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IV
Everitt Dashwood, the cheery young man on the staff of The Branch, clapped Hercule Poirot
affectionately on the back.
He said: “There’s dirt and dirt, my boy. My dirt’s clean dirt—that’s all.”
“I was not suggesting that you were on a par with Percy Perry.”
“Damned little bloodsucker. He’s a blot on our profession. We’d all down him if we could.”
“It happens,” said Hercule Poirot, “that I am engaged at the moment on a little matter of
clearing up a political scandal.”
“Cleaning out the Augean Stables, eh?” said Dashwood. “Too much for you, my boy. Only
hope is to divert the Thames and wash away the Houses of Parliament.”
“You are cynical,” said Hercule Poirot, shaking his head.
“I know the world, that’s all.”
Poirot said: “You, I think, are just the man I seek. You have a reckless disposition, you are
the good sport, you like something that is out of the usual.”
“And granting all that?”
“I have a little scheme to put into action. If my ideas are right, there is a sensational plot to
unmask. That, my friend, shall be a scoop for your paper.”
“Can do,” said Dashwood cheerfully.
“It will concern a scurrilous plot against a woman.”
“Better and better. Sex stuff always goes.”
“Then sit down and listen.”
V
People were talking.
In the Goose and Feathers at Little Wimplington.
“Well, I don’t believe it. John Hammett, he was always an honest man, he was. Not like some
of these political folk.”
“That’s what they say about all swindlers before they’re found out.”
“Thousands, they say he made, out of that Palestine Oil business. Just a crook deal, it was.”
“Whole lot of ’em tarred with the same brush. Dirty crooks, every one of ’em.”
“You wouldn’t find Everhard doing that. He’s one of the old school.”
“Eh, but I can’t believe as John Hammett was a wrong ’un. You can’t believe all these papers
say.”
“Ferrier’s wife was ’is daughter. Have you seen what it says about her?”
They pored over a much thumbed copy of the X-ray News:
Caesar’s wife? We hear that a certain highly placed political lady was seen in very strange
surroundings the other day. Complete with her gigolo. Oh Dagmar, Dagmar, how could you be so
naughty?
A rustic voice said slowly:
“Mrs. Ferrier’s not that kind. Gigolo? That’s one of these dago skunks.”
Another voice said:
“You never can tell with women. The whole bunch of ’em wrong ’uns if you ask me.”
VI
People were talking.
“But, darling, I believe it’s absolutely true. Naomi had it from Paul and he had it from Andy.
She’s absolutely depraved.”
“But she was always so terribly dowdy and proper and opening bazaars.”
“Just camouflage, darling. They say she’s a nymphomaniac. Well, I mean! it’s all in the X-ray
News. Oh, not right out, but you can read between the lines. I don’t know how they get hold of
these things.”
“What do you think of all this political scandal touch? They say her father embezzled the
Party funds.”
VII
People were talking.
“I don’t like to think of it, and that’s a fact, Mrs. Rogers. I mean, I always thought
Mrs. Ferrier was a really nice woman.”
“Do you think all these awful things are true?”
“As I say, I don’t like to think it of her. Why, she opened a Bazaar in Pelchester only last
June. I was as near to her as I am to that sofa. And she had such a pleasant smile.”
“Yes, but what I say is there’s no smoke without fire.”
“Well, of course that’s true. Oh dear, it seems as though you can’t believe in any one!”
VIII
Edward Ferrier, his face white and strained, said to Poirot:
“These attacks on my wife! They’re scurrilous—absolutely scurrilous! I’m bringing an action
against that vile rag.”
Hercule Poirot said: “I do not advise you to do so.”
“But these damned lies have got to be stopped.”
“Are you sure they are lies?”
“God damn you, yes!”
Poirot said, his head held a little on one side:
“What does your wife say?”
For a moment Ferrier looked taken aback.
“She says it is best to take no notice . . . But I can’t do that—everybody is talking.”
Hercule Poirot said: “Yes, everybody is talking.”
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