been, too, to R.'
R. was, I knew, a heart specialist. I asked quickly:
'What did he say?'
Poirot gave me a sudden quick sidelong glance – and my heart gave a sudden agonized leap.
He said quietly:
'He has done for me all that can be done. I have my treatments, my remedies, all close at hand. Beyond that – there is nothing. So you see, Hastings, to call in more doctors would be of no avail. The machine, mon ami, wears out. One cannot, alas, install the new engine and continue to run as before like a motor car.'
'But look here, Poirot, surely there's something. Curtiss -'
Poirot said sharply: 'Curtiss?'
'Yes, he came to me. He was worried – You had an attack -'
Poirot nodded gently.
'Yes, yes. They are, sometimes, these attacks, painful to witness. Curtiss, I think, is not used to these attacks of the heart.'
'Won't you really see a doctor?'
'It is of no avail, my friend.'
He spoke very gently but with finality. And again my heart felt a painful constriction. Poirot smiled at me. He said:
'This, Hastings, will be my last case. It will be, too, my most interesting case – and my most interesting criminal. For in X we have a technique superb, magnificent – that arouses admiration in spite of oneself. So far, mon cher, this X has operated with so much ability that he has defeated me – Hercule Poirot! He has developed the attack to which I can find no answer.'
'If you had your health -' I began soothingly.
But apparently that was not the right thing to say. Hercule Poirot immediately flew into a rage.
'Ah! Have I got to tell you thirty-six times, and then again thirty-six, that there is no need of physical effort? One needs only – to think.'
'Well – of course – yes, you can do that all right.'
'All right? I can do it superlatively. My limbs they are paralyzed, my heart it plays me the tricks, but my brain, Hastings – my brain it functions without impairment of any kind. It is still of the first excellence, my brain.'
'That,' I said soothingly, 'is splendid.'
But as I went slowly downstairs, I thought to myself that Poirot's brain was not getting on with things as fast as it might do. First the narrow escape of Mrs Luttrell and now the death of Mrs Franklin. And what were we doing about it? Practically nothing.
II
It was the following day that Poirot said to me:
'You suggested, Hastings, that I should see a doctor.'
'Yes,' I said eagerly. 'I'd feel much happier if you would.'
'Eh bien, I will consent. I will see Franklin.'
' Franklin?' I looked doubtful.
'Well, he is a doctor, is he not?'
'Yes, but – his main line is research, is it not?'
'Undoubtedly. He would not succeed, I fancy, as a general practitioner. He has not sufficiently what you call the 'side of the bed manner.' But he has the qualifications. In fact I should say that, as the films say, 'he knows his stuff better than most.''
I was still not entirely satisfied. Although I did not doubt Franklin 's ability, he had always struck me as a man who was impatient of and uninterested in human ailments. Possibly an admirable attitude for research work, but not so good for any sick persons he might attend.
However, for Poirot to go so far was a concession, and as Poirot had no local medical attendant, Franklin readily agreed to take a look at him. But he explained that if regular medical attendance was needed, a local practitioner must be called in. He could not attend the case.
Franklin spent a long time with him.
When he came out finally, I was waiting for him. I drew him into my room and shut the door.
'Well?' I demanded anxiously.
Franklin said thoughtfully:
'He's a very remarkable man.'
'Oh! That, yes -' I brushed aside this self-evident fact. 'But his health?'
'Oh! His health?' Franklin seemed quite surprised – as though I had mentioned something of no importance at all. 'Oh! His health's rotten, of course.'
It was not, I felt, at all a professional way of putting it. And yet I had heard – from Judith – that Franklin had been one of the most brilliant students of his time.
'How bad is he?' I demanded anxiously.
He shot me a look.
'D'you want to know?'
'Of course.'
What did the fool think?
He almost immediately told me:
'Most people,' he said, 'don't want to know. They want soothing syrup. They want hope. They want reassurance ladled out in driblets. And of course amazing recoveries do occur. But they won't in Poirot's case.'
'Do you mean -' Again that cold hand closed round my heart.
Franklin nodded,
'Oh yes, he's for it, all right. And pretty soon, I should say. I shouldn't tell you so if he hadn't authorized me to do so.'
'Then – he knows.'
Franklin said:
'He knows, all right. That heart of his may go out – phut – any moment. One can't say, of course, exactly when.'
He paused, then he said slowly:
'From what he says, I gather he's worrying about getting something finished, something that – as he puts it – he's undertaken. D'you know about that?'
'Yes,' I said. 'I know.'
Franklin shot me an interested glance.
'He wants to be sure of finishing off the job.'
'I see.'
I wondered if John Franklin had any idea of what that job was!
He said slowly:
'I hope he'll manage it. From what he said, it means a lot to him.' He paused and added: 'He's got a methodical mind.'
I asked anxiously:
'Isn't there something that can be done – something in the way of treatment -'
He shook his head.
'Nothing doing. He's got ampoules of amyl nitrite to use when he feels an attack is coming on.'
Then he said a rather curious thing.
'Got a very great respect for human life, hasn't he?'
'Yes – I suppose he has.'
