sea, on your way to East Africa. Yes, well, I got some news from my lawyers that detained me, explained the young man. My old uncle in Scotland died unexpectedly and left me some money. Under the circumstances I thought it better to cancel my name, and then I saw this bad news in the paper, and I came down to see if there was anything I could do. You'll want someone to look after things for you a bit, perhaps? At that moment they became aware of our presence. Poirot stepped forward, and with many apologies explained that he had left his stick in the hall. Rather reluctantly it seemed to me Mrs. Maltravers made the necessary introduction to the court. Mr. Poirot, Captain Black. A few minutes chat ensued in the course of which Poirot elicited the fact that Captain Black was putting up at the anchor Inn. The missing stick, not having been discovered, which was not surprising, Poirot uttered more apologies, and we withdrew. We returned to the village at a great speed, and we were able to see the anchor in. Here we establish ourselves until our friend, the Captain, returns. He explained, She was clearly taken aback, and he, he was very devoted, and did you nothing so, and he was here on Tuesday night, the day before Mr. Maltravers died. We must investigate the doings of Captain Black's things. In about half an hour we have spied our quarry approaching the Inn. Poirot went out and accosted him, and presently brought him up to the room we had engaged. I had been telling Captain Black of the mission which brings us here, he explained. You can understand, Mr. Captain, that I am anxious to arrive at Mr. Maltravers' state of mind immediately before his death, and that at the same time I do not wish to distress Mrs. Maltravers unduly by asking a painful question. No, you were here just before the occurrence, and can give us equally valuable information. Well, I'll do anything I can to help you, I'm sure," replied the young soldier, but I'm afraid I didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. You see, although Maltravers was an old friend of my people's, I didn't know him very well myself. No, you came down when? Tuesday afternoon, I went up to town early Wednesday morning as my boat sailed from Tilbury about twelve o'clock, but some news I got made me alter my plans. As I dare say you had me explained to Mrs. Maltravers. You were returning to East Africa, I understand? Yes, I've been out there ever since the war, a great country. Oh, exactly. Now, what was the talk about at dinner on Tuesday night? Oh, I don't know, the usual topics. Maltravers asked after my people, and then we discussed the question of German reparations, and then Mrs. Maltravers asked a lot of questions about East Africa, and I told them one or two yarns. That's about all I think. Thank you. Poirot was silent for a moment, then he said gently, with your permission, I should like to try a little experiment. You have told us all that your conscious self knows. I want now to question your subconscious self. Hmm, psychoanalysis, what? said Black with visible alarm. Oh, no, Sepuaro reassuringly. You see, it is like this. I give you a word, you answer with another, and so on. Any word, the first you think of. Shall we begin? Well, all right. Said Black slowly, but he looked uneasy. Note down the words, please, says things, Sepuaro. Then he took from his pocket his big turnip-faced watch and laid it on the table beside him. We will, comments. Day. There was a moment's pause, and then Black replied, night. As Poirot proceeded, his answers came quicker. Name, said Poirot. Place. Burnout? Sure. Tuesday dinner. Journey, ship. Country? Story, lions, rock rifle, farm, shot, suicide, elephant, tusks. Money, lawyers. Thank you, Captain Black. Perhaps you could spare me a few minutes in about half an hour's time? Certainly. The young soldier looked at him curiously and wiped his brows he got up. And now, his things, Sepuaro smiling at me as the door closed behind him, you see it all, do you not? I don't know what you mean. Does that list of words tell you nothing? I scrutinized it, but it was forced to shake my head. Oh, I will assist you. To begin with, Black answered well within the normal time limit, eh, with no pauses, so we can take it that he himself has no guilty knowledge to conceal. Day, to night, and place, to name, our normal associations. I began work with Burnout, which might have suggested the local doctor had he come across him at all. Evidently, he had not. After our recent conversation, he gave dinner to my Tuesday, but journey and country were answered by ship and Uganda, showing clearly that it was his journey abroad that was important to him and not the one which brought him down here. The story recalls to him one of the lion stories he told at dinner. I proceeded to Rook rifle and he answered with a totally unexpected word, farm. When I say shot, he answers at once, suicide. The association seems clear. A man he knows committed suicide with a Rook rifle on a farm somewhere. Remember, too, that his mind is still on the stories he told at dinner, and I think you will agree that I shall not be far from the truth if I recall Captain Black and ask him to repeat the particular suicide story which he told at the dinner table on Tuesday evening. Black was straightforward enough over the matter. But yes, I did tell them that story now that I come to think of it. Chap shot himself on a farm out there, did it with a Rook rifle through the roof of his mouth, bullet lodged in the brain. There was no end puzzle there, there was nothing to share except a little blood on the lips. But what has he got to do with Mr. Maltrivers? The game seems to be a bit of a mess. But the game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. The game seems to be a bit of a mess. the game seems to be a bit of a mess. the game seems to be a bit of a mess. the game seems to be a bit of a mess. the game seems to be a bit of a mess. the game seems to be a bit of a mess. the game seems to be a bit of a mess. a hard burden for any woman to bear. I cherished a secret hope, however, that young Black might prove capable of consoling her after her first grief had passed. He evidently admired her enormously. Our interview with the lady was painful. She refused vehemently to believe the facts that Poirot advanced, and when she was at last convinced, broke down into bitter weeping. An examination of the body turned our suspicions into certainty. Poirot was very sorry for the poor lady, but after all he was employed by the insurance company, and what could he do? As he was preparing to leave, he said gently to Mrs. Maltraves, Madame, you of all people should know that there are no dead. Oh, I'm sorry. What do you mean? She faltered, her eyes growing wide. Have you never taken part in any spiritualistic séances, eh? You are mediumistic, you know. I have been told so, but you do not believe in spiritualism, surely? Madame, I have seen some strange things. You know that they say in the village that these hauls, these aren't dead, eh? She nodded, and at that moment the parlor maid announced that dinner was ready. Weren't you just stay and have something to eat? We accepted gracefully, and I felt that our presence could not but help distract her a little from her own griefs. We had just finished our soup when there was a scream outside the door, and the sound of breaking crockery. We jumped up. The parlor maid appeared, her hand to her heart. It was a man, standing in the passage. Poirot rushed out, returning quickly. But there is no one there. Isn't there, sir? said the parlor maid weekly. Oh, it did give me a start. But why? She dropped her voice to a whisper. I thought, I thought it was the master. It looked like him. I saw Mrs. Maltrevers give a terrified start, and my mind flew to the old superstition that a suicide cannot rest. She thought of it too, I'm sure. For a minute later she caught Poirot's arm with a scream. Didn't you hear that? Those three taps on the window. That's how he always used to tap when he passed round the house. The ivy, I cried. It was the ivy against the pain. But a sort of terror was gaining on us all. The parlor maid was obviously unstrung, and when the meal was over Mrs. Maltrevers besought Poirot not to go at once. She was clearly terrified to be left alone. We sat in the little morning room. The wind was getting up and moaning round the house in an eerie fashion. Twice the door of the room came unlatched, and the door slowly opened, and each time she clung to me with a terrified gasp. Ah! But this door! It is bewitched! cried Poirot angrily at last. He got up and shut it once more, then turned the key in the lock. As she lock it so. Don't do that! she gasped. If it should come open now! And even as she spoke the impossible happened. The locked door slowly swung open. I could not see into the passage from where I sat, but she and Poirot were facing it. She gave one long shriek as she turned to him. You saw him there in the passage? She cried. He was staring down at her with a puzzled face, then shook his head. I saw him! My husband! You must have seen him too! Madame, I saw nothing. You are not well, unstrung. I am perfectly well! I am—oh, God! Suddenly, without warning, the lights quivered and went out. Out of the darkness came three loud raps. I could hear Mrs. Maltrave's moaning. And then I saw. The man I had seen on the bed upstairs stood there facing us, gleaming with a faint ghostly light. It was blood on his lips, and he held his right hand out, pointing. Suddenly a brilliant light seemed to proceed from it. It passed over Poirot and me and fell on Mrs. Maltrave's. I saw her white, terrified face and something else. My God! Poirot! I cried. Look at her hand! Her right hand! It's all red! Her own eyes fell on it, and she collapsed in a heap on the floor. Blood! She cried hysterically. Yes, it's blood! I killed him! I did it! He was showing me, and then I put my hand on the trigger and pressed. Save me from him! Save me! He's coming back! Her voice died away in a gurgle. Lights, said Poirot briskly. The lights went on as if by magic. That's it, he continued. You heard these things, and you ever heard? Oh, by the way, this is Mr. Everett, rather a fine member of the theatrical profession. I found to him this afternoon his makeup is good, isn't it? Quite like the dead man, and with a pocky torch and the necessary phosphorescence, he made a proper impression. I shouldn't touch her right hand if I were you, Hastings. Red paint marks so. When the lights went out, I clasped her hand, you see. Oh, by the way, we must not miss our train. Inspector Jep is outside the window. A bad night, but he has been able to wallow at the time by tapping on the window every now and then. You see, continued Poirot, as we walked briskly through the wind and rain, there was a little discrepancy. The doctor seemed to think the deceased was a Christian scientist, and who could have given him that impression but Mrs. Maltrathes. But to us, she represented him as being in a great state of apprehension about his own health. Again, why was she so taken aback by the reappearance of young black? And lastly, although I know that convention decrees that a woman must make a decent pretense of mourning for her husband, I do not care for such everly-roached eyelids. You did not observe them, Hastings? No, as I always tell you, you see nothing. Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did black story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr. Maltrathes, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To short himself in a way indicated he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe, or at least so I imagine. Now, if Maltrathes had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered. No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was a case of murder, not suicide. But I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence, the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight. But even now I don't quite see all the details of the crime, I said. Well, let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husband's financial debacle, and tired of the elderly mate she has only married for his money, induces him to ensure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her that, the young soldier's strange story. The next afternoon, when the Seuler Capitaine, as she thinks he's on the ice, sees she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. What a curious story that was last night, she observes. Could a man shoot himself in such a way to show me if it is possible? The poor fool, he shows her. He places the end of his rifle in his mouth. She stooped down and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. And now, sir, she says socially, supposing I pull the trigger. And then, and then hastens, she pulls it. End of disc three. Please continue with the next disc. 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