帷幕30

II

It was the following day that Poirot said to me: ‘You suggested, Hastings,that I should see a doctor.’

‘Yes,’ I said eagerly. ‘I’d feel much happier if you would.’

‘Eh bien, I will consent. I will see Franklin.’

‘Franklin?’ I looked doubtful.

‘Well, he is a doctor, is he not?’

‘Yes, but – his main line is research, is it not?’

‘Undoubtedly. He would not succeed, I fancy, as a general practitioner.

He has not sufficiently what you call the “side of the bed manner”. But hehas the qualifications. In fact I should say that, as the films say, “he knowshis stuff better than most”.’

I was still not entirely satisfied. Although I did not doubt Franklin’s abil-ity, he had always struck me as a man who was impatient of and uninter-ested in human ailments. Possibly an admirable attitude for researchwork, but not so good for any sick persons he might attend.

However, for Poirot to go so far was a concession, and as Poirot had nolocal medical attendant, Franklin readily agreed to take a look at him. Buthe explained that if regular medical attendance was needed, a local practi-tioner must be called in. He could not attend the case.

Franklin spent a long time with him.

When he came out finally I was waiting for him. I drew him into myroom and shut the door.

‘Well?’ I demanded anxiously.

Franklin said thoughtfully: ‘He’s a very remarkable man.’

‘Oh, that. Yes –’ I brushed aside this self-evident fact. ‘But his health?’

‘Oh! His health?’ Franklin seemed quite surprised – as though I hadmentioned something of no importance at all. ‘Oh! His health’s rotten, ofcourse.’

It was not, I felt, at all a professional way of putting it. And yet I hadheard – from Judith – that Franklin had been one of the most brilliant stu-dents of his time.

‘How bad is he?’ I demanded anxiously.

He shot me a look. ‘D’you want to know?’

‘Of course.’

What did the fool think?

He almost immediately told me.

‘Most people,’ he said, ‘don’t want to know. They want soothing syrup.

They want hope. They want reassurance ladled out in driblets. And ofcourse amazing recoveries do occur. But they won’t in Poirot’s case.’

‘Do you mean –’ Again that cold hand closed round my heart.

Franklin nodded. ‘Oh yes, he’s for it all right. And pretty soon, I shouldsay. I shouldn’t tell you so if he hadn’t authorized me to do so.’

‘Then – he knows.’

Franklin said: ‘He knows all right. That heart of his may go out – phut –any moment. One can’t say, of course, exactly when.’

He paused, then he said slowly: ‘From what he says, I gather he’s worry-ing about getting something finished, something that, as he puts it, he’s un-dertaken. D’you know about that?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I know.’

Franklin shot me an interested glance.

‘He wants to be sure of finishing off the job.’

‘I see.’

I wondered if John Franklin had any idea of what that job was!

He said slowly: ‘I hope he’ll manage it. From what he said it means a lotto him.’ He paused and added: ‘He’s got a methodical mind.’

I asked anxiously: ‘Isn’t there something that can be done – somethingin the way of treatment –’

He shook his head. ‘Nothing doing. He’s got ampoules of amyl nitrate touse when he feels an attack is coming on.’

Then he said a rather curious thing. ‘Got a very great respect for humanlife, hasn’t he?’

‘Yes, I suppose he has.’

How often had I not heard Poirot say: ‘I do not approve of murder.’ Thatunderstatement, made so primly, had always tickled my fancy.

Franklin was going on. ‘That’s the difference between us. I haven’t … !’

I looked at him curiously. He inclined his head with a faint smile.

‘Quite true,’ he said. ‘Since death comes anyway, what does it matter if itcomes early or late? There’s so little difference.’

‘Then what on earth made you become a doctor if you feel like that?’ Idemanded with some indignation.

‘Oh, my dear fellow, doctoring isn’t just a matter of dodging the ultimateend. It’s a lot more – it’s improving living. If a healthy man dies, it doesn’tmatter – much. If an imbecile – a cretin – dies, it’s a good thing – but if bythe discovery of administering the correct gland you turn your cretin intoa healthy normal individual by correcting his thyroid deficiency, that, tomy mind, matters a good deal.’

I looked at him with more interest. I still felt that it would not be DrFranklin I should call in if I had influenza, but I had to pay tribute to akind of white-hot sincerity and a very real force in the man. I had noticeda change in him since his wife’s death. He had displayed few of the con-ventional signs of mourning. On the contrary he seemed more alive, lessabsent-minded, and full of a new energy and fire.

He said abruptly, breaking into my thoughts: ‘You and Judith aren’tmuch alike, are you?’

‘No, I suppose we’re not.’

‘Is she like her mother?’

I reflected, then slowly shook my head. ‘Not really. My wife was amerry, laughing creature. She wouldn’t take anything seriously – and triedto make me the same, without much success I’m afraid.’

He smiled faintly. ‘No, you’re rather the heavy father, aren’t you? So Ju-dith says. Judith doesn’t laugh much – serious young woman. Too muchwork, I expect. My fault.’

He went into a brown study. I said conventionally: ‘Your work must bevery interesting.’

‘Eh?’

‘I said your work must be interesting.’

‘Only to about half a dozen people. To everybody else it’s darned dull –and they’re probably right. Anyway –’ he flung his head back, hisshoulders squared themselves, he suddenly looked what he was, a power-ful and virile man – ‘I’ve got my chance now! God, I could shout out loud.

The Minister Institute people let me know today. The job’s still open andI’ve got it. I start in ten days’ time.’

‘For Africa?’

‘Yes. It’s grand.’

‘So soon.’ I felt slightly shocked.

He stared at me. ‘What do you mean – soon? Oh.’ His brow cleared. ‘Youmean after Barbara’s death? Why on earth not? It’s no good pretending, isit, that her death wasn’t the greatest relief to me.’

He seemed amused by the expression on my face.

‘I’ve not time, I’m afraid, for conventional attitudes. I fell in love withBarbara – she was a very pretty girl – married her and fell out of love withher again in about a year. I don’t think it lasted even as long as that withher. I was a disappointment to her, of course.

She thought she could influence me. She couldn’t. I’m a selfish, pig-headed sort of brute, and I do what I want to do.’

‘But you did refuse this job in Africa on her account,’ I reminded him.

‘Yes. That was purely financial, though. I’d undertaken to support Bar-bara in the way of life she was accustomed to. If I’d gone it would havemeant leaving her very short. But now –’ he smiled, a completely frank,boyish smile – ‘it’s turned out amazingly lucky for me.’

I was revolted. It is true, I suppose, that many men whose wives die arenot precisely heartbroken and everyone more or less knows the fact. Butthis was so blatant.

He saw my face, but did not seem put out.

‘Truth,’ he said, ‘is seldom appreciated. And yet it saves a lot of time anda lot of inaccurate speech.’

I said sharply: ‘And it doesn’t worry you at all that your wife committedsuicide?’

He said thoughtfully: ‘I don’t really believe she did commit suicide. Mostunlikely –’

‘But, then, what do you think happened?’

He caught me up: ‘I don’t know. I don’t think I – want to know. Under-stand?’

I stared at him. His eyes were hard and cold.

He said again: ‘I don’t want to know. I’m not – interested. See?’

I did see – but I didn’t like it.

 

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