帷幕12

II

It was on the following day that I ventured to broach an idea which hadcome into my mind more than once. I did so a little dubiously, for onenever knows how Poirot may react!

I said: ‘I’ve been thinking, Poirot, I know I’m not much of a fellow.

You’ve said I’m stupid – well, in a way it’s true. And I’m only half the manI was. Since Cinders’s death –’

I stopped. Poirot made a gruff noise indicative of sympathy.

I went on: ‘But there is a man here who could help us – just the kind ofman we need. Brains, imagination, resource – used to taking decisions anda man of wide experience. I’m talking of Boyd Carrington. He’s the manwe want, Poirot. Take him into your confidence. Put the whole thing be-fore him.’

Poirot opened his eyes and said with immense decision: ‘Certainly not.’

‘But why not? You can’t deny that he’s clever – a good deal cleverer thanI am.’

‘THAT,’ said Poirot with biting sarcasm, ‘would be easy. But dismiss theidea from your mind, Hastings. We take no one into our confidence. That isunderstood – hein? You comprehend, I forbid you to speak of this matter.’

‘All right, if you say so, but really Boyd Carrington –’

‘Ah, ta ta! Boyd Carrington. Why are you so obsessed with Boyd Carring-ton? What is he, after all? A big man who is pompous and pleased withhimself because people have called him “Your Excellency”. A man with –yes, a certain amount of tact and charm of manner. But he is not so won-derful, your Boyd Carrington. He repeats himself, he tells the same storytwice – and what is more, his memory is so bad that he tells back to youthe story that you have told to him! A man of outstanding ability? Not atall. An old bore, a windbag – enfin – the stuffed shirt!’

‘Oh,’ I said as enlightenment came to me.

It was quite true that Boyd Carrington’s memory was not good. And hehad actually been guilty of a gaffe which I now saw had annoyed Poirot agood deal. Poirot had told him a story of his police days in Belgium, andonly a couple of days afterwards, when several of us were assembled inthe garden, Boyd Carrington had in bland forgetfulness told the samestory back again to Poirot, prefacing it with the remark: ‘I remember theChef de la S? reté in Paris telling me …’

I now perceived that this had rankled! Tactfully, I said no more, andwithdrew.

 

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