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.
She was a devoted wife, a fond mother, she shared her husband’s love of country life. She interested herself in just those aspects of public life which were generally felt to be proper spheres of womanly activity. She dressed well, but never in an ostenta- tiously fashionable manner. She devoted much of her time and activity to large-scale charities, she had inaugurated special schemes for the relief of the wives of unemployed men. She was looked up to by the whole nation and was a most valuable asset to the
Party.
Hercule Poirot said:
“You must be terribly worried, Madame.”
“Oh I am—you don’t know how much. For years I have been dreading—something.”
Poirot said:
“You had no idea of what was going on actually?”
She shook her head.
“No—not in the least. I only knew that my father was not—was not what everyone thought him. I realized, from the time that I was a child, that he was a—a humbug.”
Her voice was deep and bitter. She said:
“It is through marrying me that Edward—that Edward will lose everything.”
Poirot said in a quiet voice:
“Have you any enemies, Madame?”
She looked up at him, surprised.
“Enemies? I don’t think so.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“I think you have. . . .”
He went on:
“Have you courage, Madame? There is a great campaign afoot—against your husband—and against yourself. You must prepare to defend yourself.”
She cried:
“But it doesn’t matter about me. Only about Edward!”
Poirot said: “The one includes the other. Remember, Madame, you are Cæsar’s wife.”
He saw her colour ebb. She leaned forward. She said:
“What is it you are trying to tell me?”
III
Percy Perry, editor of the X-ray News, sat behind his desk smoking.
He was a small man with a face like a weasel.
He was saying in a soft, oily voice:
“We’ll give ’em the dirt, all right. Lovely—lovely! Oh boy!”
His second-in-command, a thin, spectacled youth, said uneasily:
“You’re not nervous?”
“Expecting strong-arm stuff? Not them. Haven’t got the nerve. Wouldn’t do them any good, either. Not the way we’ve got it farmed out—in this country and on the Continent and America.”
The other said:
“They must be in a pretty good stew. Won’t they do anything?”
“They’ll send someone to talk pretty—”
A buzzer sounded. Percy Perry picked up a receiver. He said: “Who do you say? Right, send him up.”
He put the receiver down—grinned.
“They’ve got that high-toned Belgian dick on to it. He’s coming up now to do his stuff. Wants to know if we’ll play ball.”
Hercule Poirot came in. He was immaculately dressed—a white camelia in his buttonhole.
Percy Perry said:
“Pleased to meet you, M. Poirot. On your way to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot? No? My mistake.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I am flattered. One hopes to present a good appearance. It is even more important,” his eyes roamed innocently over the editor’s face and somewhat slovenly attire, “when one has few natural advantages.”
Perry said shortly:
“What do you want to see me about?”
/> Poirot leaned forward, tapped him on the knee, and said with a beaming smile:
“Blackmail.”
“What the devil do you mean, blackmail?”
“I have heard—the little bird has told me—that on occasions you have been on the point of publishing certain very damaging statements in your so spirituel paper—then, there has been a pleasant little increase in your bank balance—and after all, those statements have not been published.”
Poirot leaned back and nodded his head in a satisfied sort of way.
“Do you realize that what you’re suggesting amounts to slander?”
Poirot smiled confidently.
“I am sure you will not take offence.”
“I do take offence! As to blackmail there is no evidence of my ever having blackmailed anybody.”
“No, no, I am quite sure of that. You misunderstand me. I was not threatening you. I was leading up to a simple question. How much?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Percy Perry.
“A matter of National importance, M. Perry.”
They exchanged a significant glance.
Percy Perry said:
“I’m a reformer, M. Poirot. I want to see politics cleaned up. I’m opposed to corruption. Do you know what the state of politics is in this country? The Augean Stables, no more, no less.”
“Tiens!” said Hercule Poirot. “You, too, use that phrase.”
“And what is needed,” went on the editor, “to cleanse those stables is the great purifying flood of Public Opinion.”
Hercule Poirot got up. He said:
“I applaud your sentiments.”
He added:
“It is a pity that you do not feel in need of money.”
Percy Perry said hurriedly:
“Here, wait a sec—I didn’t say that exactly. . . .”
But Hercule Poirot had gone through the door.
His excuse for later events is that he does not like blackmailers.
IV
Everitt Dashwood, the cheery young man on the staff of The Branch, clapped Hercule Poirot affectionately on the back.
He said: “There’s dirt and dirt, my boy. My dirt’s clean dirt—that’s all.”
“I was not suggesting that you were on a par with Percy Perry.”
“Damned little bloodsucker. He’s a blot on our profession. We’d all down him if we could.”
“It happens,” said Hercule Poirot, “that I am engaged at the moment on a little matter of clearing up a political scandal.”
“Cleaning out the Augean Stables, eh?” said Dashwood. “Too much for you, my boy. Only hope is to divert the Thames and wash away the Houses of Parliament.”
“You are cynical,” said Hercule Poirot, shaking his head.
“I know the world, that’s all.”
Poirot said: “You, I think, are just the man I seek. You have a reckless disposition, you are the good sport, you like something that is out of the usual.”
“And granting all that?”
“I have a little scheme to put into action. If my ideas are right, there is a sensational plot to unmask. That, my friend, shall be a scoop for your paper.”
“Can do,” said Dashwood cheerfully.
“It will concern a scurrilous plot against a woman.”
“Better and better. Sex stuff always goes.”
“Then sit down and listen.”
V
People were talking.
In the Goose and Feathers at Little Wimplington.
“Well, I don’t believe it. John Hammett, he was always an honest man, he was. Not like some of these political folk.”
“That’s what they say about all swindlers before they’re found out.”
“Thousands, they say he made, out of that Palestine Oil business. Just a crook deal, it was.”
“Whole lot of ’em tarred with the same brush. Dirty crooks, every one of ’em.”
“You wouldn’t find Everhard doing that. He’s one of the old school.”
“Eh, but I can’t believe as John Hammett was a wrong ’un. You can’t believe all these papers say.”
“Ferrier’s wife was ’is daughter. Have you seen what it says about her?”
They pored over a much thumbed copy of the X-ray News:
Caesar’s wife? We hear that a certain highly placed political lady was seen in very strange surroundings the other day. Complete with her gigolo. Oh Dagmar, Dagmar, how could you be so naughty?
A rustic voice said slowly:
“Mrs. Ferrier’s not that kind. Gigolo? That’s one of these dago skunks.”
Another voice said:
“You never can tell with women. The whole bunch of ’em wrong ’uns if you ask me.”
VI
People were talking.
“But, darling, I believe it’s absolutely true. Naomi had it from Paul and he had it from Andy. She’s absolutely depraved.”
“But she was always so terribly dowdy and proper and opening bazaars.”
“Just camouflage, darling. They say she’s a nymphomaniac. Well, I mean! it’s all in the X-ray News. Oh, not right out, but you can read between the lines. I don’t know how they get hold of these things.”
“What do you think of all this political scandal touch? They say her father embezzled the Party funds.”
VII
People were talking.
“I don’t like to think of it, and that’s a fact, Mrs. Rogers. I mean, I always thought Mrs. Ferrier was a really nice woman.”
“Do you think all these awful things are true?”
“As I say, I don’t like to think it of her. Why, she opened a Bazaar in Pelchester only last June. I was as near to her as I am to that sofa. And she had such a pleasant smile.”
“Yes, but what I say is there’s no smoke without fire.”
“Well, of course that’s true. Oh dear, it seems as though you can’t believe in any one!”
VIII
Edward Ferrier, his face white and strained, said to Poirot:
“These attacks on my wife! They’re scurrilous—absolutely scurrilous! I’m bringing an action against that vile rag.”
Hercule Poirot said: “I do not advise you to do so.”
“But these damned lies have got to be stopped.”
“Are you sure they are lies?”
“God damn you, yes!”
Poirot said, his head held a little on one side:
“What does your wife say?”
For a moment Ferrier looked taken aback.
“She says it is best to take no notice . . . But I can’t do that—everybody is talking.”
Hercule Poirot said: “Yes, everybody is talking.”
IX
And then came the small bald announcement in all the papers.
Mrs. Ferrier has had a slight nervous breakdown. She has gone to Scotland to recuperate.
Conjectures, rumours—positive information that Mrs. Ferrier was not in Scotland, had never been to Scotland.
Stories, scandalous stories, of where Mrs. Ferrier really was. . . .
And again, people talking.
“I tell you Andy saw her. At that frightful place! She was drunk or doped and with an awful Argentine gigolo—Ramon. You know!”
More talking.
Mrs. Ferrier had gone off with an Argentine dancer. She had been seen in Paris, doped. She had been taking drugs for years. She drank like a fish.
Slowly the righteous mind of England, at first unbelieving, had hardened against Mrs. Ferrier. Seemed as though there must be something in it! That wasn’t the sort of woman to be the Prime Minister’s wife. “A Jezebel, that’s what she is, nothing better than a Jezebel!”
And then came the camera records.
Mrs. Ferrier, photographed in Paris—lying back in a night club, her arm twined familiarly over the shoulder of a dark, olive-skinned vicious-looking young man.
Other snapshots—half-naked on a beach—her head on the lounge
lizard’s shoulder.
And underneath:
“Mrs. Ferrier has a good time . . .”
Two days later an action for libel was brought against the X-ray News.
X
The case for the prosecution was opened by Sir Mortimer Inglewood, K.C. He was dignified and full of righteous indignation. Mrs. Ferrier was the victim of an infamous plot—a plot only to be equalled by the famous case of the Queen’s Necklace familiar to readers of Alexandre Dumas. That plot had been engineered to lower Queen Marie Antoinette in the eyes of the populace. This plot, also, had been engineered to discredit a noble and virtuous lady who was in this country in the position of Cæsar’s wife. Sir Mortimer spoke with bitter disparagement of Fascists and Communists both of whom sought to undermine Democracy by every unfair machination known. He then proceeded to call
witnesses.
The first was the Bishop of Northumbria.
Dr. Henderson, the Bishop of Northumbria was one of the best-known figures in the English church, a man of great saintliness and integrity of character. He was broadminded, tolerant, and a fine preacher. He was loved and revered by all who knew him.
He went into the box and swore that between the dates mentioned Mrs. Edward Ferrier had been staying in the Palace with himself and his wife. Worn out by her activities in good works, she had been recommended a thorough rest. Her visit had been kept a secret so as to obviate any worry from the Press.
An eminent doctor followed the Bishop and deposed to having ordered Mrs. Ferrier rest and complete absence from worry.
A local general practitioner gave evidence to the effect that he had attended Mrs. Ferrier at the Palace.
The next witness called was Thelma Andersen.
A thrill went round the Court when she entered the witness-box. Everyone realized at once what a strong resemblance the woman bore to Mrs. Edward Ferrier.
“Your name is Thelma Andersen?”
“Yes.”
“You are a Danish subject?”
“Yes. Copenhagen is my home.”
“And you formerly worked at a café there?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Please tell us in your own words what happened on the 18th March last.”
“There is a gentleman who comes to my table there—an English gentleman. He tells me he works for an English paper—the X-ray News.”
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