The little party filed into the hotel. Lementeuil said:
“We are not expected?” His smile was somewhat grim.
Poirot smiled also. He said:
“But no! It is believed that the funicular is not nearly repaired yet.”
Lementeuil said with emotion:
“Ah, this is a great day. There is no doubt, you think? It is really Marrascaud?”
“It is Marrascaud all right. Come with me.”
They went up the stairs. A door opened and Schwartz came out in his dressing gown. He stared when he saw the men.
“I heard voices,” he explained. “Why, what’s this?”
Hercule Poirot said grandiloquently:
“Help has come! Accompany us, monsieur. This is a great moment.”
He started up the next flight of stairs.
Schwartz said:
“Are you going up to Drouet? How is he, by the way?”
“Dr. Lutz reported him going on well last night.”
They came to the door of Drouet’s room. Poirot flung it open. He announced:
“Here is your wild boar, gentlemen. Take him alive and see to it that he does not cheat the guillotine.”
The man in the bed, his face still bandaged, started up. But the police officers had him by the arms before he could move.
Schwartz cried bewildered:
“But that’s Gustave the waiter—that’s Inspector Drouet.”
“It is Gustave, yes—but it is not Drouet. Drouet was the first waiter, the waiter Robert who was imprisoned in the unused part of the hotel and whom Marrascaud killed the same night as the attack was made on me.”
VII
Over breakfast, Poirot explained gently to the bewildered American.
“You comprehend, there are certain things one knows—knows quite certainly in the course of one’s profession. One knows, for instance, the difference between a detective and a murderer! Gustave was no waiter—that I suspected at once—but equally he was not a policeman. I have dealt with policemen all my life and I know. He could pass as a detective to an outsider—but not to a man who was a policeman himself.
“And so, at once, I was suspicious. That evening, I did not drink my coffee. I poured it away. And I was wise. Late that evening a man came into my room, came in with the easy confidence of one who knows that the man whose room he is searching is drugged. He looked through my affairs and he found the letter in my wallet—where I had left it for him to find! The next morning Gustave comes into my room with my coffee. He greets me by name and acts his part with complete assurance. But he is anxious—horribly anxious—for somehow or other the police have got on his track! They have learnt where he is and that is for him a terrible disaster. It upsets all his plans. He is caught up here like a rat in a trap.”
Schwartz said:
“The damn fool thing was ever to come here! Why did he?”
Poirot said gravely:
“It is not so foolish as you think. He had need, urgent need, of a retired spot, away from the world, where he could meet a certain person, and where a certain happening could take place.”
“What person?”
“Dr. Lutz.”
“Dr. Lutz? Is he a crook too?”
“Dr. Lutz is really Dr. Lutz—but he is not a nerve specialist—not a psychoanalyst. He is a surgeon, my friend, a surgeon who specializes in facial surgery. That is why he was to meet Marrascaud here. He is poor now, turned out of his country. He was offered a huge fee to meet a man here and change that man’s appearance by means of his surgical skill. He may have guessed that that man was a criminal, but if so, he shut his eyes to the fact. Realize this, they dared not risk a nursing home in some foreign country. No, up here, where no one ever comes so early in the season except for an odd visit, where the manager is a man in need of money who can be bribed, was an ideal spot.
“But, as I say, matters went wrong. Marrascaud was betrayed. The three men, his bodyguard, who were to meet him here and look after him had not yet arrived, but Marrascaud acts at once. The police officer who is pretending to be a waiter is kidnapped and Marrascaud takes his place. The gang arrange for the funicular to be wrecked. It is a matter of time. The following evening Drouet is killed and a paper is pinned on the dead body. It is hoped that by the time that communications are established with the world Drouet’s body may have been buried as that of Marrascaud. Dr. Lutz performs his operation without delay. But one man must be silenced—Hercule Poirot. So the gang are sent to attack me. Thanks to you, my friend—”
Hercule Poirot bowed gracefully to Schwartz who said:
“So you’re really Hercule Poirot?”
“Precisely.”
“And you were never fooled by that body for a minute? You knew all along that it wasn’t Marrascaud?”
“Certainly.”
“Why didn’t you say so?”
Hercule Poirot’s face was suddenly stern.
“Because I wanted to be quite sure of handing the real Marrascaud over to the police.”
He murmured below his breath:
“To capture alive the wild boar of Erymanthea. . . .”
Forty-three
THE AUGEAN STABLES
“The Augean Stables” was first published in The Strand, March 1940.
The situation is an extremely delicate one, M. Poirot.”
A faint smile flitted across Hercule Poirot’s lips. He almost replied:
“It always is!”
Instead, he composed his face and put on what might be described as a bedside manner of extreme discretion.
Sir George Conway proceeded weightily. Phrases fell easily from his lips—the extreme delicacy of the Government’s position—the interests of the public—the solidarity of the Party—the necessity of presenting a united front—the power of the Press—the welfare of the Country. . . .
It all sounded well—and meant nothing. Hercule Poirot felt that familiar aching of the jaw when one longs to yawn and politeness forbids. He had felt the same sometimes when reading the parliamentary debates. But on those occasions there had been no need to restrain his yawns.
He steeled himself to endure patiently. He felt, at the same time, a sympathy for Sir George Conway. The man obviously wanted to tell him something—and as obviously had lost the art of simple narration. Words had become to him a means of obscuring facts—not of revealing them. He was an adept in the art of the useful phrase—that is to say the phrase that falls soothingly on the ear and is quite empty of meaning.
The words rolled on—poor Sir George became quite red in the face. He shot a desperate glance at the other man sitting at the head of the table, and the other man responded.
Edward Ferrier said:
“All right, George. I’ll tell him.”
Hercule Poirot shifted his gaze from the Home Secretary to the Prime Minister. He felt a keen interest in Edward Ferrier—an interest aroused by a chance phrase from an old man of eighty-two. Professor Fergus MacLeod, after disposing of a chemical difficulty in the conviction of a murderer, had touched for a moment on politics. On the retirement of the famous and beloved John Hammett (now Lord Cornworthy) his son-in-law, Edward Ferrier, had been asked to form a Cabinet. As politicians go he was a young man—under fifty. Professor MacLeod had said: “Ferrier was once one of my students. He’s a sound man.”
That was all, but to Hercule Poirot it represented a good deal. If MacLeod called a man sound it was a testimonial to character compared with which no popular or press enthusiasm counted at all.
It coincided, it was true, with the popular estimate. Edward Ferrier was considered sound—just that—not brilliant, not great, not a particularly eloquent orator, not a man of deep learning. He was a sound man—a man bred in the tradition—a man who had married John Hammett’s daughter—who had been John Hammett’s right-hand man and who could be trusted to carry on the government of the country in the John Hammett tradition.
For John Hammett was particularly dear to th
e people and Press of England. He represented every quality which was dear to Englishmen. People said of him: “One does feel that Hammett’s honest.” Anecdotes were told of his simple home life, of his fondness for gardening. Corresponding to Baldwin’s pipe and Chamberlain’s umbrella, there was John Hammett’s raincoat. He always carried it—a weather-worn garment. It stood as a symbol—of the English climate, of the prudent forethought of the English race, of their attachment to old possessions. Moreover, in his bluff British way, John Hammett was an orator. His speeches, quietly and earnestly delivered, contained those simple sentimental clichés which are so deeply rooted in the English heart. Foreigners sometimes criticize them as being both hypocritical and unbearably noble. John Hammett did not in the least mind being noble—in a sporting, public school, deprecating fashion.
Moreover, he was a man of fine presence, tall, upstanding, with fair colouring and very bright blue eyes. His mother had been a Dane and he himself had been for many years First Lord of the Admiralty, which gave rise to his nickname of “the Viking.” When at last ill-health forced him to give up the reins of office, deep uneasiness was felt. Who would succeed him? The brilliant Lord Charles Delafield? (Too brilliant—England didn’t need brilliance.) Evan Whittler? (Clever—but perhaps a little unscrupulous.) John Potter? (The sort of man who might fancy himself as Dictator—and we didn’t want any dictators in this country, thank you very much.) So a sigh of relief went up when the quiet Edward Ferrier assumed office. Ferrier was all right. He had been trained by the Old Man, he had married the Old Man’s daughter. In the classic British phrase, Ferrier would “carry on.”
Hercule Poirot studied the quiet dark-faced man with the low pleasant voice. Lean and dark and tired-looking.
Edward Ferrier was saying:
“Perhaps, M. Poirot, you are acquainted with a weekly periodical called the X-ray News?”
“I have glanced at it,” admitted Poirot, blushing slightly.
The Prime Minister said:
“Then you know more or less of what it consists. Semilibellous matter. Snappy paragraphs hinting at sensational secret history. Some of them true, some of them harmless—but all served up in a spicy manner. Occasionally—”
He paused and then said, his voice altering a little:
“Occasionally something more.”
Hercule Poirot did not speak. Ferrier went on:
“For two weeks now there have been hints of impending disclosures of a first-class scandal in ‘the highest political circles.’ ‘Astonishing revelations of corruption and jobbery.’ ”
Hercule Poirot said, shrugging his shoulders:
“A common trick. When the actual revelations come they usually disappoint the cravers after sensation badly.”
Ferrier said drily: “These will not disappoint them.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“You know then, what these revelations are going to be?”
“With a fair amount of accuracy.”
Edward Ferrier paused a minute, then he began speaking. Carefully, methodically, he outlined the story.
It was not an edifying story. Accusations of shameless chicanery, of share juggling, of a gross misuse of Party Funds. The charges were levelled against the late Prime Minister, John Hammett. They showed him to be a dishonest rascal, a gigantic confidence trickster, who had used his position to amass for himself a vast private fortune.
The Prime Minister’s quiet voice stopped at last. The Home Secretary groaned. He spluttered out:
“It’s monstrous—monstrous! This fellow, Perry, who edits the rag, ought to be shot!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“These so-called revelations are to appear in the X-ray News?”
“Yes.”
“What steps do you propose to take about them?”
Ferrier said slowly:
“They constitute a private attack on John Hammett. It is open to him to sue the paper for libel.”
“Will he do that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Ferrier said:
“It is probable that there is nothing the X-ray News would like better. The publicity given them would be enormous. Their defence would be fair comment and that the statements complained of were true. The whole business would be exhaustively held up to view in a blaze of limelight.”
“Still, if the case went against them, the damages would be extremely heavy.”
Ferrier said slowly: “It might not go against them.”
“Why?”
Sir George said primly: “I really think that—”
But Edward Ferrier was already speaking.
“Because what they intend to print is—the truth.”
A groan burst from Sir George Conway, outraged at such un-Parliamentary frankness. He cried out:
“Edward, my dear fellow. We don’t admit, surely—”
The ghost of a smile passed over Edward Ferrier’s tired face. He said:
“Unfortunately, George, there are times when the stark truth has got to be told. This is one of them.”
Sir George exclaimed:
“You understand, M. Poirot, all this is strictly in confidence. Not one word—”
Ferrier interrupted him. He said:
“M. Poirot understands that.” He went on slowly, “What he may not understand is this: the whole future of the People’s Party is at stake. John Hammett, M. Poirot, was the People’s Party. He stood for what it represents to the people of England—he stood for Decency and Honesty. No one has ever thought us brilliant. We have muddled and blundered. But we have stood for the tradition of doing one’s best—and we have stood, too, for fundamental honesty. Our disaster is this—that the man who was our figurehead, the Honest Man of the People, par excellence—turns out to have been one of the worst crooks of this generation.”
Another groan burst from Sir George.
Poirot asked:
“You knew nothing of all this?”
Again the smile flashed across the weary face. Ferrier said:
“You may not believe me, M. Poirot, but like everyone else, I was completely deceived. I never understood my wife’s curious attitude of reserve towards her father. I understand it now. She knew his essential character.”
He paused and then said:
“When the truth began to leak out, I was horrified, incredulous. We insisted on my father-in-law’s resignation on the grounds of ill-health and we set to work to—to clean up the mess, shall I say?”
Sir George groaned.
“The Augean Stables!”
Poirot started.
Ferrier said:
“It will prove, I fear, too Herculean a task for us. Once the facts become public, there will be a wave of reaction all over the country. The Government will fall. There will be a General Election and in all probability Everhard and his party will be returned to power. You know Everhard’s policy.”
Sir George spluttered.
“A firebrand—a complete firebrand.”
Ferrier said gravely:
“Everhard has ability—but he is reckless, belligerent and utterly tactless. His supporters are inept and vacillating—it would be practically a Dictatorship.”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
Sir George bleated out:
“If only the whole thing can be hushed up. . . .”
Slowly, the Premier shook his head. It was a movement of defeat.
Poirot said:
“You do not believe that it can be hushed up?”
Ferrier said:
“I sent for you, M. Poirot, as a last hope. In my opinion this business is too big, too many people know about it, for it to be successfully concealed. The only two methods open to us which are, to put it bluntly, the use of force, or the adoption of bribery—cannot really hope to succeed. The Home Secretary compared our troubles with the cleansing of the Augean Stables. It needs, M. Poirot, the violence of a river in spate, the disruption of the great natural forces in Nature�
�nothing less, in fact, than a miracle.”
“It needs, in fact, a Hercules,” said Poirot, nodding his head with a pleased expression.
He added: “My name, remember, is Hercule. . . .”
Edward Ferrier said:
“Can you perform miracles, M. Poirot?”
“It is why you sent for me, is it not? Because you thought that I might?”
“That is true . . . I realized that if salvation was to be achieved, it could only come through some fantastic and completely unorthodox suggestion.”
He paused a minute, then he said:
“But perhaps, M. Poirot, you take an ethical view of the situation? John Hammett was a crook, the legend of John Hammett must be exploded. Can one build an honest house on dishonest foundations? I do not know. But I do know that I want to try.” He smiled with a sudden sharp bitterness. “The politician wants to remain in office—as usual from the highest motives.”
Hercule Poirot rose. He said:
“Monsieur, my experience in the police force has not, perhaps, allowed me to think very highly of politicians. If John Hammett were in office—I would not lift a finger—no, not a little finger. But I know something about you. I have been told, by a man who is really great, one of the greatest scientists and brains of the day, that you are—a sound man. I will do what I can.”
He bowed and left the room.
Sir George burst out:
“Well, of all the damned cheek—”
But Edward Ferrier still smiling said:
“It was a compliment.”
II
On his way downstairs, Hercule Poirot was intercepted by a tall, fair-haired woman. She said:
“Please come into my sitting room, M. Poirot.”
He bowed and followed her.
She shut the door, motioned him to a chair, and offered him a cigarette. She sat down opposite him. She said quietly:
“You have just seen my husband—and he has told you—about my father.”
Poirot looked at her with attention. He saw a tall woman, still handsome, with character and intelligence in her face. Mrs. Ferrier was a popular figure. As the wife of the Prime Minister she naturally came in for a good share of the limelight. As the daughter of her father, her popularity was even greater. Dagmar Ferrier represented the popular ideal of English womanhood.
Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories Page 90