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 specialises 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. Realise 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…'
Chapter 5
THE AUGEAN STABLES
I
'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 that 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 the 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 weatherworn 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 cliches which are so deeply rooted in the English heart. Foreigners sometimes criticise 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?'
