Curtain - Agatha Christie [56]
‘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 nitrate 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.’
How often had I not heard Poirot say: ‘I do not approve of murder.’ That understatement, made so primly, had always tickled my fancy.
Franklin was going on. ‘That’s the difference between us. I haven’t . . . !’
I looked at him curiously. He inclined his head with a faint smile.
‘Quite true,’ he said. ‘Since death comes anyway, what does it matter if it comes early or late? There’s so little difference.’
‘Then what on earth made you become a doctor if you feel like that?’ I demanded with some indignation.
‘Oh, my dear fellow, doctoring isn’t just a matter of dodging the ultimate end. It’s a lot more – it’s improving living. If a healthy man dies, it doesn’t matter – much. If an imbecile – a cretin – dies, it’s a good thing – but if by the discovery of administering the correct gland you turn your cretin into a healthy normal individual by correcting his thyroid deficiency, that, to my mind, matters a good deal.’
I looked at him with more interest. I still felt that it would not be Dr Franklin I should call in if I had influenza, but I had to pay tribute to a kind of white-hot sincerity and a very real force in the man. I had noticed a change in him since his wife’s death. He had displayed few of the conventional signs of mourning. On the contrary he seemed more alive, less absent-minded, and full of a new energy and fire.
He said abruptly, breaking into my thoughts: ‘You and Judith aren’t much alike, are you?’
‘No, I suppose we’re not.’
‘Is she like her mother?’
I reflected, then slowly shook my head. ‘Not really. My wife was a merry, laughing creature. She wouldn’t take anything seriously – and tried to make me the same, without much success I’m afraid.’
He smiled faintly. ‘No, you’re rather the heavy father, aren’t you? So Judith says. Judith doesn’t laugh much – serious young woman. Too much work, I expect. My fault.’
He went into a brown study. I said conventionally: ‘Your work must be very interesting.’
‘Eh?’
‘I said your work must be interesting.’
‘Only to about half a dozen people. To everybody else it’s darned dull – and they’re probably right. Anyway –’ he flung his head back, his shoulders squared themselves, he suddenly looked what