Poirot Investigates
“Then, if that is so, why should they first try to shoot him?”
Poirot made a gesture of anger. “Ah, 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 imperil 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!”
“Perhaps they were two quite separate attempts which happened
irrespective of each other,” I suggested.
“Ah, 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 the 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?”
“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 there are
altogether 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 the car
again when only two shots had been fired—thereby, in all probability,
saving the Prime Minister’s life? And, again, if he was honest,
why did he, immediately on leaving Charing Cross, drive to a
well-known rendezvous of German spies?”
“It looks bad,” I said.
“Let us look at the 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 Clare; that he has disappeared in a highly suggestive
manner. For: that his promptness in restarting the car saved the
Premier’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 me, _mon ami_, but, as linguists,
you are deplorable!) _Now for 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.”
“He might have gagged and bound himself, to divert suspicion.”
Poirot shook his head. “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 fail to see what object they
hoped to accomplish by it. He can be of little use to them now,
for, until the circumstances 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. 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 still 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 Charing 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. 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 recognized 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 Yard’s 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 toothcomb. So are the French. I can’t help feeling it’s only a
matter of hours now.”
“That is, if he’s still alive,” remarked the tall detective
gloomily.
Japp’s face fell. “Yes. . . . But somehow I’ve got the feeling he’s
alive all right.”
Poirot nodded. “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 loquacity, 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. On arriving 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.
“_Mon Dieu!_” he murmured. “This is terrible!”
“Have courage, Poirot,” I cried. “You will succeed. You will find
him. I am sure of it.”
“Ah, _mon ami_, you mistake my emotion. It is this villainous sea
that troubles me! The _mal de mer_—it is horrible suffering!”
“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
The first throb of the engines was felt, and Poirot groaned and
closed his eyes.
“Major Norman has a map of Northern France if you would like to
study it?”
Poirot shook his head impatiently.
“But no, but no! Leave me, my friend. See you, to think, the
stomach and the brain must be in harmony. Laverguier has a method
most excellent for averting the _mal de mer_. You breathe in—and
out—slowly, so—turning the head from left to right and counting
six between each breath.”
I left him to his gymnastic endeavours, and went on deck.
As we came slowly into Boulogne Harbour Poirot appeared, neat and
smiling, and announced to me in a whisper that Laverguier’s system
had succeeded “to a marvel!”
Japp’s forefinger was still tracing imaginary routes on his map.
“Nonsense! The car started from Boulogne—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 seaports.
Ten to one, they’ve smuggled him on board a ship.”
Japp shook his head. “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. “There’s a military car here waiting for you, sir.”
“Thank you, monsieur. But, for the moment, I do not propose to
leave Boulogne.”
“What?”
“No, we will enter this hotel here, by the quay.”
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. “It is not so that the good detective
should act, eh? I perceive your thought. He must be full of energy.
He must rush to and fro. He should prostrate himself on the dusty
road and seek the marks of tyres through a little glass. He must
gather up the cigarette-end, the fallen match? That is your idea,
is it not?”
His eyes challenged us. “But I—Hercule 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 grey cells within. Secretly and silently they do their part,
until suddenly I call for a map, and I 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
rushing to 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, Major Norman 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 quay.
Suddenly I was aroused by Poirot’s voice close to my elbow.
“_Mes amis_, 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. “I’ll order the car.”
“There is no need. I shall not use it. Thank Heaven the wind has
fallen.”
“Do you mean you are going to walk, sir?”
“No, my young friend. I am no St. Peter. I prefer to cross the sea
by boat.”
“To cross 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 platform.
To all our expostulations, Poirot turned a deaf ear, and reiterated
again and again that to start at 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 despatched 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
waiting for us, with some plain-clothes men, one of whom handed a
typewritten sheet of paper to my friend. He answered my inquiring
glance.
“A list of the cottage hospitals within a certain radius west of
London. I wired for it from Dover.”
We were whirled 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 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 wring from some one 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