Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  I misunderstand Poirot's anxiety. Eager to save my friend, I flung myself in front of him. But the doctor's swift movement had another meaning. His hand went to his mouth, a smell of bitter almonds filled the air, and he swayed forward and fell. "Another victim," said Poirot gravely, "but the last. Perhaps it is the best way. He has three deaths on his head."

  "Dr Ames?" I cried, stupefied. "But I thought you believed in some occult influence!"

  "You misunderstood me, Hastings. What I meant was that I believe in the terrific force of superstition. Once get it firmly established that a series of deaths are supernatural, and you might almost stab a man in broad daylight, and it would still be put down to the curse, so strongly is the instinct of the supernatural implanted in the human race. I suspected from the first that a man was taking advantage of that instinct. The idea came to him, I imagine, with the death of Sir John Willard. A fury of superstition arose at once. As far as I could see, nobody could derive any particular profit from Sir John's death. Mr Bleibner was a different case. He was a man of great wealth. The information I received from New York contained several suggestive points. To begin with, young Bleibner was reported to have said he had a good friend in Egypt from whom he could borrow. It was tacitly understood that he meant his uncle, but it seemed to me that in that case he would have said so outright. The words suggest some boon companion of his own. Another thing, he scraped up enough money to take him to Egypt, his uncle refused outright to advance him a penny, yet he was able to pay the return passage to New York. Someone must have lent him the money."

  "All that was very thin," I objected.

  "But there was more. Hastings, there occur often enough words spoken metaphorically which are taken literally. The opposite can happen too. In this case, words which were meant literally were taken metaphorically. Young Bleibner wrote plainly enough: 'I am a leper,' but nobody realized that he shot himself because he believed that he had contracted the dread disease of leprosy."

  "What?" I ejaculated.

  "It was the clever invention of a diabolical mind. Young Bleibner was suffering from some minor skin trouble, he had lived in the South Sea Islands, where the disease is common enough. Ames was a former friend of his, and a well-known medical man, he would never have dreamed of doubting his word. When I arrived here, my suspicions were divided between Harper and Dr Ames, but I soon realized that only the doctor could have perpetrated and concealed the crimes, and I learnt from Harper that he was previously acquainted with young Bleibner. Doubtless the latter at some time or another had made a will or had insured his life in favor of the doctor. The latter saw his chance of acquiring wealth. It was easy for him to inoculate Mr Bleibner with the deadly germs. Then the nephew, overcome with despair at the dread news his friend had conveyed to him, shot himself. Mr Bleibner, whatever his intentions, had made no will. His fortune would pass to his nephew and from him to the doctor."

  "And Mr Schneider?"

  "We cannot be sure. He knew young Bleibner too, remember, and may have suspected something, or, again, the doctor may have thought that a further death motiveless and purposeless would strengthen the coils of superstition. Furthermore, I will tell you an interesting psychological fact, Hastings. A murderer has always a strong desire to repeat his successful crime, the performance of it grows upon him. Hence my fears for young Willard. The figure of Anubis you saw tonight was Hassan, dressed up by my orders. I wanted to see if I could frighten the doctor. But it would take more than the supernatural to frighten him. I could see that he was not entirely taken in by my pretenses of belief in the occult. The little comedy I played for him did not deceive him. I suspected that he would endeavor to make me the next victim. Ah, but in spite of la mer maudite, the heat abominable, and the annoyances of the sand, the little gray cells still functioned!"

  Poirot proved to be perfectly right in his premises. Young Bleibner, some years ago, in a fit of drunken merriment, had made a jocular will, leaving "my cigarette case you admire so much and everything else of which I die possessed which will be principally debts to my good friend Robert Ames who once saved my life from drowning."

  The case was hushed up as far as possible, and, to this day, people talk of the remarkable series of deaths in connection with the Tomb of Men-her-Ra as a triumphal proof of the vengeance of a bygone king upon the desecrators of his tomb -a belief which, as Poirot pointed out to me, is contrary to all Egyptian belief and thought.

  The

  Kidnapped Prime Minister

  BY

  AGATHA CHRISTIE

  THE KIDNAPPED PRIME MINISTER

  Now that war and the problems of war are things of the past, I think I may safely venture to reveal to the world the part which my friend Poirot played in a moment of national crisis. The secret has been well guarded. Not a whisper of it reached the Press. But, now that the need for secrecy has gone by, I feel it is only just that England should know the debt it owes to my quaint little friend, whose marvelous brain so ably averted a great catastrophe. One evening after dinner -I will not particularize the date; it suffices to say that it was at the time when "Peace by negotiation" was the parrot-cry of England's enemies -my friend and I were sitting in his rooms.

  After being invalided out of the Army I had been given a recruiting job, and it had become my custom to drop in on Poirot in the evenings after dinner and talk with him of any cases of interest that he might have on hand. I was attempting to discuss with him the sensational news of that day -no less than an attempted assassination of Mr David MacAdam, England's Prime Minister.

  The account in the papers had evidently been carefully censored. No details were given, save that the Prime Minister had had a marvelous escape, the bullet just grazing his cheek. I considered that our police must have been shamefully careless for such an outrage to be possible. I could well understand that the German agents in England would be willing to risk much for such an achievement. "Fighting Mac," as his own party had nicknamed him, had strenuously and unequivocally combated the Pacifist influence which was becoming so prevalent. He was more than England's Prime Minister -he was England; and to have removed him from his sphere of influence would have been a crushing and paralyzing blow to Britain. Poirot was busy mopping a gray suit with a minute sponge. Never was there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were his passion. Now, with the odor of benzine filling the air, he was quite unable to give me his full attention. "In a little minute I am with you, my friend. I have all but finished. The spot of grease -he is not good -I remove him -so!" He waved his sponge. I smiled as I lit another cigarette.

  "Anything interesting on?" I inquired, after a minute or two.

  "I assist a -how do you call it? -'charlady' to find her husband. A difficult affair, needing the tact. For I have a little idea that when he is found he will not be pleased. What would you? For my part, I sympathize with him. He was a man of discrimination to lose himself." I laughed. "At last! The spot of grease, he is gone! I am at your disposal."

  "I was asking you what you thought of this attempt to assassinate MacAdam?"

  "Enfantillage!" replied Poirot promptly. "One can hardly take it seriously. To fire with the rifle -never does it succeed. It is a device of the past."

  "It was very near succeeding this time," I reminded him.

  Poirot shook his head impatiently. He was about to reply when the landlady thrust her head round the door and informed him that there were two gentlemen below who wanted to see him. "They won't give their names, sir, but they says as it's very important."

  "Let them mount," said Poirot, carefully folding his grey trousers. In a few minutes the two visitors were ushered in, and my heart gave a leap as in the foremost I recognized no less a personage than Lord Estair, Leader of the House of Commons; whilst his companion, Mr Bernard Dodge, was also a member of the War Cabinet, and, as I knew, a close personal friend of the Prime Minister.

  "Monsieur Poirot?" said Lord Estair interrogatively. My friend bowed. The great man looke
d at me and hesitated. "My business is private."

  "You may speak freely before Captain Hastings," said my friend, nodding to me to remain. "He has not all the gifts, no! But I answer for his discretion."

  Lord Estair still hesitated, but Mr Dodge broke in abruptly: "Oh, come on -don't let's beat about the bush! As far as I can see, the whole of England will know the hole we're in soon enough. Time's everything."

  "Pray be seated, messieurs," said Poirot politely. "Will you take the big chair, milord?" Lord Estair started slightly. "You know me?"

  Poirot smiled. "Certainly. I read the little papers with the pictures. How should I not know you?"

  "Monsieur Poirot, I have come to consult you upon a matter of the most vital urgency. I must ask for absolute secrecy."

  "You have the word of Hercule Poirot -I can say no more!" said my friend grandiloquently.

  "It concerns the Prime Minister. We are in grave trouble."

  "We're up a tree!" interposed Mr Dodge.

  "The injury is serious, then?" I asked.

  "What injury?"

  "The bullet wound."

  "Oh, that!" cried Mr Dodge contemptuously. "That's old history."

  "As my colleague says," continued Lord Estair, "that affair is over and done with. Luckily, it failed. I wished I could say as much for the second attempt."

  "There has been a second attempt, then?"

  "Yes, though not of the same nature. Monsieur Poirot, the Prime Minister has disappeared."

  "What?"

  "He has been kidnapped!"

  "Impossible!" I cried, stupefied. Poirot threw a withering glance at me, which I knew enjoined me to keep my mouth shut.

  "Unfortunately, impossible as it seems, it is only too true," continued his lordship.

  Poirot looked at Mr Dodge. "You said just now, monsieur, that time was everything. What did you mean by that?"

  The two men exchanged glances, and then Lord Estair said: “You have heard, Monsieur Poirot, of the approaching Allied Conference?" My friend nodded. "For obvious reasons, no details have been given of when and where it is to take place. But, although it has been kept out of the newspapers, the date is, of course, widely known in diplomatic circles. The Conference is to be held tomorrow -Thursday -evening at Versailles. Now you perceive the terrible gravity of the situation. I will not conceal from you that the Prime Minister's presence at the Conference is a vital necessity. The Pacifist propaganda, started and maintained by the German agents in our midst, has been very active. It is the universal opinion that the turning point of the Conference will be the strong personality of the Prime Minister. His absence may have the most serious results -possibly a premature and disastrous peace. And we have no one who can be sent in his place. He alone can represent England."

  Poirot's face had grown very grave. "Then you regard the kidnapping of the Prime Minister as a direct attempt to prevent his being present at the Conference?"

  "Most certainly I do. He was actually on his way to France at the time."

  "And the Conference is to be held?"

  "At nine o'clock tomorrow night."

  Poirot drew an enormous watch from his pocket.

  "It is now a quarter to nine."

  "Twenty-four hours," said Mr Dodge thoughtfully.

  "And a quarter," amended Poirot.

  "Do not forget the quarter, monsieur -it may come in useful. Now for the details -the abduction, did it take place in England or in France?"

  "In France. Mr MacAdam crossed to France this morning. He was to stay tonight as the guest of the Commander-in-Chief, proceeding tomorrow to Paris. He was conveyed across the Channel by destroyer. At Boulogne he was met by a car from General Headquarters and one of the Commander-in-Chief's A.D.C.s."

  "Eh bien?"

  "Well, they started from Boulogne -but they never arrived."

  "What?"

  "Monsieur Poirot, it was a bogus car and a bogus A.D.C. The real car was found in a side road, with the chauffeur and the A.D.C. neatly gagged and bound."

  "And the bogus car?"

  "Is still at large."

  Poirot made a gesture of impatience. "Incredible! Surely it cannot escape attention for long?"

  "So we thought. It seemed merely a question of searching thoroughly. That part of France is under Military Law. We were convinced that the car could not go long unnoticed. The French police and our own Scotland Yard men, and the military are straining every nerve. It is, as you say, incredible but nothing has been discovered!"

  At that moment a tap came at the door, and a young officer entered with a heavily sealed envelope which he handed to Lord Estair.

  "Just through from France, sir. I brought it on here, as you directed." The minister tore it open eagerly, and uttered an exclamation. The officer withdrew.

  "Here is news at last! This telegram has just been decoded. They have found the second car, also the secretary, Daniels, chloroformed, gagged, and bound, in an abandoned farm near C-. He remembers nothing, except something being pressed against his mouth and nose from behind, and struggling to free himself. The police are satisfied as to the genuineness of his statement."

  "And they have found nothing else?"

  "No."

  "Not the Prime Minister's dead body? Then, there is hope. But it is strange. Why, after trying to shoot him this morning, are they now taking so much trouble to keep him alive?"

  Dodge shook his head. "One thing's quite certain. They're determined at all costs to prevent his attending the Conference."

  "If it is humanly possible, the Prime Minister shall be there. God grant it is not too late. Now, messieurs, recount to me everything -from the beginning. I must know about this shooting affair as well."

  "Last night, the Prime Minister, accompanied by one of his secretaries, Captain Daniels -"

  "The same who accompanied him to France?"

  "Yes. As I was saying, they motored down to Windsor, where the Prime Minister was granted an Audience. Early this morning, he returned to town, and it was on the way that the attempted assassination took place."

  "One moment, if you please. Who is this Captain Daniels? You have his dossier?"

  Lord Estair smiled. "I thought you would ask me that. We do not know very much of him. He is of no particular family. He has served in the English Army, and is an extremely able secretary, being an exceptionally fine linguist. I believe he speaks seven languages. It is for that reason that the Prime Minister chose him to accompany him to France."

  "Has he any relatives in England?"

  "Two aunts. A Mrs Everard, who lives at Hampstead, and a Miss Daniels, who lives near Ascot."

  "Ascot? That is near to Windsor, is it not?"

  "That point has not been overlooked. But it has led to nothing."

  "You regard the Capitaine Daniels, then, as above suspicion?"

  A shade of bitterness crept into Lord Estair's voice, as he replied: "No, Monsieur Poirot. In these days, I should hesitate before I pronounced anyone above suspicion."

  "Très bien. Now I understand, milord, that the Prime Minister would, as a matter of course, be under vigilant police protection, which ought to render any assault upon him an impossibility?"

  Lord Estair bowed his head. "That is so. The Prime Minister's car was closely followed by another car containing detectives in plain clothes. Mr MacAdam knew nothing of these precautions. He is personally a most fearless man, and would be inclined to sweep them away arbitrarily. But, naturally, the police make their own arrangements. In fact, the Premier's chauffeur, O'Murphy, is a C.I.D. man."

  "O'Murphy? That is a name of Ireland, is it not so?"

  "Yes, he is an Irishman."

  "From what part of Ireland?"

  "County Clare, I believe."

  "Tiens! But proceed, milord."

  "The Premier started for London. The car was a closed one. He and Captain Daniels sat inside. The second car followed as usual. But, unluckily, for some unknown reason, the Prime Minister's car deviated from the
main road"

  "At a point where the road curves?" interrupted Poirot.

  "Yes -but how did you know?"

  "Oh, c'est évident! Continue!"

  "For some unknown reason," continued Lord Estair, "the Premier's car left the main road. The police car, unaware of the deviation, continued to keep to the high road. At a short distance down the unfrequented lane, the Prime Minister's car was suddenly held up by a band of masked men. The chauffeur"

  "That brave O'Murphy!" murmured Poirot thoughtfully.

  "The chauffeur, momentarily taken aback, jammed on the brakes. The Prime Minister put his head out of the window. Instantly a shot rang out -then another. The first one grazed his cheek, the second, fortunately, went wide. The chauffeur, now realizing the danger, instantly forged straight ahead, scattering the band of men."

  "A near escape," I ejaculated, with a shiver.

  "Mr MacAdam refused to make any fuss over the slight wound he had received. He declared it was only a scratch. He stopped at a local cottage hospital, where it was dressed and bound up -he did not, of course, reveal his identity. He then drove, as per schedule, straight to Charing Cross, where a special train for Dover was awaiting him, and, after a brief account of what had happened had been given to the anxious police by Captain Daniels; he duly departed for France. At Dover, he went on board the waiting destroyer. At Boulogne, as you know, the bogus car was waiting for him, carrying the Union Jack, and correct in every detail."

  "That is all you have to tell me?"

  "Yes."

  "There is no other circumstance that you have omitted, milord?"

  "Well, there is one rather peculiar thing."