IV

Dressing¹ for dinner, adjusting his tie to an exact symmetry, Hercule Poirot frowned at hisreflection in the mirror.

He was dissatisfied—but he would have been at a loss to explain why. For the case, as heowned to himself, was so very clear. Frank Carter had indeed been caught red-handed.

It was not as though he had any particular belief in, or liking² for, Frank Carter. Carter, hethought dispassionately, was definitely what the English call a “wrong ’un.” He was an unpleasantyoung bully³ of the kind that appeals to women, so that they are reluctant to believe the worst,however plain the evidence.

And Carter’s whole story was weak in the extreme. This tale of having been approached byagents of the “Secret Service”—and offered a plummy job. To take the post of gardener and reporton the conversations and actions of the other gardeners. It was a story that was disproved easilyenough—there was no foundation for it.

A particularly weak invention—the kind of thing, Poirot reflected, that a man like Carter wouldinvent.

And on Carter’s side, there was nothing at all to be said. He could offer no explanation, exceptthat somebody else must have shot off the revolver. He kept repeating that. It was a frame-up.

No, there was nothing to be said for Carter except, perhaps, that it seemed an odd coincidencethat Howard Raikes should have been present two days running at the moment when a bullet hadjust missed Alistair Blunt.

But presumably there wasn’t anything in that. Raikes certainly hadn’t fired the shot in DowningStreet. And his presence down here was fully⁵ accounted for—he had come down to be near hisgirl. No, there was nothing definitely improbable in his story.

It had turned out, of course, very fortunately for Howard Raikes. When a man has just savedyou from a bullet, you cannot forbid him the house. The least you can do is to show friendlinessand extend hospitality. Mrs. Olivera didn’t like it, obviously, but even she saw that there wasnothing to be done about it.

Jane’s undesirable⁶ young man had got his foot in and he meant to keep it there!

Poirot watched him speculatively⁷ during the evening.

He was playing his part with a good deal of astuteness⁸. He did not air any subversive⁹ views, hekept off politics. He told amusing stories of his hitchhikes and tramps in wild places.

“He is no longer the wolf,” thought Poirot. “No, he has put on the sheep’s clothing. Butunderneath? I wonder….”

As Poirot was preparing for bed that night, there was a rap on the door. Poirot called, “Comein,” and Howard Raikes entered.

He laughed at Poirot’s expression.

“Surprised to see me? I’ve had my eye on you all evening. I didn’t like the way you werelooking. Kind of thoughtful.”

“Why should that worry you, my friend?”

“I don’t know why, but it did. I thought maybe that you were finding certain things just a bithard to swallow.”

“Eh bien? And if so?”

“Well, I decided¹⁰ that I’d best come clean. About yesterday, I mean. That was a fake show allright! You see, I was watching his lordship come out of 10, Downing Street and I saw Ram⁴ Lalfire at him. I know Ram Lal. He’s a nice kid. A bit excitable but he feels the wrongs of India verykeenly. Well, there was no harm done, that precious pair of stuffed shirts weren’t harmed—thebullet had missed ’em both by miles—so I decided to put up a show and hope the Indian kidwould get clear. I grabbed hold of a shabby little guy just by me and called out that I’d got thevillain and hoped Ram Lal was beating it all right. But the dicks were too smart. They were on tohim in a flash. That’s just how it was. See?”

Hercule Poirot said:

“And today?”

“That’s different. There weren’t any Ram Lals about today. Carter was the only man on thespot. He fired that pistol all right! It was still in his hand when I jumped on him. He was going totry a second shot, I expect.”

Poirot said:

“You were very anxious to preserve the safety of M. Blunt?”

Raikes grinned—an engaging grin.

“A bit odd, you think, after all I’ve said? Oh, I admit it. I think Blunt is a guy who ought to beshot—for the sake of Progress and Humanity—I don’t mean personally—he’s a nice enough oldboy in his British way. I think that, and yet when I saw someone taking a potshot at him I leap inand interfere¹¹. That shows you how illogical the human animal is. It’s crazy, isn’t it?”

“The gap between theory and practice is a wide one.”

“I’ll say it is!” Mr. Raikes got up from the bed where he had been sitting.

His smile was easy and confiding¹².

“I just thought,” he said, “that I’d come along and explain the thing to you.”

He went out shutting the door carefully behind him.

 

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