I have met people who enjoy a channel crossing; men who can sit calmly
in their deck-chairs and, on arrival, wait until the boat is moored,
then gather their belongings together without fuss and disembark.
Personally, I can never manage this. From the moment I get on board I
feel that the time is too short to settle down to anything. I move my
suit-cases from one spot to another, and if I go down to the saloon
for a meal, I bolt my food with an uneasy feeling that the boat may
arrive unexpectedly whilst I am below. Perhaps all this is merely a
legacy from one's short leaves in the war, when it seemed a matter of
such importance to secure a place near the gangway, and to be amongst
the first to disembark lest one should waste precious minutes of one's
three or five days' leave.
On this particular July morning, as I stood by the rail and watched the
white cliffs of Dover drawing nearer, I marvelled at the passengers
who could sit calmly in their chairs and never even raise their eyes
for the first sight of their native land. Yet perhaps their case was
different from mine. Doubtless many of them had only crossed to Paris
for the week-end, whereas I had spent the last year and a half on a
ranch in the Argentine. I had prospered there, and my wife and I had
both enjoyed the free and easy life of the South American continent,
nevertheless it was with a lump in my throat that I watched the
familiar shore draw nearer and nearer.
I had landed in France two days before, transacted some necessary
business, and was now _en route_ for London. I should be there
some months--time enough to look up old friends, and one old friend
in particular. A little man with an egg-shaped head and green
eyes--Hercule Poirot! I proposed to take him completely by surprise.
My last letter from the Argentine had given no hint of my intended
voyage--indeed, that had been decided upon hurriedly as a result
of certain business complications--and I spent many amused moments
picturing to myself his delight and stupefaction on beholding me.
He, I knew, was not likely to be far from his headquarters. The time
when his cases had drawn him from one end of England to the other was
past. His fame had spread, and no longer would he allow one case to
absorb all his time. He aimed more and more, as time went on, at being
considered a "consulting detective"--as much a specialist as a Harley
Street physician. He had always scoffed at the popular idea of the
human bloodhound who assumed wonderful disguises to track criminals,
and who paused at every footprint to measure it.
"No, my friend Hastings," he would say; "we leave that to Giraud and
his friends. Hercule Poirot's methods are his own. Order and method,
and 'the little gray cells.' Sitting at ease in our own arm-chairs we
see the things that these others overlook, and we do not jump to the
conclusion like the worthy Japp."
No; there was little fear of finding Hercule Poirot far afield.
On arrival in London, I deposited my luggage at an hotel and drove
straight on to the old address. What poignant memories it brought back
to me! I hardly waited to greet my old landlady, but hurried up the
stairs two at a time and rapped on Poirot's door.
"Enter, then," cried a familiar voice from within.
I strode in. Poirot stood facing me. In his arms he carried a small
valise, which he dropped with a crash on beholding me.
"_Mon ami_, Hastings!" he cried. "_Mon ami_, Hastings!"
And, rushing forward, he enveloped me in a capacious embrace. Our
conversation was incoherent and inconsequent. Ejaculations, eager
questions, incomplete answers, messages from my wife, explanations as
to my journey, were all jumbled up together.
"I suppose there's some one in my old rooms?" I asked at last, when we
had calmed down somewhat. "I'd love to put up here again with you."
Poirot's face changed with startling suddenness.
"_Mon Dieu!_ but what a _chance épouvantable_. Regard around
you, my friend."
For the first time I took note of my surroundings. Against the wall
stood a vast ark of a trunk of prehistoric design. Near to it were
placed a number of suit-cases, ranged neatly in order of size from
large to small. The inference was unmistakable.
"You are going away?"
"Yes."
"Where to?"
"South America."
"_What?_"
"Yes, it is a droll farce, is it not? It is to Rio I go, and every
day I say to myself, I will write nothing in my letters--but oh! the
surprise of the good Hastings when he beholds me!"
"But when are you going?"
Poirot looked at his watch.
"In an hour's time."
"I thought you always said nothing would induce you to make a long sea
voyage?"
Poirot closed his eyes and shuddered.
"Speak not of it to me, my friend. My doctor, he assures me that one
dies not of it--and it is for the one time only; you understand, that
never--never shall I return."
He pushed me into a chair.
"Come, I will tell you how it all came about. Do you know who is the
richest man in the world? Richer even than Rockefeller? Abe Ryland."
"The American Soap King?"
"Precisely. One of his secretaries approached me. There is some very
considerable, as you would call it, hocus-pocus going on in connection
with a big company in Rio. He wished me to investigate matters on the
spot. I refused. I told him that if the facts were laid before me,
I would give him my expert opinion. But that he professed himself
unable to do. I was to be put in possession of the facts only on my
arrival out there. Normally, that would have closed the matter. To
dictate to Hercule Poirot is sheer impertinence. But the sum offered
was so stupendous that for the first time in my life I was tempted by
mere money. It was a competence--a fortune! And there was a second
attraction--_you_, my friend. For this last year and a half I
have been a very lonely old man. I thought to myself, Why not? I am
beginning to weary of this unending solving of foolish problems. I
have achieved sufficient fame. Let me take this money and settle down
somewhere near my old friend."