Poirot investigates - Agatha Christie [52]
‘That is, if he’s still alive,’ remarked the tall detective gloomily.
Japp’s face fell. ‘Yes…but somehow I’ve got the feeling he’s still alive all right.’
Poirot nodded. ‘Yes, yes; he’s alive. But can he be found in time? I, like you, did not believe he could be hidden so long.’
The whistle blew, and we all trooped up into the Pullman car. Then, with a slow, unwilling jerk, the train drew out of the station.
It was a curious journey. The Scotland Yard men crowded together. Maps of Northern France were spread out, and eager forefingers traced the lines of roads and villages. Each man had his own pet theory. Poirot showed none of his usual loquacity, but sat staring in front of him, with an expression on his face that reminded me of a puzzled child. I talked to Norman, whom I found quite an amusing fellow. On arriving at Dover Poirot’s behaviour moved me to intense amusement. The little man, as he went on board the boat, clutched desperately at my arm. The wind was blowing lustily.
‘Mon Dieu!’ he murmured. ‘This is terrible!’
‘Have courage, Poirot,’ I cried. ‘You will succeed. You will find him. I am sure of it.’
‘Ah, mon ami, you mistake my emotion. It is this villainous sea that troubles me! The mal de mer–it is horrible suffering!’
‘Oh!’ I said, rather taken aback.
The first throb of the engines was felt, and Poirot groaned and closed his eyes.
‘Major Norman has a map of Northern France if you would like to study it?’
Poirot shook his head impatiently.
‘But no, but no! Leave me, my friend. See you, to think, the stomach and the brain must be in harmony. Laverguier has a method most excellent for averting the mal de mer. You breathe in–and out–slowly, so–turning the head from left to right and counting six between each breath.’
I left him to his gymnastic endeavours, and went on deck.
As we came slowly into Boulogne Harbour Poirot appeared, neat and smiling, and announced to me in a whisper that Laverguier’s system had succeeded ‘to a marvel!’
Japp’s forefinger was still tracing imaginary routes on his map. ‘Nonsense! The car started from Boulogne–here they branched off. Now, my idea is that they transferred the Prime Minister to another car. See?’
‘Well,’ said the tall detective, ‘I shall make for the seaports. Ten to one, they’ve smuggled him on board a ship.’
Japp shook his head. ‘Too obvious. The order went out at once to close all the ports.’
The day was just breaking as we landed. Major Norman touched Poirot on the arm. ‘There’s a military car here waiting for you, sir.’
‘Thank you, monsieur. But, for the moment, I do not propose to leave Boulogne.’
‘What?’
‘No, we will enter this hotel here, by the quay.’
He suited the action to the word, demanded and was accorded a private room. We three followed him, puzzled and uncomprehending.
He shot a quick glance at us. ‘It is not so that the good detective should act, eh? I perceive your thought. He must be full of energy. He must rush to and fro. He should prostrate himself on the dusty road and seek the marks of tyres through a little glass. He must gather up the cigarette-end, the fallen match? That is your idea, is it not?’
His eyes challenged us. ‘But I–Hercule Poirot–tell you that it is not so! The true clues are within–here!’ He tapped his forehead. ‘See you, I need not have left London. It would have been sufficient for me to sit quietly in my rooms there. All that matters is the little grey cells within. Secretly and silently they do their part, until suddenly I call for a map, and I lay my finger on a spot–so–and I say: the Prime Minister is there! And it is so! With method and logic one can accomplish anything! This frantic rushing to France was a mistake–it is playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek. But now, though it may be too late, I will set to work the right way, from within. Silence, my friends, I beg of you.’
And for five long hours the little man sat motionless, blinking his eyelids like a cat, his green eyes flickering and becoming steadily