Curtain - Agatha Christie [55]
He answered my protests with energy and bitterness.
‘Ah, but I have consulted doctors! Not one but many. I have been to Blank and to Dash [he named two specialists] and they do what? – they send me to Egypt where immediately I am rendered much worse. I have been, too, to R. . . .’
R. was, I knew, a heart specialist. I asked quickly: ‘What did he say?’
Poirot gave me a sudden sidelong glance – and my heart gave an 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 paralysed, 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