Even now I can hardly bear to write of those days in March.
Poirot--the unique, the inimitable Hercule Poirot--dead! There was a
particularly diabolical touch in the disarranged match-box, which was
certain to catch his eye, and which he would hasten to rearrange--and
thereby touch off the explosion. That, as a matter of fact, it was I
who actually precipitated the catastrophe never ceased to fill me with
unavailing remorse. It was, as Doctor Ridgeway said, a perfect miracle
that I had not been killed, but had escaped with a slight concussion.
Although it had seemed to me as though I regained consciousness almost
immediately, it was in reality over twenty-four hours before I came
back to life. It was not until the evening of the day following that I
was able to stagger feebly into an adjoining room, and view with deep
emotion the plain elm coffin which held the remains of one of the most
marvellous men this world has ever known.
From the very first moment of regaining consciousness I had only one
purpose in mind--to avenge Poirot's death, and to hunt down the Big
Four remorselessly.
I had thought that Ridgeway would have been of one mind with me about
this, but to my surprise the good doctor seemed unaccountably lukewarm.
"Get back to South America" was his advice, tendered on every occasion.
Why attempt the impossible? Put as delicately as possible, his opinion
amounted to this:--If Poirot, the unique Poirot, had failed, was it
likely that I should succeed?
But I was obstinate. Putting aside any question as to whether I had the
necessary qualifications for the task (and I may say in passing that
I did not entirely agree with his views on this point), I had worked
so long with Poirot that I knew his methods by heart, and felt fully
capable of taking up the work where he had laid it down; it was, with
me, a question of feeling. My friend had been foully murdered. Was
I to go tamely back to South America without an effort to bring his
murderers to justice?