Agatha Christie's Secret Notebooks

by John Curran

  ‘Lutzmann.’

  He spoke it significantly. His eyes searched Poirot closely. Poirot said sharply:

  ‘Lutzmann?’ He paused and then said in a different tone. ‘Hans Lutzmann?’

  The other man said in a hard dry voice:

  ‘Hans Lutzmann was my son…

  iii

  If, a month previously, you had asked any Englishman who was responsible for the general condition of European unrest, the reply would almost inevitably have been ‘Hertzlein’.

  There was, it was true, also Bondolini,[8] but it was upon August Hertzlein that popular imagination fastened. He was the dictator of dictators. His warlike utterances had rallied the youth of his own country and of allied countries. It was he who had set central Europe ablaze and kept it ablaze.

  On the occasion of his public speeches he was able to set huge crowds rocking with frenzied enthusiasm. His high strangely tuned voice had a power all its own.

  People in the know explained learnedly how Hertzlein was not really the supreme power in the Central Empires. They mentioned other names—Golstamm, Von Emmen. These, they said were the executive brains. Hertzlein was only the figurehead. Nevertheless it continued to be Hertzlein who loomed in the public eye.

  Hopeful rumours went about. Hertzlein had an incurable cancer. He could not live longer than six months. Hertzlein had valvular disease of the heart. He might drop down dead any day. Hertzlein had had one stroke already and might have another any moment. Hertzlein after violently persecuting the Catholic Church had been converted by the famous Bavarian monk, Father Ludwig. He would shortly enter a monastery. Hertzlein had fallen in love with a Russian Jewess, the wife of a doctor. He was going to leave the Central Empires and settle down with her in Sweden.

  And in spite of all the rumours, Hertzlein neither had a stroke, nor died of cancer, nor went into a monastery, nor eloped with a Russian Jewess. He continued to make rousing speeches amidst scenes of the greatest enthusiasm and at judicious intervals he added various territories to the Central Empires. And daily the shadow of war grew darker over Europe.

  Desperately people repeated all the hopeful rumours even more hopefully. Or demanded fiercely:

  ‘Why doesn’t someone assassinate him? If only he were out of the way…’

  There came a peaceful week when Hertzlein made no public utterances and when hopes of each of the separate rumours increased tenfold.

  And then, on a fateful Thursday, Herr Hertzlein addressed a monster meeting of the Brothers of Youth.

  People said afterwards that his face was drawn and strained, that even his voice held a different note, that there was about him a prescience of what was to come—but there are always people who say such things afterwards.

  The speech began much as usual. Salvation would come through sacrifice and through the force of arms. Men must die for their country—if not they were unworthy to live for it. The democratic nations were afraid of war—cowardly—unworthy to survive. Let them go—be swept away—by the glorious force of the Young. Fight—fight and again fight—for Victory, and to inherit the earth.

  Hertzlein, in his enthusiasm stepped out from behind his bulletproof shelter. Immediately a shot rang out—and the great dictator fell, a bullet through his head.

  In the third rank of the listening people, a young man was literally torn to pieces by the mob, the smoking pistol still grasped in his hand. That young man was a student named Hans Lutzmann.

  For a few days the hopes of the democratic world rose high. The Dictator was dead. Now perhaps, the reign of peace would come. That hope died almost immediately. For the dead man became a symbol, a martyr, a Saint. Those moderates whom he had failed to sway living, he swayed dead. A great wave of warlike enthusiasm swept over the Central Empires. Their Leader had been killed—but his dead spirit should lead them on. The Central Empires should dominate the world—and sweep away democracy.

  With dismay, the peace lovers realised that Hertzlein’s death had accomplished nothing. Rather it had hastened the evil day. Lutzmann’s act had accomplished less than nothing.

  iv

  The dry middle-aged voice said:

  ‘Hans Lutzmann was my son.’

  Poirot said:

  ‘I do not yet understand you. Your son killed Hertzlein—’

  He stopped. The other was slowly shaking his head. He said:

  ‘My son did not kill Hertzlein. He and I did not think alike. I tell you he loved that man. He worshipped him. He believed in him. He would never have drawn a pistol against him. He was a Nazi[9] through and through—in all his young enthusiasm.’

  ‘Then if not—who did?’

  The elder Lutzmann said:

  ‘That is what I want you to find out.’

  Hercule Poirot said:

  ‘You have an idea…

  Lutzmann said hoarsely:

  ‘I may be wrong.’

  Hercule Poirot said steadily:

  ‘Tell me what you think.’

  Keiserbach leaned forward.

  v

  Dr Otto Schultz readjusted his tortoiseshell rimmed glasses. His thin face beamed with scientific enthusiasm. He said in pleasant nasal accents:

  ‘I guess, Mr Poirot, that with what you’ve told me I’ll be able to go right ahead.’

  ‘You have the schedule?’

  ‘Why, certainly, I shall work to it very carefully. As I see it, perfect timing is essential to the success of your plan.’

  Hercule Poirot bestowed a glance of approval. He said:

  ‘Order and method. That is the pleasure of dealing with a scientific mind.’

  Dr Schultz said:

  ‘You can count on me,’ and wringing him warmly by the hand he went out.

  vi

  George, Poirot’s invaluable manservant, came softly in.

  He inquired in a low deferential voice:

  ‘Will there be any more gentlemen coming, sir?’

  ‘No, Georges, that was the last of them.’

  Hercule Poirot looked tired. He had been very busy since he had returned from Bavaria the week before. He leaned back in his chair and shaded his eyes with his hand. He said:

  ‘When all this is over, I shall go for a long rest.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I think it would be advisable, sir.’

  Poirot murmured:

  ‘The Last Labour of Hercules.’ Do you know, Georges, what that was?’

  ‘I couldn’t say, I’m sure, sir. I don’t vote Labour myself.’

  Poirot said:

  ‘Those young men that you have seen here today—I have sent them on a special mission—they have gone to the place of departed spirits. In this Labour there can be no force employed. All must be done by guile.’

  ‘They seemed very competent looking gentlemen, if I may say so, sir.’

  Hercule Poirot said:

  ‘I chose them very carefully.’

  He sighed and shook his head. He said:

  ‘The world is very sick.’

  George said:

  ‘It looks like war whichever way you turn. Everybody’s very depressed sir. And as for trade it’s just awful. We can’t go on like this.’

  Hercule Poirot murmured:

  ‘We sit in the Twilight of the Gods.’

  vii

  Dr Schultz paused before a property surrounded by a high wall. It was situated about eight miles from Strasbourg.

  He rang the gate bell. In the distance he heard the deep baying of a dog and the rattle of a chain.

  The gate-keeper appeared and Dr Otto Schultz presented his card.

  ‘I wish to see the Herr Doktor Weingartner.’

  ‘Alas, Monsieur, the doctor has been called away only an hour ago by telegram.’

  Schultz frowned.

  ‘Can I then see his second in command?’

  ‘Dr Neumann? But certainly.’

  Dr Neumann was a pleasant-faced young man, with an ingenuous open countenance.

  Dr Schultz produced his credentials�
��a letter of introduction from one of the leading alienists in Berlin. He himself, he explained, was the author of a publication dealing with certain aspects of lunacy and mental degeneracy.

  The other’s face lighted up and he replied that he knew Dr Schultz’s publications and was very much interested in his theories. What a regrettable thing that Dr Weingartner should be absent!

  The two men began to talk shop, comparing conditions in America and Europe and finally becoming technical. They discussed individual patients. Schultz recounted some recent results of a new treatment for paranoia.

  He said with a laugh:

  ‘By that means we have cured three Hertzleins, four Bondolinis, five President Roosevelts and seven Supreme Deities.’

  Neumann laughed.

  Presently the two men went upstairs and visited the wards. It was a small mental home for private patients. There were only about twelve occupants.

  Schultz said:

  ‘You understand I’m principally interested in your paranoiac cases. I believe you have a case admitted quite recently which has some peculiarly interesting features.’

  viii

  Poirot looked from the telegram lying on his desk to the face of his visitor.

  The telegram consisted simply of an address. Villa Eugenie Strasbourg. It was followed by the words ‘Beware of the Dog’.

  The visitor was an odoriferous gentleman of middle-age with a red and swollen nose, an unshaven chin and a deep husky voice which seemed to rise from his unprepossessing looking boots.[10]

  He said hoarsely:

  ‘You can trust me, guv’nor. Do anything with dogs, I can.’

  ‘So I have been told. It will be necessary for you to travel to France—to Alsace.’

  Mr Higgs looked interested.

  ‘That where them Alsatian dogs come from? Never been out of England I ‘aven’t. England’s good enough for me, that’s what I say.’

  Poirot said:

  ‘You will need a passport.’

  He produced a form.

  ‘Now fill this up. I will assist you.’

  They went laboriously through it. Mr Higgs said:

  ‘I had my photo took, as you said. Not that I liked the idea of that much—might be dangerous in my profession.’

  Mr Higgs’ profession was that of a dog stealer, but that fact was glossed over in the conversation.

  ‘Your photograph,’ said Poirot, ‘will be signed on the back by a magistrate, a clergyman, or a public official who will vouch for you as being a proper person to have a passport.’

  A grin overspread Mr Higgs’ face.

  ‘That’s rare, that is,’ he said. ‘That’s rare. A beak saying as I’m a fit and proper person to have a passport.’

  Hercule Poirot said:

  ‘In desperate times, one must use desperate means!’

  ‘Meaning me?’ said Mr Higgs.

  ‘You and your colleague.’

  They started for France two days later. Poirot, Mr Higgs, and a slim young man, in a checked suit and a bright pink shirt, who was a highly successful cat burglar.

  ix

  It was not Hercule Poirot’s custom to indulge in activities in his proper person, but for once he broke through his rule. It was past one in the morning when, shivering slightly in spite of his overcoat, he was laboriously hoisted to the top of a wall by the help of his two assistants.

  Mr Higgs prepared to drop from the wall into the grounds inside. There was a violent baying of a dog and suddenly an enormous creature rushed out from under the trees.[11]

  Hercule Poirot ejaculated:

  ‘Mon Dieu, but it is a monster! Are you sure—?’

  Mr Higgs patted his pocket with complete assurance.

  ‘Don’t you worry, guv’nor. What I’ve got here is the right stuff. Any dog’ll follow me to hell for it.’

  ‘In this case,’ murmured Hercule Poirot, ‘he has to follow you out of hell.’

  ‘Same thing,’ said Mr Higgs, and dropped off the wall into the garden.

  They heard his voice.

  ‘Here you are, Fido. Have a sniff of this…That’s right. You come along of me…’

  His voice died away into the night. The garden was dark and peaceful. The slim young man assisted Poirot down from the wall.[12] They came to the house. Poirot said:

  ‘That is the window there, the second to the left.’

  The young man nodded. He examined the wall first, smiled in satisfaction over a convenient pipe, and then easily and seemingly without effort he disappeared up the wall. Presently, very faintly, Poirot heard the sound of a file being used on the barred window.

  Time passed. Then something dropped at Poirot’s feet. It was the end of a silk ladder. Someone was coming down the ladder. A short man with a bullet head and a little dark moustache.

  He came down slowly and clumsily. At last he reached the ground. Hercule Poirot stepped forward into the moonlight.

  He said politely:

  ‘Herr Hertzlein, I presume.’

  x

  Hertzlein said:

  ‘How did you find me?’

  They were in the compartment of a second class sleeper bound for Paris.

  Poirot, as was his fashion, answered the question meticulously.

  He said:

  ‘At Geneva, I became acquainted with a gentleman called Lutzmann. It was his son who was supposed to have fired the shot that killed you and as a result young Lutzmann was torn to death by the crowd. His father, however, was firmly convinced that his son had never fired that shot. It seemed therefore as though Herr Hertzlein had been shot by one of the two men who were on either side of Lutzmann and that the pistol was forced into his hand and those two men had fallen upon him at once crying out that he was the murderer. But there was another point. Lutzmann assured me that in these mass meetings the front ranks were always packed with ardent supporters—that is to say by thoroughly trustworthy persons.

  ‘Now the Central Empire administration is very good. Its organisation is so perfect that it seemed incredible that such a disaster could have occurred. Moreover there were two small but significant points. Hertzlein, at the critical moment, came out from his bulletproof shelter and his voice had sounded different that evening. Appearance is nothing. It would be easy for someone to carry out an impersonation on a public platform—but the subtle intonation of a voice is a thing more difficult to copy. That evening Herr Hertzlein’s voice had lacked its usual intoxicating quality. It was hardly noticed because he was shot only a very few minutes after he had started to speak.

  ‘Suppose, then, that it was not Herr Hertzlein speaking, and consequently not Herr Hertzlein who had been shot? Could there be a theory that would account for those very extraordinary happenings?

  ‘I thought that that was possible. Amongst all the various rumours that circulate in a time of stress, there is usually a foundation of truth beneath at least one of them. Supposing that that rumour was true that declared that Hertzlein had lately fallen under the influence of that fervent preacher, Father Ludwig.’

  Poirot went on, speaking slowly:

  ‘I thought it possible, Excellency, that you, a man of ideals, a visionary, might have come suddenly to realise that a new vista, a vista of peace and brotherhood, was open to humanity, and that you were the man to set their feet upon that path.’

  Hertzlein nodded violently. He said in his soft husky thrilling voice:

  ‘You are right. The scales fell from my eyes. Father Ludwig was the appointed means to show me my true destiny. Peace! Peace is what the world wants. We must lead youth forward to live in brotherhood. The youth of the world must join together, to plan a great campaign, a campaign of peace. And I shall lead them! I am the means appointed by God to give peace to the world!’

  The compelling voice ceased. Hercule Poirot nodded to himself, registering with interest his own aroused emotion.

  He went on drily:

  ‘Unfortunately, Excellency, this vast project of yours did not
please certain executive authorities in the Central Empires. On the contrary it filled them with dismay.’

  ‘Because they knew that where I led, the people would follow.’

  ‘Exactly. So they kidnapped you without more ado. But they were then in a dilemma. If they gave out that you were dead, awkward questions might arise. Too many people would be in the secret. And also, with you dead, the warlike emotions you had aroused might die with you. They hit instead upon a spectacular end. A man was prevailed upon to represent you at the Monster meeting.’

  ‘Perhaps Schwartz. He took my place sometimes in public processions.’

  ‘Possibly. He himself had no idea of the end planned for him. He thought only that he was to read a speech because you yourself were ill. He was instructed at a given moment to step out from the bulletproof shelter—to show how completely he trusted his people. He never suspected any danger. But the two storm troopers had their orders. One of them shot him and the two of them fell on the young man standing between them and cried out that it was his hand that had fired the shot. They knew their crowd psychology.

  ‘The result was as they had hoped. A frenzy of national patriotism and a rigid adherence to the programme of force by arms!’

  Hertzlein said:

  ‘But you still do not tell me how you found me?’

  Hercule Poirot smiled.

  ‘That was easy—for a person, that is, of my mental capacity! Granted that they had not killed you (and I did not think that they could kill you. Someday you might be useful to them alive, especially if they could prevail upon you to readopt your former views). Where could they take you? Out of the Central Empires—but not too far—and there was only one place where you could be safely hidden—in an asylum or a mental home—the place where a man might declare tirelessly all day and all night that he was Herr Hertzlein and where such a statement would be accepted as quite natural. Paranoics are always convinced that they are great men. In every mental institution there are Napoleons, Hertzleins, Julius Caesars—often many examples of le bon Dieu himself!

  ‘I decided that you would most probably be in a small institution in Alsace or Lorraine where German speaking patients would be natural; and probably only one person would be in the secret—the medical director himself.