Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘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 still 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 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 wring 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:

‘Yes, if you turn off to the left, you will find them waiting by the bridge.’