The Labors of Hercules - Agatha Christie [42]
Edward Ferrier said:
“Can you perform miracles, M. Poirot?”
“It is why you sent for me, is it not? Because you thought that I might?”
“That is true . . . I realized that if salvation was to be achieved, it could only come through some fantastic and completely unorthodox suggestion.”
He paused a minute, then he said:
“But perhaps, M. Poirot, you take an ethical view of the situation? John Hammett was a crook, the legend of John Hammett must be exploded. Can one build an honest house on dishonest foundations? I do not know. But I do know that I want to try.” He smiled with a sudden sharp bitterness. “The politician wants to remain in office—as usual from the highest motives.”
Hercule Poirot rose. He said:
“Monsieur, my experience in the police force has not, perhaps, allowed me to think very highly of politicians. If John Hammett were in office—I would not lift a finger—no, not a little finger. But I know something about you. I have been told, by a man who is really great, one of the greatest scientists and brains of the day, that you are—a sound man. I will do what I can.”
He bowed and left the room.
Sir George burst out:
“Well, of all the damned cheek—”
But Edward Ferrier still smiling said:
“It was a compliment.”
II
On his way downstairs, Hercule Poirot was intercepted by a tall, fair-haired woman. She said:
“Please come into my sitting room, M. Poirot.”
He bowed and followed her.
She shut the door, motioned him to a chair, and offered him a cigarette. She sat down opposite him. She said quietly:
“You have just seen my husband—and he has told you—about my father.”
Poirot looked at her with attention. He saw a tall woman, still handsome, with character and intelligence in her face. Mrs. Ferrier was a popular figure. As the wife of the Prime Minister she naturally came in for a good share of the limelight. As the daughter of her father, her popularity was even greater. Dagmar Ferrier represented the popular ideal of English womanhood.
She was a devoted wife, a fond mother, she shared her husband’s love of country life. She interested herself in just those aspects of public life which were generally felt to be proper spheres of womanly activity. She dressed well, but never in an ostenta- tiously fashionable manner. She devoted much of her time and activity to large-scale charities, she had inaugurated special schemes for the relief of the wives of unemployed men. She was looked up to by the whole nation and was a most valuable asset to the
Party.
Hercule Poirot said:
“You must be terribly worried, Madame.”
“Oh I am—you don’t know how much. For years I have been dreading—something.”
Poirot said:
“You had no idea of what was going on actually?”
She shook her head.
“No—not in the least. I only knew that my father was not—was not what everyone thought him. I realized, from the time that I was a child, that he was a—a humbug.”
Her voice was deep and bitter. She said:
“It is through marrying me that Edward—that Edward will lose everything.”
Poirot said in a quiet voice:
“Have you any enemies, Madame?”
She looked up at him, surprised.
“Enemies? I don’t think so.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“I think you have. . . .”
He went on:
“Have you courage, Madame? There is a great campaign afoot—against your husband—and against yourself. You must prepare to defend yourself.”
She cried:
“But it doesn’t matter about me. Only about Edward!”
Poirot said: “The one includes the other. Remember, Madame, you are Cæsar’s wife.”
He saw her colour ebb. She leaned forward. She said:
“What is it you are trying to tell me?”
III
Percy Perry, editor of the X-ray News, sat behind his desk smoking.
He was a small man with a face like a weasel.
He was saying in a soft, oily voice:
“We’ll give ’em the dirt, all right. Lovely—lovely! Oh boy!”
His second-in-command, a thin, spectacled youth, said uneasily:
“You’re not nervous?”
“Expecting strong-arm stuff? Not them. Haven’t got the nerve. Wouldn’t do them any good, either. Not the way we’ve got it farmed out—in this country and on the Continent and America.