Twenty-Eight

As the door closed behind Tim and Rosalie, Poirot looked somewhat apologetically at ColonelRace. The Colonel was looking rather grim.

“You will consent to my little arrangement, yes?” Poirot pleaded. “It is irregular—I know it isirregular, yes—but I have a high regard for human happiness.”

“You’ve none for mine,” said Race.

“That jeune fille. I have a tenderness towards her, and she loves that young man. It will be anexcellent match; she has the stiffening¹ he needs; the mother likes her; everything thoroughlysuitable.”

“In fact the marriage has been arranged by heaven and Hercule Poirot. All I have to do is tocompound a felony.”

“But, mon ami, I told you, it was all conjecture² on my part.”

Race grinned suddenly.

“It’s all right by me,” he said. “I’m not a damned policeman, thank God! I dare say the youngfool will go straight enough now. The girl’s straight all right. No, what I’m complaining of is yourtreatment of me! I’m a patient man, but there are limits to patience! Do you know who committedthe three murders on this boat or don’t you?”

“I do.”

“Then why all this beating about the bush?”

“You think that I am just amusing myself with side issues? And it annoys you? But it is not that.

Once I went professionally to an arch?ological expedition—and I learnt something there. In thecourse of an excavation³, when something comes up out of the ground, everything is cleared awayvery carefully all around it. You take away the loose earth, and you scrape here and there with aknife until finally your object is there, all alone, ready to be drawn⁴ and photographed with noextraneous matter confusing it. That is what I have been seeking to do—clear away the extraneousmatter so that we can see the truth—the naked shining truth.”

“Good,” said Race. “Let’s have this naked shining truth. It wasn’t Pennington. It wasn’t youngAllerton. I presume it wasn’t Fleetwood. Let’s hear who it was for a change.”

“My friend, I am just about to tell you.”

There was a knock on the door. Race uttered a muffled⁵ curse. It was Dr. Bessner and Cornelia.

The latter was looking upset.

“Oh, Colonel Race,” she exclaimed, “Miss Bowers⁶ has just told me about Cousin Marie. It’sbeen the most dreadful shock. She said she couldn’t bear the responsibility all by herself anylonger, and that I’d better know, as I was one of the family. I just couldn’t believe it at first, butDr. Bessner here has been just wonderful.”

“No, no,” protested the doctor modestly.

“He’s been so kind, explaining it all, and how people really can’t help it. He’s hadkleptomaniacs in his clinic And he’s explained to me how it’s very often due to a deep-seatedneurosis.”

Cornelia repeated the words with awe⁷.

“It’s planted very deeply in the subconscious⁸; sometimes it’s just some little thing that happenedwhen you were a child. And he’s cured people by getting them to think back and remember whatthat little thing was.”

Cornelia paused, drew a deep breath, and started off again.

“But it’s worrying me dreadfully in case it all gets out. It would be too, too terrible in NewYork. Why, all the tabloids⁹ would have it. Cousin Marie and Mother and everybody—they’dnever hold up their heads again.”

Race sighed. “That’s all right,” he said.

“This is Hush¹⁰ Hush House.”

“I beg your pardon, Colonel Race?”

“What I was endeavouring to say was that anything short of murder is being hushed up.”

“Oh!” Cornelia clasped her hands. “I’m so relieved. I’ve just been worrying and worrying.”

“You have the heart too tender,” said Dr. Bessner, and patted her benevolently¹¹ on the shoulder.

He said to the others: “She has a very sensitive and beautiful nature.”

“Oh, I haven’t really. You’re too kind.”

Poirot murmured, “Have you seen anymore of Mr. Ferguson?”

Cornelia blushed.

“No—but Cousin Marie’s been talking about him.”

“It seems the young man is highly born,” said Dr. Bessner. “I must confess he does not look it.

His clothes are terrible. Not for a moment does he appear a well-bred man.”

“And what do you think, Mademoiselle?”

“I think he must be just plain crazy,” said Cornelia.

Poirot turned to the doctor. “How is your patient?”

“Ach, he is going on splendidly. I have just reassured¹² the Fr?ulein de Bellefort. Would youbelieve it, I found her in despair. Just because the fellow had a bit of a temperature this afternoon!

But what could be more natural? It is amazing that he is not in a high fever now. But no, he is likesome of our peasants; he has a magnificent constitution, the constitution of an ox. I have seen themwith deep wounds that they hardly notice. It is the same with Mr. Doyle. His pulse is steady, histemperature only slightly above normal. I was able to pooh-pooh the little lady’s fears. All thesame, it is ridiculous, nicht wahr? One minute you shoot a man; the next you are in hysterics incase he may not be doing well.”

Cornelia said: “She loves him terribly, you see.”

“Ach! but it is not sensible, that. If you loved a man, would you try and shoot him? No, you aresensible.”

“I don’t like things that go off with bangs anyway,” said Cornelia.

“Naturally you do not. You are very feminine.”

Race interrupted this scene of heavy approval. “Since Doyle is all right there’s no reason Ishouldn’t come along and resume our talk of this afternoon. He was just telling me about atelegram.”

Dr. Bessner’s bulk moved up and down appreciatively.

“Ho, ho, ho, it was very funny that! Doyle, he tells me about it. It was a telegram all aboutvegetables—potatoes, artichokes, leeks—Ach! pardon?”

With a stifled¹³ exclamation¹⁴, Race had sat up in his chair.

“My God,” he said. “So that’s it! Richetti!”

He looked round on three uncomprehending faces.

“A new code — it was used in the South African rebellion. Potatoes mean machine guns,artichokes are high explosives—and so on. Richetti is no more an arch?ologist than I am! He’s avery dangerous agitator¹⁵, a man who’s killed more than once, and I’ll swear that he’s killed onceagain. Mrs. Doyle opened that telegram by mistake, you see. If she were ever to repeat what wasin it before me, he knew his goose would be cooked!”

He turned to Poirot. “Am I right?” he asked. “Is Richetti the man?”

“He is your man,” said Poirot. “I always thought there was something wrong about him. He wasalmost too word-perfect in his r?le; he was all arch?ologist, not enough human being.”

He paused and then said: “But it was not Richetti who killed Linnet Doyle. For some time now Ihave known what I may express as the ‘first half ’ of the murderer. Now I know the ‘second half ’

also. The picture is complete. But you understand that, although I know what must have happened,I have no proof that it happened. Intellectually the case is satisfying. Actually it is profoundlyunsatisfactory. There is only one hope—a confession¹⁶ from the murderer.”

Dr. Bessner raised his shoulders sceptically. “Ah! but that—it would be a miracle.”

“I think not. Not under the circumstances.”

Cornelia cried out: “But who is it? Aren’t you going to tell us?”

Poirot’s eyes ranged quietly over the three of them. Race, smiling sardonically¹⁷, Bessner, stilllooking sceptical, Cornelia, her mouth hanging a little open, gazing at him with eager eyes.

“Mais oui,” he said. “I like an audience, I must confess. I am vain, you see. I am puffed¹⁸ up withconceit. I like to say: ‘See how clever is Hercule Poirot!’”

Race shifted a little in his chair.

“Well,” he asked gently, “just how clever is Hercule Poirot?”

Shaking his head sadly from side to side Poirot said: “To begin with I was stupid—incrediblystupid. To me the stumbling block was the pistol—Jacqueline de Bellefort’s pistol. Why had thatpistol not been left on the scene of the crime? The idea of the murderer was quite plainly toincriminate her. Why then did the murderer take it away? I was so stupid that I thought of all sortsof fantastic reasons. The real one was very simple. The murderer took it away because he had totake it away—because he had no choice in the matter.”

 

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