Poirot Investigates hp-3

by Agatha Christie

  "And a quarter," amended Poirot. "Do not forget the 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 MacAdam 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 A. D. C. s."

  "Eh bien?"

  "Well, they started from Boulogne – but they never arrived."

  "What?"

  "Monsieur Poirot, it was a bogus car and a bogus A. D. C. The real car was found in a side road, with the chauffeur and the A. D. C. 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?"

  "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 Estair.

  "Just through from France, sir. I brought it on here, as you directed."

  The minister tore it open eagerly, and uttered an exclamation. The officer withdrew.

  "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 C-. 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. "One thing's quite certain. They're 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, messieurs, recount 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 Estair smiled. "I thought you would ask me that. We do not know very much of 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. A Mrs Everard, who lives at Hampstead, and a Miss Daniels, who lives near Ascot."

  " Ascot? That is near to Windsor, is it not?"

  "That point has not been overlooked. But it has led to nothing."

  "You regard the Capitaine Daniels, then, as above suspicion?"

  A shade of bitterness crept into Lord Estair'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, milord, 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 Estair bowed his head. "That is so. The Prime Minister's car was closely followed by another car containing detectives in plain clothes. Mr MacAdam 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, O'Murphy, is a C. I. D. man."

  "O'Murphy? That is a name of Ireland, is it not so?"

  "Yes, he is an Irishman."

  "From what part of Ireland?"

  " County Clare, I believe."

  "Tiens! But proceed, milord."

  "The Premier started for London. The car was a closed one. He and Captain Daniels 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 a point where the road curves?" interrupted Poirot.

  "Yes – but how did you know?"

  "Oh, c'est évident! Continue!"

  "For some unknown reason," continued Lord Estair, "the Premier's car left the main road. The police car, unaware of the deviation, continued to keep to 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 -"

  "That brave O'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.

  "Mr MacAdam 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 Charing 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."

  "That is all you have to tell me?"

  "Yes."

  "There is no other circumstance that you have omitted, milord?"

  "Well, there is one rather peculiar thing."

  "Yes?"

  "The Prime Minister's car did not return home after leaving the Prime Minister at Charing Cross. The police were anxious to interview O'Murphy, so a search was instituted at once. The car was discovered standing outside a certain unsavoury 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," said Poirot thoughtfully, "there are two disappearances: the Prime Minister in France, and O'Murphy in London."

  He looked keenly at Lord Estair, who made a gesture of despair.

  "I can only tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that, if anyone had suggested to me yesterday that O'Murphy was a traitor, I should have laughed in his face."

  "And today?"

  "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 carte blanche, messieurs – in every way, I mean? I must be able to go where I choose, and how I choose."

  "Perfectly. There is a special train leaving for Dover in an hour's time, with a further contingent from Scotland Yard. You shall be accompanied by a Military officer and a C. I. D. man, who will hold themselves at your disposal in every way. Is that satisfactory?"

  "Quite. One more question before you leave, messieurs. What made you come to me? I am unknown, obscure, in this great London of yours."

  "We sought you out on the express recommendation and wish of a very great man of your own country." />
  "Comment? My old friend the Préfet -?"

  Lord Estair shook his head.

  "Once higher than the Préfet. 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! Ah, but my Master does not forget… Messieurs, I, Hercule 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 do not know what to think. My brains desert me."

  "Why, as you said, kidnap him, when a knock on the head would do as well?" I mused.

  "Pardon me, mon ami, but I 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. Were the Prime Minister dead, 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 les Boches 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 disgorge substantial remittances in such a case as this. Thirdly, they run no risk of the hangman's rope. Oh, decidedly, kidnapping is their affair."

  "Then, if that it 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 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 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 appeare
d, 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 perceived 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 tires 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.