The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [39]
“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. . . .”
Five
THE AUGEAN STABLES
“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 the 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