IV

There was some sensational¹ news in the morning papers. The Prime Minister had been shot atwhen leaving 10, Downing Street with a friend yesterday evening. Fortunately the bullet had gonewide. The man, an Indian, had been taken into custody².

After reading this, Poirot took a taxi to Scotland Yard where he was shown up to Japp’s room.

The latter greeted him heartily³.

“Ah, so the news has brought you along. Have any of the papers mentioned who ‘the friend’

was with the P.M.?”

“No, who was it?”

“Alistair Blunt.”

“Really?”

“And,” went on Japp, “we’ve every reason to believe that the bullet was meant for Blunt andnot for the P.M. That is, unless the man was an even more thundering bad shot than he is already!”

“Who did it?”

“Some crazy Hindu student. Half-baked, as usual. But he was put up to it. It wasn’t all his ownidea.”

Japp added:

“Quite a sound bit of work getting him. There’s usually a small group of people, you know,watching No. 10. When the shot was fired, a young American grabbed hold of a little man with abeard. He held on to him like grim death and yelled to the police that he’d got the man. Meanwhilethe Indian was quietly hooking it—but one of our people nabbed him all right.”

“Who was the American?” asked Poirot curiously⁴.

“Young fellow by the name of Raikes. Why—” He stopped short, staring at Poirot. “What’s thematter?”

Poirot said:

“Howard Raikes, staying at the Holborn Palace Hotel?”

“That’s right. Who—why, of course! I thought the name seemed familiar. He’s the patient whoran away that morning when Morley shot himself….”

He paused. He said slowly:

“Rum—how that old business keeps cropping up. You’ve still got your ideas about it, haven’tyou, Poirot?”

Hercule Poirot replied gravely:

“Yes. I still have my ideas….”

 

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