“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 looked 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 to-morrow—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 to-morrow 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 to-night as the guest of the Commander-in-Chief, proceeding
to-morrow 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.”
“Yes?”
“The Prime Minister’s car did not return home after leaving the
Prime Minister at Charing Cross. The police were anxious to
interview O’Murphy, so a search was instituted at once. The car
was discovered standing outside a certain unsavoury little
restaurant in Soho, which is well known as a meeting-place of
German agents.”
“And the chauffeur?”
“The chauffeur was nowhere to be found. He, too, had disappeared.”
“So,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “there are two disappearances: the
Prime Minister in France, and O’Murphy in London.”
He looked keenly at Lord Estair, who made a gesture of despair.
“I can only tell you, Monsieur Poirot, that, if anyone had suggested
to me yesterday that O’Murphy was a traitor, I should have laughed
in his face.”
“And to-day?”
“To-day I do not know what to think.”
Poirot nodded gravely. He looked at his turnip of a watch again.
“I understand that I have carte blanche, messieurs—in every way,
I mean? I must be able to go where I choose, and how I choose.”
“Perfectly. There is a special train leaving for Dover in an hour’s
time, with a further contingent from Scotland Yard. You shall be
accompanied by a Military officer and a C.I.D. man, who will hold
themselves at your disposal in every way. Is that satisfactory?”
“Quite. One more question before you leave, messieurs. What made
you come to me? I am unknown, obscure, in this great London of
yours.”
“We sought you out on the express recommendation and wish of a very
great man of your own country.”
“_Comment?_ My old friend the _Préfet_——?”
Lord Estair shook his head.
“One higher than the _Préfet_. One whose word was once law in
Belgium—and shall be again! That England has sworn!”
Poirot’s hand flew swiftly to a dramatic salute. “Amen to that!
Ah, but my Master does not forget. . . . Messieurs, I, Hercule
Poirot, will serve you faithfully. Heaven only send that it will
be in time. But this is dark—dark. . . . I cannot see.”
“Well, Poirot,” I cried impatiently, as the door closed behind the
Ministers, “what do you think?”
My friend was busy packing a minute suitcase, with quick, deft
movements. He shook his head thoughtfully.
“I do not know what to think. My brains desert me.”
“Why, as you said, kidnap him, when a knock on the head would do
as well?” I mused.
“Pardon me, _mon ami_, but I did not quite say that. It is
undoubtedly far more their affair to kidnap him.”
“But why?”
“Because uncertainty creates panic. That is one reason. Were the
Prime Minister dead, it would be a terrible calamity, but the
situation would have to be faced. But now you have paralysis. Will
the Prime Minister reappear, or will he not? Is he dead or alive?
Nobody knows, and until they know nothing definite can be done.
And, as I tell you, uncertainty breeds panic, which is what _les
Boches_ are playing for. Then, again, if the kidnappers are holding
him secretly somewhere, they have the advantage of being able to
make terms with both sides. The German Government is not a liberal
paymaster, as a rule, but no doubt they can be made to disgorge
substantial remittances in such a case as this. Thirdly, they run
no risk of the hangman’s rope. Oh, decidedly, kidnapping is their
affair.”
“Then, if that is so, why should they first try to shoot him?”
Poirot made a gesture of anger. “Ah, that is just what I do not
understand! It is inexplicable—stupid! They have all their
arrangements made (and very good arrangements too!) for the
abduction, and yet they imperil the whole affair by a melodramatic
attack, worthy of a Cinema, and quite as unreal. It is almost
impossible to believe in it, with its band of masked men, not
twenty miles from London!”
“Perhaps they were two quite separate attempts which happened
irrespective of each other,” I suggested.
“Ah, no, that would be too much of a coincidence! Then, further—who
is the traitor? There must have been a traitor—in the first affair,
anyway. But who was it—Daniels or O’Murphy? It must have been one
of the two, or why did the car leave the main road? We cannot
suppose that the Prime Minister connived at his own assassination!
Did O’Murphy take that turning of his own accord, or was it Daniels
who told him to do so?”
“Surely it must have been O’Murphy’s doing.”
“Yes, because if it was Daniels’ the Prime Minister would have
heard the order, and would have asked the reason. But there are
altogether too many ‘whys’ in this affair, and they contradict each
other. If O’Murphy is an honest man, _why_ did he leave the main
road? But if he was a dishonest man, _why_ did he start the car
again when only two shots had been fired—thereby, in all probability,
saving the Prime Minister’s life? And, again, if he was honest,
why did he, immediately on leaving Charing Cross, drive to a
well-known rendezvous of German spies?”
“It looks bad,” I said.
“Let us look at the case with method. What have we for and against
these two men? Take O’Murphy first. Against: that his conduct in
leaving the main road was suspicious; that he is an Irishman from
County Clare; that he has disappeared in a highly suggestive
manner. For: that his promptness in restarting the car saved the
Premier’s life; that he is a Scotland Yard man, and, obviously,
from the post allotted to him, a trusted detective. Now for Daniels.
There is not much against him, except the fact that nothing is
known of his antecedents, and that he speaks too many languages
for a good Englishman! (Pardon me, _mon ami_, but, as linguists,
you are deplorable!) _Now for him_, we have the fact that he was
found gagged, bound, and chloroformed—which does not look as though
he had anything to do with the matter.”
“He might have gagged and bound himself, to divert suspicion.”
Poirot shook his head. “The French police would make no mistake of
that kind. Besides, once he had attained his object, and the Prime
Minister was safely abducted, there would not be much point in his
remaining behind. His accomplices _could_ have gagged and
chloroformed him, of course, but I fail to see what object they
hoped to accomplish by it. He can be of little use to them now,
for, until the circumstances concerning the Prime Minister have
been cleared up, he is bound to be closely watched.”
“Perhaps he hoped to start the police on a false scent?”
“Then why did he not do so? He merely says that something was
pressed over his nose and mouth, and that he remembers nothing
more. There is no false scent there. It sounds remarkably like the
truth.”
“Well,” I said, glancing at the clock, “I suppose we’d better start
for the station. You may find more clues in France.”
“Possibly, _mon ami_, but I doubt it. It is still incredible to me
that the Prime Minister has not been discovered in that limited
area, where the difficulty of concealing him must be tremendous.
If the military and the police of two countries have not found him,
how shall I?”
At Charing Cross we were met by Mr. Dodge.
“This is Detective Barnes, of Scotland Yard, and Major Norman. They
will hold themselves entirely at your disposal. Good luck to you.
It’s a bad business, but I’ve not given up hope. Must be off now.”
And the Minister strode rapidly away.
We chatted in a desultory fashion with Major Norman. In the centre
of the little group of men on the platform I recognized a little
ferret-faced fellow talking to a tall, fair man. He was an old
acquaintance of Poirot’s—Detective-Inspector Japp, supposed to be
one of the smartest of Scotland Yard’s officers. He came over and
greeted my friend cheerfully.
“I heard you were on this job too. Smart bit of work. So far
they’ve got away with the goods all right. But I can’t believe they
can keep him hidden long. Our people are going through France with
a toothcomb. So are the French. I can’t help feeling it’s only a
matter of hours now.”
“That is, if he’s still alive,” remarked the tall detective
gloomily.
Japp’s face fell. “Yes. . . . But somehow I’ve got the feeling he’s
alive all right.”
Poirot nodded. “Yes, yes; he’s alive. But can he be found in time?
I, like you, did not believe he could be hidden so long.”
The whistle blew, and we all trooped up into the Pullman car. Then,
with a slow, unwilling jerk, the train drew out of the station.
It was a curious journey. The Scotland Yard men crowded together.
Maps of Northern France were spread out, and eager forefingers
traced the lines of roads and villages. Each man had his own pet
theory. Poirot showed none of his usual loquacity, but sat staring
in front of him, with an expression on his face that reminded me
of a puzzled child. I talked to Norman, whom I found quite an
amusing fellow. On arriving at Dover Poirot’s behaviour moved me
to intense amusement. The little man, as he went on board the boat,
clutched desperately at my arm. The wind was blowing lustily.
“_Mon Dieu!_” he murmured. “This is terrible!”
“Have courage, Poirot,” I cried. “You will succeed. You will find
him. I am sure of it.”
“Ah, _mon ami_, you mistake my emotion. It is this villainous sea
that troubles me! The _mal de mer_—it is horrible suffering!”
“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
The first throb of the engines was felt, and Poirot groaned and
closed his eyes.
“Major Norman has a map of Northern France if you would like to
study it?”
Poirot shook his head impatiently.
“But no, but no! Leave me, my friend. See you, to think, the
stomach and the brain must be in harmony. Laverguier has a method
most excellent for averting the _mal de mer_. You breathe in—and
out—slowly, so—turning the head from left to right and counting
six between each breath.”