Five
THE AUGEAN STABLES
“The situation is an extremely delicate one, M. Poirot.”
A faint smile flitted across Hercule Poirot’s lips. He almost replied:
“It always is!”
Instead, he composed his face and put on what might be described as a bedside manner of
Sir George Conway proceeded weightily. Phrases fell easily from his lips—the extreme
the necessity of presenting a united front—the power of the Press—the welfare of the Country. . . .
It all sounded well—and meant nothing. Hercule Poirot felt that familiar aching of the
jaw5
when one longs to yawn and politeness forbids. He had felt the same sometimes when reading the
parliamentary debates. But on those occasions there had been no need to restrain his yawns.
He steeled himself to endure patiently. He felt, at the same time, a sympathy for Sir George
Conway. The man obviously wanted to tell him something—and as obviously had lost the art of
simple
narration6. Words had become to him a means of obscuring facts—not of revealing them.
He was an
adept7 in the art of the useful phrase—that is to say the phrase that falls
soothingly8 on
the ear and is quite empty of meaning.
The words rolled on—poor Sir George became quite red in the face. He shot a desperate
glance at the other man sitting at the head of the table, and the other man responded.
Edward Ferrier said:
“All right, George. I’ll tell him.”
Hercule Poirot shifted his gaze from the Home Secretary to the Prime Minister. He felt a keen
interest in Edward Ferrier—an interest aroused by a chance phrase from an old man of eighty-two.
Professor Fergus MacLeod, after disposing of a chemical difficulty in the conviction of a
murderer, had touched for a moment on politics. On the
retirement9 of the famous and beloved
John Hammett (now Lord Cornworthy) his son-in-law, Edward Ferrier, had been asked to form a
Cabinet. As politicians go he was a young man—under fifty. Professor MacLeod had said: “Ferrier
was once one of my students. He’s a sound man.”
That was all, but to Hercule Poirot it represented a good deal. If MacLeod called a man sound
it was a testimonial to character compared with which no popular or press enthusiasm counted
at all.
It coincided, it was true, with the popular estimate. Edward Ferrier was considered sound—
just that—not brilliant, not great, not a particularly
eloquent10 orator11, not a man of deep learning. He
was a sound man—a man bred in the tradition—a man who had married John Hammett’s daughter
—who had been John Hammett’s right-hand man and who could be trusted to carry on the
government of the country in the John Hammett tradition.
For John Hammett was particularly dear to the people and Press of England. He represented
every quality which was dear to Englishmen. People said of him: “One does feel that Hammett’s
honest.”
Anecdotes12 were told of his simple home life, of his fondness for gardening.
Corresponding to Baldwin’s pipe and Chamberlain’s umbrella, there was John Hammett’s
raincoat. He always carried it—a weather-worn garment. It stood as a symbol—of the English
Moreover, in his
bluff15 British way, John Hammett was an orator. His speeches, quietly and
earnestly delivered, contained those simple
sentimental16 clichés which are so deeply rooted in the
English heart. Foreigners sometimes criticize them as being both hypocritical and
unbearably17
noble. John Hammett did not in the least mind being noble—in a sporting, public school,
deprecating fashion.
Moreover, he was a man of fine presence, tall, upstanding, with fair colouring and very bright
blue eyes. His mother had been a Dane and he himself had been for many years First Lord of the
Admiralty, which gave rise to his nickname of “the Viking.” When at last ill-health forced him to
give up the
reins18 of office, deep uneasiness was felt. Who would succeed him? The brilliant Lord
Charles Delafield? (Too brilliant—England didn’t need
brilliance19.) Evan Whittler? (Clever—but
perhaps a little unscrupulous.) John Potter? (The sort of man who might fancy himself as Dictator
—and we didn’t want any dictators in this country, thank you very much.) So a sigh of relief went
up when the quiet Edward Ferrier assumed office. Ferrier was all right. He had been trained by the
Old Man, he had married the Old Man’s daughter. In the classic British phrase, Ferrier would
“carry on.”
Hercule Poirot studied the quiet dark-faced man with the low pleasant voice. Lean and dark
and tired-looking.
Edward Ferrier was saying:
“Perhaps, M. Poirot, you are acquainted with a weekly periodical called the X-ray News?”
“I have glanced at it,” admitted Poirot, blushing slightly.
The Prime Minister said:
“Then you know more or less of what it consists. Semilibellous matter. Snappy paragraphs
hinting at
sensational20 secret history. Some of them true, some of them harmless—but all served up
in a
spicy21 manner. Occasionally—”
He paused and then said, his voice altering a little:
“Occasionally something more.”
Hercule Poirot did not speak. Ferrier went on:
“For two weeks now there have been hints of
impending22 disclosures of a first-class scandal in
‘the highest political circles.’ ‘Astonishing revelations of
corruption23 and jobbery.’ ”
Hercule Poirot said, shrugging his shoulders:
“A common trick. When the actual revelations come they usually disappoint the cravers after
sensation badly.”
Ferrier said drily: “These will not disappoint them.”
Hercule Poirot asked:
“You know then, what these revelations are going to be?”
“With a fair amount of accuracy.”
Edward Ferrier paused a minute, then he began speaking. Carefully, methodically, he
outlined the story.
misuse28 of Party Funds. The charges were levelled against the late Prime Minister, John Hammett.
They showed him to be a dishonest
rascal29, a gigantic confidence trickster, who had used his
position to
amass30 for himself a vast private fortune.
The Prime Minister’s quiet voice stopped at last. The Home Secretary
groaned31. He spluttered
out:
“It’s monstrous—monstrous! This fellow, Perry, who edits the rag, ought to be shot!”
Hercule Poirot said:
“These so-called revelations are to appear in the X-ray News?”
“Yes.”
“What steps do you propose to take about them?”
Ferrier said slowly:
“They constitute a private attack on John Hammett. It is open to him to sue the paper for
libel.”
“Will he do that?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Ferrier said:
“It is probable that there is nothing the X-ray News would like better. The
publicity33 given
them would be enormous. Their defence would be fair comment and that the statements
complained of were true. The whole business would be exhaustively held up to view in a blaze of
limelight.”
“Still, if the case went against them, the damages would be extremely heavy.”
Ferrier said slowly: “It might not go against them.”
“Why?”
Sir George said
primly34: “I really think that—”
But Edward Ferrier was already speaking.
“Because what they intend to print is—the truth.”
A
groan32 burst from Sir George Conway,
outraged35 at such un-Parliamentary frankness. He
cried out:
“Edward, my dear fellow. We don’t admit, surely—”
The ghost of a smile passed over Edward Ferrier’s tired face. He said:
“Unfortunately, George, there are times when the
stark36 truth has got to be told. This is one of
them.”
Sir George exclaimed:
“You understand, M. Poirot, all this is
strictly37 in confidence. Not one word—”
Ferrier interrupted him. He said:
“M. Poirot understands that.” He went on slowly, “What he may not understand is this: the
whole future of the People’s Party is at stake. John Hammett, M. Poirot, was the People’s Party.
He stood for what it represents to the people of England—he stood for
Decency38 and Honesty. No
one has ever thought us brilliant. We have
muddled39 and blundered. But we have stood for the
tradition of doing one’s best—and we have stood, too, for fundamental honesty. Our disaster is
this—that the man who was our figurehead, the Honest Man of the People,
par4 excellence—turns
out to have been one of the worst
crooks40 of this generation.”
Another groan burst from Sir George.
Poirot asked:
“You knew nothing of all this?”
Again the smile flashed across the weary face. Ferrier said:
“You may not believe me, M. Poirot, but like everyone else, I was completely deceived. I
never understood my wife’s curious attitude of reserve towards her father. I understand it now.
She knew his essential character.”
He paused and then said:
“When the truth began to leak out, I was
horrified42, incredulous. We insisted on my father-in-
law’s resignation on the grounds of ill-health and we set to work to—to clean up the mess, shall
I say?”
Sir George groaned.
“The Augean Stables!”
Poirot started.
Ferrier said:
“It will prove, I fear, too Herculean a task for us. Once the facts become public, there will be
a wave of reaction all over the country. The Government will fall. There will be a General
Election and in all probability Everhard and his party will be returned to power. You know
Everhard’s policy.”
Sir George spluttered.
“A firebrand—a complete firebrand.”
Ferrier said gravely:
inept45 and vacillating—it would be practically a Dictatorship.”
Hercule Poirot nodded.
“If only the whole thing can be hushed up. . . .”
Slowly, the
Premier47 shook his head. It was a movement of defeat.
Poirot said:
“You do not believe that it can be hushed up?”
Ferrier said:
“I sent for you, M. Poirot, as a last hope. In my opinion this business is too big, too many
people know about it, for it to be successfully
concealed48. The only two methods open to us which
are, to put it bluntly, the use of force, or the
adoption49 of bribery—cannot really hope to succeed.
The Home Secretary compared our troubles with the
cleansing50 of the Augean Stables. It needs, M.
Poirot, the violence of a river in
spate51, the disruption of the great natural forces in Nature—
nothing less, in fact, than a miracle.”
“It needs, in fact, a Hercules,” said Poirot, nodding his head with a pleased expression.
He added: “My name, remember, is Hercule. . . .”
Edward Ferrier said:
“Can you perform miracles, M. Poirot?”
“It is why you sent for me, is it not? Because you thought that I might?”
“That is true . . . I realized that if
salvation52 was to be achieved, it could only come through
some fantastic and completely unorthodox suggestion.”
He paused a minute, then he said:
“But perhaps, M. Poirot, you take an
ethical53 view of the situation? John Hammett was a
crook41, the legend of John Hammett must be exploded. Can one build an honest house on dishonest
foundations? I do not know. But I do know that I want to try.” He smiled with a sudden sharp
bitterness. “The politician wants to remain in office—as usual from the highest
motives54.”
Hercule Poirot rose. He said:
“Monsieur, my experience in the police force has not, perhaps, allowed me to think very
highly of politicians. If John Hammett were in office—I would not lift a finger—no, not a little
finger. But I know something about you. I have been told, by a man who is really great, one of the
greatest scientists and brains of the day, that you are—a sound man. I will do what I can.”
He bowed and left the room.
Sir George burst out:
“Well, of all the damned cheek—”
But Edward Ferrier still smiling said:
“It was a compliment.”
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