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 marvellous 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 marvellous 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 paralysing blow to Britain.
Poirot was busy mopping a grey suit with a minute sponge. Never
was there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were
his passion. Now, with the odour 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.