Hercule Poirot: The Complete Short Stories

‘Well, there it was. There were the two possibilities. Did Black’s story suggest an ingenious method of committing suicide to Mr Maltravers, or did his other listener, the wife, see an equally ingenious method of committing murder? I inclined to the latter view. To shoot himself in the way indicated, he would probably have had to pull the trigger with his toe – or at least so I imagine. Now if Maltravers had been found with one boot off, we should almost certainly have heard of it from someone. An odd detail like that would have been remembered.

‘No, as I say, I inclined to the view that it was the case of murder, not suicide, but I realized that I had not a shadow of proof in support of my theory. Hence the elaborate little comedy you saw played tonight.’

‘Even now I don’t quite see all the details of the crime,’ I said.

‘Let us start from the beginning. Here is a shrewd and scheming woman who, knowing of her husband’s financial débâcle and tired of the elderly mate she had only married for his money, induces him to insure his life for a large sum, and then seeks for the means to accomplish her purpose. An accident gives her that – the young soldier’s strange story. The next afternoon when monsieur le capitaine, as she thinks, is on the high seas, she and her husband are strolling round the grounds. “What a curious story that was last night!” she observes. “Could a man shoot himself in such a way? Do show me if it is possible!” The poor fool – he shows her. He places the end of his rifle in his mouth. She stoops down, and puts her finger on the trigger, laughing up at him. “And now, sir,” she says saucily, “supposing I pull the trigger?”

‘And then – and then, Hastings – she pulls it!’

8 The Kidnapped Prime Minister (#ulink_d1c3e597-75cb-5219-adf4-516323da056f)

‘The Kidnapped Prime Minister’ was first published in The Sketch, 25 April 1923.

Now that war and the problems of war are things of the past, I think I may safely venture to reveal to the world the part which my friend Poirot played in a moment of national crisis. The secret has been well guarded. Not a whisper of it reached the Press. But, now that the need for secrecy has gone by, I feel it is only just that England should know the debt it owes to my quaint little friend, whose marvellous brain so ably averted a great catastrophe.

One evening after dinner – I will not particularize the date; it suffices to say that it was at the time when ‘Peace by negotiation’ was the parrot-cry of England’s enemies – my friend and I were sitting in his rooms. After being invalided out of the Army I had been given a recruiting job, and it had become my custom to drop in on Poirot in the evenings after dinner and talk with him of any cases of interest that he might have had on hand.

I was attempting to discuss with him the sensational news of the day – no less than an attempted assassination of Mr David MacAdam, England’s Prime Minister. The account in the papers had evidently been carefully censored. No details were given, save that the Prime Minister had had a marvellous escape, the bullet just grazing his cheek.

I considered that our police must have been shamefully careless for such an outrage to be possible. I could well understand that the German agents in England would be willing to risk much for such an achievement. ‘Fighting Mac’, as his own party had nicknamed him, had strenuously and unequivocally combated the Pacifist influence which was becoming so prevalent.

He was more than England’s Prime Minister – he was England; and to have removed him from his sphere of influence would have been a crushing and paralysing blow to Britain.

Poirot was busy mopping a grey suit with a minute sponge. Never was there a dandy such as Hercule Poirot. Neatness and order were his passion. Now, with the odour of benzene filling the air, he was quite unable to give me his full attention.

‘In a little minute I am with you, my friend. I have all but finished. The spot of grease – he is not good – I remove him – so!’ He waved his sponge.

I smiled as I lit another cigarette.

‘Anything interesting on?’ I inquired, after a minute or two.

‘I assist a – how do you call it? – “charlady” to find her husband. A difficult affair, needing the tact. For I have a little idea that when he is found he will not be pleased. What would you? For my part, I sympathize with him. He was a man of discrimination to lose himself.’

I laughed.

‘At last! The spot of grease, he is gone! I am at your disposal.’

‘I was asking you what you thought of this attempt to assassinate MacAdam?’

‘Enfantillage!’ replied Poirot promptly. ‘One can hardly take it seriously. To fire with the rifle – never does it succeed. It is a device of the past.’

‘It was very near succeeding this time,’ I reminded him.

Poirot shook his head impatiently. He was about to reply when the landlady thrust her head round the door and informed him that there were two gentlemen below who wanted to see him.

‘They won’t give their names, sir, but they says as it’s very important.’

‘Let them mount,’ said Poirot, carefully folding his grey trousers.

In a few minutes the two visitors were ushered in, and my heart gave a leap as in the foremost I recognized no less a personage than Lord Estair, Leader of the House of Commons; whilst his companion, Mr Bernard Dodge, was also a member of the War Cabinet, and, as I knew, a close personal friend of the Prime Minister.

‘Monsieur Poirot?’ said Lord Estair interrogatively. My friend bowed. The great man looked at me and hesitated. ‘My business is private.’

‘You may speak freely before Captain Hastings,’ said my friend, nodding to me to remain. ‘He has not all the gifts, no! But I answer for his discretion.’

Lord Estair still hesitated, but Mr Dodge broke in abruptly:

‘Oh, come on – don’t let’s beat about the bush! As far as I can see, the whole of England will know the hole we’re in soon enough. Time’s everything.’

‘Pray be seated, messieurs,’ said Poirot politely. ‘Will you take the big chair, milord?’

Lord Estair started slightly. ‘You know me?’

Poirot smiled. ‘Certainly. I read the little papers with the pictures. How should I not know you?’

‘Monsieur Poirot, I have come to consult you upon a matter of the most vital urgency. I must ask for absolute secrecy.’

‘You have the word of Hercule Poirot – I can say no more!’ said my friend grandiloquently.

‘It concerns the Prime Minister. We are in grave trouble.’

‘We’re up a tree!’ interposed Mr Dodge.

‘The injury is serious then?’ I asked.

‘What injury?’

‘The bullet wound.’

‘Oh, that!’ cried Mr Dodge contemptuously. ‘That’s old history.’

‘As my colleague says,’ continued Lord Estair, ‘that affair is over and done with. Luckily, it failed. I wish I could say as much for the second attempt.’

‘There has been a second attempt, then?’

‘Yes, though not of the same nature, Monsieur Poirot, the Prime Minister has disappeared.’

‘What?’

‘He has been kidnapped!’

‘Impossible!’ I cried, stupefied.

Poirot threw a withering glance at me, which I knew enjoined me to keep my mouth shut.

‘Unfortunately, impossible as it seems, it is only too true,’ continued his lordship.

Poirot looked at Mr Dodge. ‘You said just now, monsieur, that time was everything. What did you mean by that?’