II
On his way downstairs, Hercule Poirot was
intercepted1 by a tall, fair-haired woman. She said:
“Please come into my sitting room, M. Poirot.”
He bowed and followed her.
She shut the door, motioned him to a chair, and offered him a cigarette. She sat down
opposite him. She said quietly:
“You have just seen my husband—and he has told you—about my father.”
Poirot looked at her with attention. He saw a tall woman, still handsome, with character and
intelligence in her face. Mrs. Ferrier was a popular figure. As the wife of the Prime Minister she
naturally came in for a good share of the limelight. As the daughter of her father, her popularity
was even greater. Dagmar Ferrier represented the popular ideal of English womanhood.
She was a
devoted2 wife, a fond mother, she shared her husband’s love of country life. She
interested herself in just those aspects of public life which were generally felt to be proper spheres
of womanly activity. She dressed well, but never in an ostenta- tiously fashionable manner. She
devoted much of her time and activity to large-scale charities, she had inaugurated special
schemes for the relief of the wives of
unemployed3 men. She was looked up to by the whole nation
and was a most valuable asset to the
Party.
Hercule Poirot said:
“You must be terribly worried, Madame.”
“Oh I am—you don’t know how much. For years I have been dreading—something.”
Poirot said:
“You had no idea of what was going on actually?”
She shook her head.
“No—not in the least. I only knew that my father was not—was not what everyone thought
him. I realized, from the time that I was a child, that he was a—a
humbug4.”
Her voice was deep and bitter. She said:
“It is through marrying me that Edward—that Edward will lose everything.”
Poirot said in a quiet voice:
“Have you any enemies, Madame?”
She looked up at him, surprised.
“Enemies? I don’t think so.”
Poirot said thoughtfully:
“I think you have. . . .”
He went on:
“Have you courage, Madame? There is a great campaign afoot—against your husband—and
against yourself. You must prepare to defend yourself.”
She cried:
“But it doesn’t matter about me. Only about Edward!”
Poirot said: “The one includes the other. Remember, Madame, you are Cæsar’s wife.”
He saw her colour
ebb5. She leaned forward. She said:
“What is it you are trying to tell me?”
III
Percy Perry, editor of the X-ray News, sat behind his desk smoking.
He was a small man with a face like a weasel.
He was saying in a soft, oily voice:
“We’ll give ’em the dirt, all right. Lovely—lovely! Oh boy!”
His second-in-command, a thin, spectacled youth, said uneasily:
“You’re not nervous?”
“Expecting strong-arm stuff? Not them. Haven’t got the nerve. Wouldn’t do them any good,
either. Not the way we’ve got it farmed out—in this country and on the Continent and America.”
The other said:
“They must be in a pretty good
stew6. Won’t they do anything?”
“They’ll send someone to talk pretty—”
A
buzzer7 sounded. Percy Perry picked up a receiver. He said: “Who do you say? Right, send
him up.”
He put the receiver down—grinned.
“They’ve got that high-toned Belgian dick on to it. He’s coming up now to do his stuff.
Wants to know if we’ll play ball.”
Hercule Poirot came in. He was immaculately dressed—a white camelia in his buttonhole.
Percy Perry said:
“Pleased to meet you, M. Poirot. On your way to the Royal Enclosure at Ascot? No? My
mistake.”
Hercule Poirot said:
“I am flattered. One hopes to present a good appearance. It is even more important,” his eyes
roamed innocently over the editor’s face and somewhat
slovenly8 attire9, “when one has few natural
advantages.”
Perry said shortly:
“What do you want to see me about?”
Poirot leaned forward, tapped him on the knee, and said with a beaming smile:
“What the devil do you mean, blackmail?”
“I have heard—the little bird has told me—that on occasions you have been on the point of
publishing certain very damaging statements in your so spirituel paper—then, there has been a
pleasant little increase in your bank balance—and after all, those statements have not been
published.”
Poirot leaned back and nodded his head in a satisfied sort of way.
“Do you realize that what you’re suggesting amounts to
slander11?”
Poirot smiled confidently.
“I am sure you will not take offence.”
“I do take offence! As to blackmail there is no evidence of my ever having
blackmailed12
anybody.”
“No, no, I am quite sure of that. You misunderstand me. I was not threatening you. I was
leading up to a simple question. How much?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Percy Perry.
“A matter of National importance, M. Perry.”
They exchanged a significant glance.
Percy Perry said:
“I’m a reformer, M. Poirot. I want to see politics cleaned up. I’m opposed to
corruption13. Do
you know what the state of politics is in this country? The Augean Stables, no more, no less.”
“Tiens!” said Hercule Poirot. “You, too, use that phrase.”
“And what is needed,” went on the editor, “to
cleanse14 those stables is the great purifying
flood of Public Opinion.”
Hercule Poirot got up. He said:
“I applaud your sentiments.”
He added:
“It is a pity that you do not feel in need of money.”
Percy Perry said hurriedly:
“Here, wait a sec—I didn’t say that exactly. . . .”
But Hercule Poirot had gone through the door.
His excuse for later events is that he does not like blackmailers.
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